Recovery.

"Look at your stupid awkward blog. You make a fool of yourself every time you post in it. Even the name is stupid."

Someone on my friends list on Facebook actually said this to me after I asked her, politely, if she could put me on a filter where I didn't see her fighting with people all the time. (You can do that on Facebook. Just post really personal stuff to your "close friends" only.) I didn't know her well. We only started chatting because I thought it was neat that she lived in the Ukraine and she worshiped my gods. But after seeing post after post of her whining about how everyone hates her, and calling out this person or that person and publicly tagging people by name, I got tired of all the negativity. I'd tried to be a listening ear before, but after this immature and hateful response, I blocked her with absolutely no hesitation. That means I can't see her, and she can't see me. (I'm explaining this because my therapist, bless her heart, is a total Luddite, so bear with me.)

The amount of fucks I didn't give about blocking this person is staggering, and it's actually a sign of growth. I used to feel guilt and shame for cutting people out like that, even if they weren't really that close. So that's all I'm gonna say about it.

More pressing are the series of breakdowns I've been having. I've already discussed the one I had last week with my therapist, and as this journal exists largely as a tool to use in my therapy sessions, I'm not going to go into too much detail. It wasn't so much a panic attack as an extended bout of heightened anxiety which was resistant to all my usual techniques, and it was brought on by a combination of physical illness, grief for a broken friendship, and a really bad experience at an urgent care facility. I eventually calmed down, and was feeling much better after talking to my therapist on the phone.'

Sunday was another matter altogether. Still sick, my anxiety reached critical mass. Despite all logic, I was convinced I was going to die. I was convinced I would never feel good again. Each day I'd been trying to get up and do what I could do, and each day I had ended up feeling worse than I had felt the day before. Add to that the fact that I knew that Matt was going away for most of the week. I just... lost it. Complete and utter breakdown. I could not stop crying. I could not relax. I could not think straight. I think I cried for more than an hour before he left, as if I would never see him again. I felt shame for breaking down like this because Matt was doing absolutely everything he could to help me. I did't want him to feel bad leaving me alone, but I couldn't help it. I was in complete despair. Even Loki, whose comfort often comes as a clap on the shoulder (or a smack on the ass) and a reminder that his love for me is evidence that I'm stronger than I think I am, was gentle with me. I felt him near me, holding as tightly to me as Matt was.

And then, Matt left. And I stopped crying.

I realized I had gotten myself so worked up about him leaving, about being alone for almost five days, that I had used up all my tears. And then, quite suddenly, I began to feel better. Maybe the crying loosened up some of the congestion. Maybe I had simply burned through all the adrenaline and cortisol in my system. Whatever it was, it was sudden, as if I'd taken a pill, except that I hadn't. And instead of crying myself to sleep, I ended up walking down to the corner store to buy cigarettes, which might seem counter-intuitive in case of a respiratory infection, but something had to give.

After the greasy urgent care doctor had told me I was sick because I was a smoker, I had thrown my cigarettes away in a fit of fear and anger. I actually went three days without smoking. But, between the illness, grieving, withdrawing from cigarettes and also from pain meds, I was at my breaking point. (I had to stop taking my pain meds for a while because they act as a cough suppressant, which is the opposite of what you want when you're trying to get rid of chest congestion.) Eh, it was worth a shot. As I have told Matt, I will quit when I am ready.

It might have even just been the act of walking to the store that helped, but after I had a smoke and calmed down even more, I ended up making two pairs of earrings. I'd been saying I was going to start making jewelry by re-purposing old or broken jewelry I got for cheap. The first two pairs of earrings aren't particularly sturdy and I don't know if I could actually sell them, but it was a turning point. Somehow, I turned manic dysphoria into creative energy.

Since Matt has left, I have felt progressively better physically and emotionally. Yesterday, I washed my quilt and cleaned up my room, scouring away evidence of my illness. I think just looking at the pill bottles and the trash bin full of slimy snot rags. (Sputum. Isn't it a beautiful word?) I opened my window and let in some fresh air, lit the candle on my altar and burned some incense to cleanse the air, all of which made me feel much better.

It's now Tuesday evening. I'm half-way there. Matt gets back late Thursday night. Thor 2 comes out this weekend, and I've been chomping at the bit to see it. It's like my reward for getting through this. Hopefully, I can look back on this whole thing and remember that yeah, actually, I am stronger than this shit, and I am going to be okay. Whatever doesn't kill me better get the fuck out of my way.