And As Soon As You Have Rearranged The Mess In Your Head He Will Show Up Looking Sane Perfectly Sane If I Know Crazy

My anxiety is difficult for me to explain to most people. I get "what are you so worried about?" a lot. Also "you just need to relax" (stabby stab stab.) The thing is, I'm not worried. To be worried implies a thought process. When I walk into a room full of strangers, I am not worried that they won't like me or that I won't have anything to talk about or that I'll say the wrong things. I am not worried. I am not thinking, period. I am trying to remember to breathe because I feel light-headed and dizzy. I am trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other because my knees feel like jelly. I am trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I am in survival mode, trying to quell the flight and embrace the fight (though I know that walking into a room full of people I don't know doesn't necessitate a "fight," my anxiety feels very primitive to me.) I don't let my anxiety stop me from walking into a room full of strangers, though. I walk into the room and I die a little on the inside as I talk too quickly and laugh too loudly and drink too much gin and smile too widely and sometimes I think that I'm pulling it off, I'm fooling people into thinking that I'm just a normal person having a normal night out.

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Part of the review process at the sleep disorder clinic was an appointment with a psychiatrist. Before I could be admitted to the program it needed to be confirmed that I sometimes feel sad and blue because I am tired because of the sleeping issues, and not that I suffer from depression which causes sleepiness and lethargy in some people. So I met with the psychiatrist and we talked about how I sleep and the problems I have and the triggers I have identified. At the end of our appointment, the psychiatrist told me that I would be accepted into the program (happy face!) She also told me that when I am finished with the sleep disorder program, perhaps I should consider treatment for my anxiety disorder which she feels is unrelated to my sleeping issues but is obviously having a negative effect on my quality of life. And then I cried a little because I hadn't spoken to the psychiatrist about my anxiety. Sure she's a medical professional trained to identify mental illness, but I couldn't help feeling exposed. I thought I was quirky and maybe a little high-strung but after spending only one hour with the psychiatrist she could see that I am crazy.

Crazy: a word I use to describe myself to diminish the impact it has when others use it against me; a word that now feels tainted and wrong coming out of my mouth.

* * * * *

I wanted to talk about TequilaCon and how fun it was and how fantastic it was to meet people I've long thought were rad, only to find out that they are ten times as rad in person as they are on the internet. I wanted to talk about how proud I am of myself for going to a pub, alone, to meet up with a group of people who aren't strangers but the majority of whom I've never met before. I wanted to tell you about the giggles and the mooosetashes and the poutine and instead I'm all angsty and wrapped up in my own head. I blame the rain.