defaults

I kind of hate that everything I write here lately is just sadness. anxiety. depression. woe.

The facts are that I am healthy. I have a home. I have friends. I have family. I have a great job...several, in fact. I have resources.

But these things fall away when your brain isn't ok. And it's not as if I won't survive. I am resilient and like I said, I have resources.

But the only things I think are moment-to-moment survival. I'm trying not to complain because so many others have it so much worse, which is why I won't promote this particular blog.

There's been a death in my best friend's immediate family. I don't even have the words for how she must be feeling right now. I keep trying to offer paltry advice on what I know of PTSD but all I have to compare her experiences to is the stupid tornado.

And THAT is something I really really wish with all of my heart that I could forget. I'm tired of being a wreck every time the wind blows. I'm tired of the anxiety that descended upon my brain in 2011 that hasn't let go. I've had more of it in the last 4 years than the rest of my life combined.

I went to Florida for the funeral. I left my wallet in Florida. Because I didn't have my ID at the airport I had to undergo a background check, have my bags thoroughly searched, and a thorough pat-down (with gloves and everything). Because of that, I haven't wanted to be touched since then even though the woman was very professional. I dreamed of being molested. I keep feeling my breasts being grabbed at (even though that is NOT what happened at all).

I'm really quite fragile.

I know I need therapy. And probably medication. But instead I curl into a ball. I drink. I cry. I take shallow breaths.

Sometimes this world wreaks death and disaster and trauma and isn't kind at all. It takes good people from us. It takes down our childhood homes. It scatters our sentimental objects. It rapes and it kills and it decimates us.

But there's also a wealth of good people on this earth...people willing to help without being asked. People ready to give you exactly what you need before you even know you need it. There is so much goodness in other beings on this earth. We do what we can to help each other.

I know I will survive this depression like I've survived all others. I've GOT to believe I will eventually ignore a thunderstorm like I used to pre-2011. That stupid word: hope. But it's there and peace will come as it always has. Goodness and calm are more prevalent than malice and upheaval.

Reconciling Invalidation...

I don't yet know how to accomplish this, is the short version.

The long version is that I've been spending a lot of time lately trying to put myself out there. I have this blog, I have my zine, I have the radio station, I have the YouTube channel...but I still have the same nagging feeling I've had my entire life. That no one gets me. That no one cares. I'm currently broadcasting my second radio show and I'm literally the only person listening. I put a lot of work into my playlist. I've spent lots of time promoting my radio show. But it's very likely that after three months of weekly broadcasts, I'll have to face the fact that no one cares, as per usual.

Yes, I realize this is an angst-y and self-involved way to look at things. It's unreasonable for me to expect my friends and family to spend four hours of their Friday evenings listening to me play music I like. It is. It's ridiculous. Every issue of Chickweed includes a mix. I usually make 50 copies of that mix. I think mayyyyybe 5 people listen to that mix, and that's a thing you can listen to anytime. So why would anyone listen to me DJing from my iTunes?

But I am trying. I'm trying to put my thoughts out there in the world, via blog, via zine, via radio, via video. Maybe what I have to say isn't interesting. Maybe I'm not self-actualized enough yet to be interesting. Maybe I never will be interesting. And why does it even matter, anyway? Do I need to be relevant? I've always told myself I don't care if there's a meaning to life, and I don't. But meaning interpreted by me has some validity TO me, if that makes sense. I'd like to feel that my efforts to express myself are heard. But I also think that's selfish of me. I have a small handful of friends that seem to consistently enjoy my work.

But what is that (this) work? It's self-indulgent whining a large portion of the time. Maybe I shouldn't be reinforced for that. I'm starting to wonder if that's all I'm made of, is the worry, I suppose.

My ability to relate to others is tenuous at best. I feel like my reserve of empathy is endless, but my projection of self is almost never in tune with those I'm trying to project myself upon. There are kindred spirits I've met in my path, but they are few and way too far between. But this is my fault. I don't reach out to people in the real way of having conversations and hanging out with others. I project in zines and on blogs and via radio. And I hope that someone wants to talk back.

My brain is so full, but I say so little. I'd love to be heard, but perhaps I don't have the stamina to speak as much as is required for that.