#so then coming out of the fugue of panic/dissociation is its own trigger and puts them right back in it.

[beneathsilverstars]

damn... siffrin has definitely always been a big dissociater but like. post-canon i bet snapping out of it is itself a trigger now, bc it might feel somewhat similar to snapping into awareness at the start of a mid-house loop??

like in the loops it went -gets hurt / gets freaked out / knows they're about to die -dies / loops -now they're somewhere else

and now that they're out of the loops it goes -gets hurt / gets freaked out / feels like they're gonna die -dissociates / forgets -now they're somewhere else

[teresatellstales]

Anxiety

Una scrittrice scrive. A writer writes. I spend a chunk of my day in front of my computer typing away about people who only exist inside my head. They may take part of their personalities and appearance from people I know, but they are their own characters. As my cousin Rich says, “my own little world with my own little people.”

But words can be hard. Anything can be hard when anxiety is in play. Anxiety isn’t being nervous. It’s that little voice that tells me I’m wasting my time. I’m not good enough at this. No one will want to read anything I write. None of my ideas is original. I can’t do it.

Of course I’m not the only one who deals with these little voices and there are a whole slew of responses we have to deal with. People like to say “don’t let it bother you” or “just do it”. Ignore the self-doubt. Ignore the fear. If only it were that easy. If you say, “but it is that easy” ask yourself why there’s a whole section of self-help books on working through anxiety or why there are medical professionals who specialize in treating anxiety disorders.

I’ve been struggling with what to post this week. I have two other posts started, but they sit untouched for two weeks now. Nothing sounds right to me. It’s all irrelevant to… well, everything.

Here is where I get into trouble. I’m typing this and my mind segues to “I’m not saying anything” and “this is stupid.” Instead of finishing this post, I rather spend the next twenty minutes wondering why segue isn’t spelled segway or where the period goes with quotation marks when I’m not actually quoting someone. Distractions are my second favorite coping technique.

My mind’s first favorite is dissociation.

There are different types of dissociative disorders and my flavor falls along the definition of a fugue state. My mind shuts off. While I know a good number of my triggers, sometimes it hits out of the blue. Sometimes you would never know I’m not all there— before my diagnosis I used to go to work on a Monday and, to me, the next moment was Thursday. Like flipping a switch. In the blink of an eye. But I apparently went to work all week, cooked dinner, took care of the dog and cat… but I had no recollection. There’s a different type of dissociation that happens where my mind and body shut down. I’m told that looks like I’ve fainted but my eyes just stare off into nothing. My dissociative disorder is me being a good little perfectionist. I take “don’t let it bother you” to the extreme. Nothing bothers me because I’m not aware of a damn thing around me.

When I feel I’ve taken on too much, I tend to ride the line of aware and not. The trick is knowing recognizing what is too much for me since it changes what daily. Most days it feels like too much equals having more than one thing on my plate. Thus, the disability.

I have a self-imposed schedule of posting something every Wednesday. I’ve also committed to participate in NaNoWriMo this year since November will be unusually quiet. Before I came to write this post, I had a mini panic attack. What if I’ve committed to too much and I can’t get it all done?

Well. Nothing, really. I know that. But I can’t feel that. I need to honor my obligations whether it’s to me or someone else. More often than not, I tend to fail if it’s for me. It could be argued I drop the ball on my own things because I won’t be disappointing anyone… other than me. And guess who my worst critic is?

Anxiety sets up the expectations. The disappointment feeds the depression, which feeds hesitation, which ends with me crying under the covers and my wonderful husband telling me it’s all ok. That’s on a good day. On the bad days, I dissociate and when I come to, my mind declares me useless and the cycle repeats.

Here is the paradox: I can easily tell you all the logical reasons for my anxiety, but anxiety itself is irrational. I know the stakes aren’t high. But knowing and feeling are two different things.

Like some of my other diagnoses, an anxiety disorder is never cured. It can only be managed. So I’m working on that. This post isn’t much, but I’m still putting it out there for anyone to read.

It’s ok to not be ok. We live in stressful times. I don’t think there’s an era that *isn’t* stressful. I shouldn’t have to justify that statement. It’s should be able to stand on its own.

Let me say it again.

It’s ok to not be ok.

I’m not ok.

It’s just the way it is.