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Last Post of 2013
Dec. 31st, 2013 12:08 amI apparently wrote 21,000 words of posts this December. That's-- I could have written a big bang fic, or a novella or something. I mean, I wouldn't have, obviously, I'm just saying I could have.
I posted 28 days out of 31, which was really cool, and it's been lovely chatting with you folks more regularly. I rather dropped the ball on the posting meme this last week, and that's been for a couple of reasons 1) my acquiring the first season of Breaking Bad, followed swiftly by the second season of Breaking Bad, and 2) I've had a bit of a spiral of anxiety, and insomnia, and toxic thoughts these last few days.
I'm not making any new year's resolutions this year, partly because talk about setting yourself up for failure, but mostly because my best friend is getting married in January, and I've got the stag weekend to get through. Just before you are spending a weekend in Amsterdam with a bunch of straight boys is not the time to be swearing off wine, women, and song.
But there's one thing I have to do early in the new year, and I shall post about it here so you can hold me to it: I have to see a doctor about this anxiety thing. It's been a problem for over a year now, sometimes cripplingly so, sometimes manageable. And I have various ways of dealing with it, from at least knowing that it isn't rational, it's the brain weasels playing silly buggers with me, to singing Sex on Fire at the top of my lungs, because you try having a panic attack while singing Sex on Fire at the top of your lungs. The downside of this is that you are singing Sex on Fire at the top of your lungs, and people think that you're peculiar with dubious taste in music.
I went to the doctor in the summer and was prescribed some heart medication for the worst physical symptoms of the panic attacks, and they were great, I've even squirrelled the last of them away to get me to Amsterdam. I figure once I get there I'll be able to avail myself of some, ahem, alternate methods of coping.
Quick aside, note to self: stop with the self-medication malarky, this is how people get themselves into bother.
But that was only meant to be a short term solution - like, two weeks short term - and did nothing for the underlying brain weasels. I need to find out if there's something I can take on a longer term basis, or to get on the waiting list for some kind of therapy. Because this paralysis, of my life, of the spirit, can't go on.
Because the other thing I need to do next year is apply myself more thoroughly to job hunting. I was incredibly fortunate, in that when my grandmother passed away she left me enough money that I could spend this year doing odd bits of temping and freelancing as they appeared or appealed to me, but otherwise live off my inheritance. But this was never meant to be a longterm strategy, even if it was a financially viable one, which it isn't. It isn't that kind of inheritance; I'm not a character in an Agatha Christie novel. And I think the though of this - of signing on, of explaining the massive gaps in my CV (I was a carer, and then I was having a low level nervous breakdown), of explaining that no I don't want to stack shelves in poundland for free - is what has prompted the brain weasels to do a number on my rational brain.
Anyway, I also want to read good books, drink good scotch, and meet interesting women, and possibly discuss good books with them while drinking fine scotch; but first I shall investigate the possibility of better living through pharmacology.
I posted 28 days out of 31, which was really cool, and it's been lovely chatting with you folks more regularly. I rather dropped the ball on the posting meme this last week, and that's been for a couple of reasons 1) my acquiring the first season of Breaking Bad, followed swiftly by the second season of Breaking Bad, and 2) I've had a bit of a spiral of anxiety, and insomnia, and toxic thoughts these last few days.
I'm not making any new year's resolutions this year, partly because talk about setting yourself up for failure, but mostly because my best friend is getting married in January, and I've got the stag weekend to get through. Just before you are spending a weekend in Amsterdam with a bunch of straight boys is not the time to be swearing off wine, women, and song.
But there's one thing I have to do early in the new year, and I shall post about it here so you can hold me to it: I have to see a doctor about this anxiety thing. It's been a problem for over a year now, sometimes cripplingly so, sometimes manageable. And I have various ways of dealing with it, from at least knowing that it isn't rational, it's the brain weasels playing silly buggers with me, to singing Sex on Fire at the top of my lungs, because you try having a panic attack while singing Sex on Fire at the top of your lungs. The downside of this is that you are singing Sex on Fire at the top of your lungs, and people think that you're peculiar with dubious taste in music.
I went to the doctor in the summer and was prescribed some heart medication for the worst physical symptoms of the panic attacks, and they were great, I've even squirrelled the last of them away to get me to Amsterdam. I figure once I get there I'll be able to avail myself of some, ahem, alternate methods of coping.
Quick aside, note to self: stop with the self-medication malarky, this is how people get themselves into bother.
But that was only meant to be a short term solution - like, two weeks short term - and did nothing for the underlying brain weasels. I need to find out if there's something I can take on a longer term basis, or to get on the waiting list for some kind of therapy. Because this paralysis, of my life, of the spirit, can't go on.
Because the other thing I need to do next year is apply myself more thoroughly to job hunting. I was incredibly fortunate, in that when my grandmother passed away she left me enough money that I could spend this year doing odd bits of temping and freelancing as they appeared or appealed to me, but otherwise live off my inheritance. But this was never meant to be a longterm strategy, even if it was a financially viable one, which it isn't. It isn't that kind of inheritance; I'm not a character in an Agatha Christie novel. And I think the though of this - of signing on, of explaining the massive gaps in my CV (I was a carer, and then I was having a low level nervous breakdown), of explaining that no I don't want to stack shelves in poundland for free - is what has prompted the brain weasels to do a number on my rational brain.
Anyway, I also want to read good books, drink good scotch, and meet interesting women, and possibly discuss good books with them while drinking fine scotch; but first I shall investigate the possibility of better living through pharmacology.