The Voices Are Back

I was doing really well. I got that awful medication out of my system and the subsequent parody of irritable bowel syndrome went away with it. I sailed through November, December, and part of January without wanting to send the snow and cold to Vancouver for their stupid games. (they are currently trucking snow down from the peaks. This is hard for me to fathom, as other people don't have water, clothing, houses... plus our entire main street and my driveway is clogged up with the stuff......... But I digress) I was pretty much coasting, and even had a pretty good attitude.

I kept checking the sky and the sidelines for those nasty twins; depression and anxiety. But they seemed to be pretty much taken up with other matters.

But right around the time that I questioned the Unquestionable Medical Guy, I started hearing the voices. (not literally- just to be clear) The voices whispered things like...

"you're not very bright, you know. And did you notice that you're getting less bright?"

I recognized the voices right away- they germinate from shame, guilt, inadequacy, inferiority, and a whole legion of other evil forces. I shushed them. I reasoned with them.

But they seemed to germinate and multiply in the very heat of my resistance.

Pretty soon they bantered me about everything. I don't read to the kids enough. I don't make their appointments fast enough (girl child and her run-in with the car. That never ends, especially when basketball season comes up and she runs and runs and runs) I haven't taught my children to do enough housework and I do way too much for them. (true.... true...) The boys spend too much time on electronics. We should be out sledding. They don't eat vegetables. (Or most everything I cook). Have I donated that money to WFP or did I not? Must check the website, should remember this. Can't remember this. Must be stupid.

Yup, once those twins get a hold of me, they are relentless.

I should stop chewing my hangnails, my fingers hurt. We're out of lettuce. The dog needs grooming. Van should have had an oil change a millenium ago. Is there rye bread? I must clean out my closet; I can't find any pants that I like. The boys room-- oy.

The mind is a curious organ. While it is yelling mercilessly; it can remain aware of the charade of it all. It can know that it is lying to itself. Exaggerating. Bullying. Simultaneously, the mind becomes the call center for its own advocacy- arguing against the lies, buffering them with positives, allowing in the beauty of the low orange moon to flood the synapses with seratonin.

And the mind knows the seasons of the nasty twins. That they won't stick around, they won't define their host. They don't become her. And even when the mind laughs off its forgetfulness, flightiness, lack of lettuce-i-ness, there will still be chewed hangnails, unmade appointments, and a shaggy dog. It's just going to feel less significant than life and death.




(thrill me... chill me... anyone willing to throw a bone on their own personal coping mechanisms with the whole brain going sour syndrome?)