Self-Care Sunday: The War on Anxiety

Hi there! How are we all doing? Remember me? Yeah, I did that ‘radio silence’ thing again. Sorry! Hope ye didn’t miss me too much?

So, where have I been? Eh, nowhere, really – I went into a little hermit shell for a bit. I’ve been juggling a few things – medication changes, lovely medication side effects and touyine changes. So, ye lot got the boot while I’ve been sorting things out *apologetic face*.

It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? When things go a bit arseways, it makes sense to mind ourselves better, and sometime we think we are, but actually we aren’t. Like with me and my mental health – I’m tightrope walking through the day, juggling all the balls, trying to not fall off the high-wire, when maybe I should really be using a balancing aid, or stepping off for a rest.

Let me give you a less abstract example, because lads, if you ever met me, you’d know, the chances of me being on a high-wire aren’t worth betting on me. Did you read my story about how I nearly decided to live at the top of Croke Park forever rather than come back down? if not, have a goo here.

So, I’ve mentioned I’m on meds for my anxiety. Anyone who isn’t familiar with medicating mental health issues, changes in doses and types are fairly par for the course early doors until the right balance is landed on. And because god forbid anything would ever go smoothly for me, and a dose change usually results in a rebellion of my stomach of the highest order. It likes to strike usually first thing in the morning, before I’ve enough of my wits about me for a counter-attack.

So, a typical morning is me, groggy as a grumpy toddler, in a ball in the bed while my stomach dances victory jigs at top speed (as accurate a description as I can conjure of my nausea without getting graphic – don’t want to be putting any of ye off your lunch!). I have a secret counter-attack, to be fair. Well, actually, it’s not that secret. It’s just my stomach is too idiotic to not fall for it every time. My weapons of choice are usually porridge or Weetabix, with weak tea. Problem is, I’m beginning to think my brain is gone to the dark with my stomach. It plays these tricks on me, insidious, mean tricks, full of propaganda and fake news. It convinces me that if I move, things will become infinitesimally worse. And because I’m a grumpy toddler, and I’m upset they got the first strike in, I’m on the back foot, and I weakly wave the white flag of defeat and lie in a foetal ball like I’ve a life’s mission to fit in a snail shell.

Which would be fine. Except for, you know, life. And eventually I remember that I’m meant to do that every day (it’s a bit insistent like that). So I drag myself out of the bed, slowly, carefully, just in case my brain was right. But then, life crashes into me like some sort of panicked child, reminding me of where I was meant to be an hour ago and the unending list of things I always plan to do each day. I need to have words about that, actually. Bit insensitive of life to ambush me like that before I’ve even made myself look half decent of a morning.

Of course, I absorb all of the panic life has thrown at me, and like some kind of electrocuted rubber ball I’m now tripping over my own feet to get out the door in minus time. My secret weapon against my stomach is abandoned in the kitchen press, the persistent dancing of my stomach ignored as best I can. This usually results in a punitive regime of junk food and skipped meals, which punishes my stomach and it presumably spends the day making new battle plans for the next morning.

Electrocuted rubber ball Sarah also has minimal, if any, sense of planning, and, well, sense. So things that were meant to be remembered are likely to trampled on rather than packed into bags, matching socks is something I applaud myself on if it ever actually happens (it did by accident yesterday). The thing is though, my brain is smart (I say that without ego. It uses it’s abilities in sabotaging ways more often than not and likes to desert me in times of need). It knows my secret weapons better than my stomach does, and it makes good use of it in that aforementioned fake news propaganda strategy. It teases me, like some long-suffering non-supportive guardian, about how of course I have things to do, but of course I’m not going to get to them now, am I?

The counter attack against both my brain and stomach, as well as the re-adjustment from electrocuted rubber ball Sarah to regular Sarah takes much of the day. This means that regular day gets pushed mostly to the side (my poor diary is just sick of me crossing the same thing out of today and writing them into tomorrow over and over again. It may join the rebellion soon too I fear).

But! I have a cunning plan. I nefarious plan as to how I shall finally win the war against my own body and regain control over the life that looks mournfully at me as I brush past it with a regretful glance most days.

It’s a series of small, guerrilla tactics. I’m still in the planning stages. And I can’t tell you too much yet because that might ruin my chances of getting the upper hand. But suffice to say that my self-care Sunday is being spent in the war-room, making battle plans to get my life back on track.