The no good very bad day

Image by SvenKirsch from Pixabay

Everyone gets anxious, sure. But most people aren’t afraid to leave home in case there’s a zombie uprising.

Most of the time I can be funny about it. I can find the humour in being terrified in the frozen food section. Who knows what damage a fish finger could do?

But, some days, like today, I can’t find anything funny about it.

Today is a ‘no good very bad day’.

Tomorrow, will be an ‘I’ve got this day’.

I’ll pick myself up from the pit of self-inflicted misery, put on my big girl panties, straighten my tiara and slay my day or whatever stupid inspirational shit works.

But today, my anxiety is packing a punch to the gut.

If you ask me, “How are you doing?” I’ll say, “I’m good thanks.” I don’t think you really want to know the answer, but here it is anyway…  

There’s a restlessness in my legs I cannot control. They dance steps to some hidden beat.

There’s a swarming knot of serpents in my belly. They writhe and undulate ceaselessly whispering, a susurration of nameless fears.

There are crows trapped behind my ribs. Flapping and clawing they rake their talons down my breast trying to escape.

There’s a fire in my throat. A volcano of liquid lava erupting and burning a path to the outside. My personal Vesuvius.

There are voices in my head feeding the paranoia. Someone always watching. Something always going terribly, irrevocably wrong.

I hear death stalking in the shadows. I plan for it constantly. How and when and why. And what songs I want to play at the funeral and if anyone will come.

I have a body that I live in, but it is not me. It is some uncomfortable suit that does fit quite right. Like a six-foot six behemoth in a compact car.

I’m getting fired today. I know that’s not true but I can’t stop the vomit from rising. If I’m unemployed and homeless by 5pm where will I get a trolley and do I have enough cash for a shelter?

I’m going to the doctor. It’s routine. Nothing to worry about. But what if I die? What if it’s something serious? What if it’s nothing but a physical symptom of my degrading mind? What then? What’s worse?

The lights are blinding me and I can’t see through the static. I want to cover my eyes and cower away, but I hold my head up and I count. How many steps to the exit? How many pens on my desk? How many flowers on her dress? How many?

I am so very tired. It’s exhausting when I don’t whether to turn and run or stand and fight some non-existent hydra.

None of it is real. There is no zombie uprising. Coronavirus is not a bioweapon unleashed to destroy 90% of the world’s population. I’m not losing my job. I’m not going to die today. Probably. Maybe.

If you want to find out more about living with anxiety, have a read of these…

Shrinking heads

Sitting in the waiting room at the shrink is a lot like I imagine it is at an STD clinic. You all know why you’re there, but don’t want to acknowledge it.

Sadly, I think it’s probably more socially acceptable to have gonorrhea than depression. At least you’d have had some fun getting the clap.

It’s been designed to be deliberately soothing and non-confrontational. It has the complete opposite effect.

The thing is, you can’t help sizing up the others waiting their turn. On a scale of 1 to bat shit, where do you fall in comparison to the tidy little man in a suit sitting next to you? How many more screws do you have loose than the woman in the corner. Just one or a toolbox full?

And what if you recognise someone?

A hint: You do not acknowledge that recognition with anything more than a discrete head nod and don’t bring it up at the water cooler in the office. Ever. What happens at the shrink stays at the shrink.

Just knowing that someone is about to clinically evaluate my brand of crazy is enough to have my blood pressure going through the roof. Bats of anxiety fleeing the belfry. Most of them ending up stuck in my hair.

My head doctor is very nice. She’s very put together. Very… dare I say it… sane.

The more she looks at me the more I flight the urge to flee. I’ve actually being doing rather well, but you couldn’t tell that from my demeanour.

Every random tic suddenly comes to the surface and I end up twirling my wedding ring, playing with my necklace and tapping my foot at the same time. And then, I realise I’m doing it and try to sit on my hands instead.

I’m practically vibrating like a out of pitch tuning fork.

None of which is convincing her of my ability to be a productive adult.

Sometimes, I think that I rather have head shrunk by some headhunters in Borneo.

Of course, if I ever run into her in the real world, like at the mall, I can guarantee you that it’ll be a day when I haven’t brushed my hair, am wearing yoga pants and can’t decide between chamomile or aloe loo paper.

C’est la vie.

Bats in the belfry



Women are complicated creatures.

No doubt that’s why God took longer to make us. he started with the easy one first and worked himself up the ladder.

Because we are complicated the men in our lives need to be able adapt and bend like bamboo in the wind in order to cope with our mercurial natures.

Many women are charmed by the straight forward let-it-all-there approach favoured by many men. This has its benefits.

“Would you like to come in for some sex?” as opposed to “Want to come in and see my etchings?”

A girl can get confused and go in expecting to see some paintings only to find herself in the starring role of some performance art.

However, there are exceptions.

For example, if you want to tell a woman that you think she has gone bat shit crazy, you may want to think it through before you vomit that gem at her feet.

You-Should-Never-Tell-a-Woman-Shes-CrazyFirstly, check the calendar. Do not even attempt this if she is pre-menstrual, currently menstrual or immediately post-menstrual.

During this period she knows she’s bat shit crazy, but won’t appreciate you telling her so.

I reckon this gives you about 48 hours tops in the month.

This is important because she will either rip your head off or burst into tears, neither of which will lead to a happy ending.

Secondly, delivery is important, even proposal level important, but without any expectation of her throwing herself into your arms and pledging eternal devotion.

Walking up to a girl and saying “I think you need to get your head checked,” is more likely to raise questions about the state of your mental health than hers.

In a quieter moment or on later reflection she may well be bowled over by your caring nature and outpouring of love and concern.

After all, there is no easy way to address mental health issues with someone you care for. It’s a minefield filled with IEDs ready to go off at the slightest pressure.

crazywomansaloonWhich leads to the third point.

You should up your exercise regime prior to your intervention.

More plainly, you will need to duck and run very fast – Usain Bolt fast, speed of light fast.

Sometimes to a another country.

In another time zone.

Until the smoke clears.

For about two to three weeks.

Otherwise you may find out just how much more bat shit crazy she can get.