Dogs > People.

Today I met a dog named Noah.*

For a little dog he was pretty cute.  I think he was a Shih-tsu but he was almost completely black.  He had very big brown eyes and a squishy pigface button nose.

I was taking my lunchtime walk on the little trail by my office and his owner was walking him.  Owner said "hi" as I walked by; pretty standard.

Then this poor little dog heard me speak and decided they were following me now.  So then I had to kneel down and meet him.  I didn't want to be rude...

In a nutshell this is what happens when I'm alone and I see a dog.  I try to play it cool, but on the inside I'm even more excited than they look.  Meeting new dogs is like a billion times better than meeting new people.

I politely smile and say, "hello" but on the inside this is happening:  "Omg that person has a dog.  That's a nice looking dog.  Awwww...  He's wearing a vest...  That's so cute!  I want to get a vest for my dog...  When I get a dog.  I should get Chase a vest.  Do they make super triple-wide vests for gargantuan dogs?  Maybe I can just get him a men's vest.  It would fit him.  Man, I want a dog.  Oooh the dog noticed me!  He's coming over...  Be cool, man.  You don't want to come on too strong; it freaks the people out.  Can I pet the dog?  I want to pet the dog.  I'm gonna pet the dog.  Yesss this is going so well right now."

See?

Then I actually start talking to the dog and I sound like a crazy person.  Good thing I was wearing nice clothes today or the owner might have thought I was one of the homeless people that lives by the creek.

I meet dogs like dogs meet rawhide bones.

But have to I internalize the crazy eyes because I don't want to put off the people and decrease my chances of playing with the dog.

When I meet new people I never remember their names after hearing them once.  I remember their pets' names, though.  I don't even have to have met them.

My life basically revolves around getting to interact with animals.

I don't always like other people that much, as a group.  Actually, if I have to meet a group of new people all at once I really kind of need to be on Xanax because my anxiety skyrockets.  I can handle up to three new people at once.  More than that and I shut down.

But if you put me in a pen full of dogs or cats or rabbits I become the happiest and most comfortable person in the world.

Man, I need to work at a zoo or something.

That being said, I REALLY want to meet and be friends with an elephant.  I feel like we'd get along.  That feeling is mostly based on how much I love them and obsess over them, but that doesn't mean we couldn't or wouldn't be friends.  The only problem is that when I finally do meet an elephant I'm going to be Kristen Bell the first time she met a sloth.

If that happens, I hope the elephant comforts me.  And then I ride it into the sunset and we live happily ever after.



*Isn't that the cutest little doggy name?  He was no Ryan Gosling, but he was still very sweet.

Day Two.

When I was a little girl I was always very tiny.  At times short, at times tall, but always a pretty skinny kid.

I think I started learning to eat my feelings at 11.

Really, when left to my own devices my diet was never great.  I'd come home from school and have marshmallows or mix powdered sugar into butter (not even realizing I was making frosting; I was a young genius, I tell you) and that would be my snack.

The biggest problem was that the summer before I entered 6th grade I was bored.  It was too hot to go outside and play.  It was too hot to even let the dog outside because I lived in hell.  And I don't mean that in the playful "I hated the place where I grew up" sort of way.  I mean I lived in the part of Northern California the temperature rivals summers in Arizona from late June through early September.  We had a container of chocolate from Harry & David once and when the air conditioner went out all of the chocolate melted.

All of it.

And it looked like diarrhea.

Diarrhea in a plastic tub.

Another other part of the problem was that I had been a pretty active child until 5th grade when two important things happened.  1)  That year I began presenting signs of the (sometimes) crippling phobic anxiety I would experience later in life.  2)  That year my school began implementing P.E. programs for some of the younger classes (at that point the only grades at my elementary school that had an actual P.E. class were 7th and 8th).  I found that even though I loved running when I was at home, I hated doing P.E. at school.

I imagine someone will read this and think, "but why?  Running is running, right?"

No.

No, it is not.

The problem wasn't the running.  The problem was that I fucking hate being told what to do.  So if you tell me I have to run...  I won't.  And I will have an attitude about how I'm not going to.

I went from happily being active to being bitter and sedentary.  Bored, bitter, and sedentary.

I'm pretty positive this is the opposite of the effect intended by the school administrators, but hey, I was a contrary kid.

Now I'm a contrary adult.  Kinda.

All summer I watched Saved by the Bell reruns and ate nachos.  Because I was bored I would just keep eating.  That was when I started getting a tummy.

Then I moved on to 6th grade, arguably the worst year ever.  That was the first time I ever pretended to be sick so I could stay home from school.  Why would I do that?  Because all of my cool friends from the year before were suddenly bitches.

I was already pretty hard on myself, but that year I felt judged for breathing.

So I hid inside myself.  And I ate.

This sounds like the sob story of some chronically obese woman trying to justify herself.

It's not.

I didn't gain a ton of weight.  Just enough to make my belly soft.  It's really the lack of exercise I regret more than what I ate and how much of it I ate.

Once I started getting boobs it was like they just didn't stop.  Until I was probably 18.  Which is fine, I guess.I mean, I don't like fitted or strapless tops, anyway.  And I really enjoy having to show bra straps if I want to wear spaghetti straps because it's 112 degrees outside.

But then when I was 17 I gained about 30 pounds from eating fried chicken strips everyday.  I would buy lunch in the cafeteria and that was the cheapest thing I actually liked.

I've mentioned before that I lost it all during the strenuous breakup from my last long-term relationship, which was great...  I guess it gave me something to aspire to.

My first year in college I wasn't so great at feeding myself, either.  Unless it was pasta covered in cheese.  And I drank far too much champagne, so I gained almost everything back.

My worst fear, realized.

And it happened so fast that I didn't notice at first.  Then I was in denial and didn't do anything about it until it was too late.

So here I am, two years later, with reflux still acting up like crazy because I keep thinking I can get away with shit I can't and with pants that don't fit because I'm lazy and a procrastinator.

I would give anything to run a mile again...  But I haven't done that since I was probably 10.  I've spent more of my life being lazy and inactive than I did actually exercising.

Yesterday was the first day of something really difficult for me:  eating well.  Not just the right foods, but the right portions and at the right times.  Instead of eating candy all afternoon to tide me over to dinner when I got home -- or even snack before dinner when I got home -- I ate apple slices.

I was pretty sure I was going to pass out and in case you're wondering, my stomach was upset most of the day because it's so used to being overloaded with delicious carbs and sweets that it didn't know what to do.  But as a result today was the first day in a while that I felt energized when I got up. I actually felt GOOD this morning.

Then I came to work and my coworkers invited me to join them for nachos for lunch today... which I am currently smelling while dying a little bit inside.

But I brought a salad and salad I will eat.

I'm tired of the way my butt looks when I see it before getting in the shower.  I'm tired of constantly feeling my belly sit on my thigh when I cross my legs at work -- and sometimes when I don't.  I'm tired of not feeling well.  I'm tired of feeling like the largest woman in my office (which shouldn't matter, but in my heart does).  And I'm tired of imagining myself in the pants I wore at 22.  I want to WEAR in the pants I wore at 22...  Because I refused to get rid of all of them in the depressed hopes that I could wear them again one day.

So today is day two of twenty thousand.

Today is another success.

Cutting the Strings.

I feel as if I've been writing a lot about my ex lately. 

I tried to look at recent blogs to see if I really have, but it looks like I've been writing more about anxiety than anything else.

Which makes sense because I've been pretty much bat-shit crazy for the last week. 

This is due in part to the fact that I saw him for the first time in months.  And the fact that I'm freaking out about school and moving.  Also, I just started bleeding.  Again. 

It seems like this happens every month.

I know; it's weird.

So, I was only freaking out on about fifty different levels while simultaneously (and unwittingly) experiencing the wonderful symptoms of being a woman.  Thanks, fucking Eve.

When I get really high anxiety, I tend to think about my ex more because he was always the one who could easily talk me down. 

I mean, sure, he called me fat and useless and a cunt...  But being able to calm me is kind of a gift.  No offense, Oosrael.  You do an amazing job.  It's just one of the things he was exceedingly good at.  And I will never understand why. 

That means that having the bouts of tremendous anxiety I've been having are even harder than they should be because I don't know how to get all the thoughts and memories out of my mind. 

I think it's actually really healthy for me to have had to deal with my mind this weekend mostly on my own.  I feel like I'm in a much better place right now, mentally, than I have been in weeks.  Maybe even months.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm completely freaked out about the major life changes I'm about to undergo.  And I still miss having a man-friends to hang out with.  But I’m getting used to not having that attention, too. 

In other news, I started a pretty good (but sort of predictable rom-com) book this weekend.  And took a 3.5 hour nap.  I haven’t done that in probably a decade.  Yesterday I even got to go swimming, which was pretty much amazing.  There were even a few shooting stars after dark. 

It’s too easy sometimes to forget how amazing my life (and the people in it) is (are).  Sometimes I forget to just be.

Maybe I’ll make a mid-year resolution to work on that. 

Probably not. 

P.S.  I’m finished talking about him.  I can’t imagine how sick you are of reading about him if I’m this sick of talking about him.  I’m going to push him away to a distant memory where he belongs and be done with it.

I'm Okay. No, Really.

Today is better.  

No, really.  It is.

Well, kinda.  I've managed to tuck away most of my feelings again.  (Don't tell me that's bad for me because I can't function any other way.)  It's just how I operate.  I keep everything nice and put away until something triggers an explosion of emotion.  Then I freak out for a while.  Then I'm fine again.

Actually, I think most everyone in my family is like that.

It may not be healthy, but it's just how we are.

I'm just scared because I can't have my typical level of control over a situation.  I like to have some semblance of control over everything.  Right now I have control over nothing.

I think it wouldn't be so hard if I was still speaking to the person who used to talk me down from emotional and anxiety-ridden mountaintop.

It's funny how you don't realize you actually miss someone until you remember the things they did for you that no one else can do in quite the same way.  Even if it wasn't worth the pain they caused you.  It's still hard.  And forgiveness takes so much longer than I thought it would.

It's funny how ultimate forgiveness seems to hurt as much as leaving in the first place.


On a happier note, I am going to see The Green Lantern tonight.

I love comic book movies, but this is one of the few for which I really don't care about plot or dialog.

Why, you may ask?

Well, dear reader, that is because I will be watching nearly three hours of Ryan Reynolds floating around in a green CGI suit.

I'm going to need popcorn and candy just to give my mouth something to do other than drool.

Anxiety 1 (billion), Bunny 0

I feel as if I'm caught in a maelstrom of anxiety.

I can't escape it.  No matter what I do; it's unshakable.

I'm stuck in the fucking anxiety Titanic.  And I think I just hit the iceberg.

I'm saying that based on the fact that I'm hiding on my bed typing and drinking a vodka lemonade with six months worth of accumulated shit (figurative) dumped out of my purse in front of me.  Instead of dealing with the cat shit (literal) that's currently waiting for me in the garage that I had intended to focus on.

Yesterday everything I ate tasted like crap.  Today everything I have eaten has also tasted weird.  The difference is that today I don't even feel like eating.

Crying, yes.

Concentrating in order to keep myself breathing at regular intervals, yes.

Eating?  Not so much.  No.



I've spent half of my life thus far going around trying to help fix other people.  But I don't know how to fix myself.

There are very few people who know me well enough to know how to fix me.  And none of them are anywhere near me (physically, spiritually, geographically, whatever).  I guess I'm lucky that only one of them is gone from my life completely.

I don't know if I can take two more months of this.

What if it never goes away?  What if the things I think may be causing it are really not what's at the heart of the situation?  What do I do then?

And why do I keep feeling so emotionally starved?


I am so tired of being crazy.


P.S. I have a story for you.  But it's a funny story for a funny day.  Obviously that day is not today.

How 'Bout This Weather?

I’ve been on a Kings of Leon and Blue October kick of late.

I think the weather is bringing me down.

It’s June.  I should be wearing sundresses and sandals, right?

No.

I’m wearing jeans and long-sleeved shirts. 

Plus, my anxiety is reaching an all-time high (which is really saying something).  Friday I was so anxious that I thought maybe the weather was making me depressed.  Then I realized I don’t feel depressed (I can tell because it’s a sensation I am far too familiar with).  I’m generally really happy.  I just can’t catch my breath and sometimes want to cry for no reason at all. 

This means that I have to go to the doctor soon-ish.  So I can (once again) get hopped up on anti-anxiety meds. 

And I have to go to the lady doctor this month so she can deal with my birth control situation.

Birth control blows.  (I feel like I've said that before...)

But not being on it increases my anxiety.  Not because I’m having sex, but because I never remember to write down when my last period was, so I freak out that it’s late because I’m afraid that somehow rogue sperm from God-knows-where may have randomly just up and wandered into my vagina. 

Even when it’s not late; I just have no idea when I last had my period.

Yes.  I am that crazy.

The problem is that I never have good results from my birth control anymore.  The pills make me sick, crazy, gain weight, and/or they make my boobs bigger.  Which is definitely NOT something I want from my birth control.  I already have enough trouble finding bras in my size that I actually like. 

I guess I could just make one appointment.

Because if I drink Jack Daniels to curb my anxiety, birth control is obviously more important.