Tag Archives: anxiety

Dear Diary,

Dear Diary, , , , , , , ,
A black and white picture of an office.

Sitting, thinking, writing.

I’m two seconds away from shutting this whole operation down.

I get this way.  A lot.  I’m the queen of inviting you to my Facebook page and then tearing it down the moment you get there so you can forever wonder if I have some sort of vendetta against you that involves stealing all of your microwavable popcorn and that snow globe your Uncle Hal brought you back from Tucson.  I’m going through that right now.  I’m having that itchy feeling again and all I can think about is shutting down Creative Liar, my Facebook page and Twitter.  And I don’t even have any popcorn or a snow globe or an Uncle Hal to cheer me up.

Really, I’m just overwhelmed.  I do this to myself.  I get involved in a lot and then when it starts to break me down I just want to hit the “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” button and go hide in a corner.  But I’m not going to do that this time.  Instead, I’m going to stick this shit through and do what I do worse.  Open up.

I’ve talked about my anxiety before, but I don’t know if I’ve talked about my depression.  Depression is an interesting bitch.  As a writer I need her.  I crave her.  One time they gave me medication, and I missed her.  I thought without depression I can’t write, I can’t do anything with passion and all I’ll end up is one of those suburban housewives whose greatest feat is hitting a sale at Target and posting their finds on Facebook.  Kill.  Me.

But things are a little different now.  Depression is no longer my greatest foe and I’ve kind of gotten over the craving to continuously braid her hair.  Instead, I’m up against anxiety, and I’ve learned she’s an even bigger bitch with nicer boobs than me.  I  mean, I get so fucking anxious that when I’m driving down a street and I see someone walking their dog, I panic because I don’t know if I’m supposed to wave, honk, ignore them, eat a sub sandwich…  So many possibilities!  I get anxious because I know people expect me to be the funny quirky girl and sometimes I just want to punch everyone in the face.  But not you.  You’re grand.

The point of all this?  I guess to let you know that I’m swamped, I’m agitated, I’m fucking irritated and yet?  I’m miserably happy.  I’m excited about my business and I’m horrendously shocked at how awesome it feels to be in charge of my life while sitting in my pajamas.  Okay, yoga pants, but still.  Matt and I are super best friends and I sometimes take that for granted.  He’s really been so supportive and pretty much living without him would mean dressing up as Alf and asking strangers if I can eat their cats.  So folks, you should be grateful he exists.  My daughter is joy unaltered.  Period.  I have a great sister.  She’s not my “real” sister, but if I believed in “real,” I wouldn’t be a grown adult writing a blog and obsessed with Hanson.  And I’m still writing, heart sparked passionate as ever.

I think this year I’m going to change a few things.  Me for starters.  I’m going to keep this blog, but I’m going to use it more for me than for anyone or anything else.   I was thinking about shutting down comments, but  I love that you guys read me and that I’ve made some sort of impression on you even if it means you’ve taken to keying cars.  So keep commenting and I’ll keep commenting back.  Just bear with me if it takes a little while.  You may see me less in your newsfeed and on Twitter but I’m still around.  If you want to say “hi” just message me or email me at ericka.clay@gmail.com.  Also, I’m going to use this blog as a therapist of sorts every now and again.  I may be funny.  I may not.  I just need a little more freedom if that’s okay with you folks.

So get ready for Ericka unplugged.  It’s a lot like Ericka plugged with a smidge more profanity and way better hair.  And 43% more Alf.

The One Where I Divulge Too Much

Dear Diary, , , , , , , , ,
Picture of a little girl on a swing.

For her.

I wasn’t going to post today.  I know it’s Friday which means I should have just published a story for Red Writing Hood and decorated my office cubicle with pictures of me chatting with various tubs of aspercreme, but I just don’t have it in me today.

I went to the doctor yesterday to check on an enlarged lymph node and she’s sending me to the general surgeon.  I’ll probably end up getting a biopsy and revel in the long pleasurable wait of finding out what, if anything, is wrong with me (besides my blatant disregard for bra wearing and people who refuse to recognize Alf as an important part of American history).  I know it’s not a huge deal considering I’m the healthiest person most people in the tri-state area know (I seriously downed apple cider vinegar straight this morning before high fiving my dog in the face), but I guess it would be sort of fitting.  To not be the kind of person that sucks down Diet Coke in the morning after a refreshing morning smoke and still end up with a chunk of my neck missing and a worry that extends beyond wondering how many times I have to post pictures of Matt half naked in a sombrero on the Internet before he stops stealing my mechanical pencils for his “project.”

I’m being stupid, silly, sad, melodramatic.  I’ve had a lifetime combating all of these traits and will probably spend another doing just the same.  It comes down to my anxiety, that rotten little stone in my stomach, rolling around like a grain of sand in an oyster until it ruins my insides.  I’m just so tired of letting it dictate everything.

I don’t usually share like this, and it’s probably why people are held at arm’s length with me.  You all have your own stories, I get that, and maybe if I opened up a little more things would seem a little less complicated and even hopeless at times.  But for now, I’m just going to wallow a bit, then high five myself hard in the face and move forward for my family.  For Ava.

Don’t worry.  Soon everything will be back to beautifully constructed, ass toning footwear and Dave Coulier who wants me to meet his parents.  Typical Dave.

 

Only the Lonely

The Funny, , , , , , , ,
Girl dressed as Alice from Alice in Wonderland

See what I mean? Adorable. A little too adorable.

Well, shit.

I thought to myself today: Hey, lets write a real post about how lonely you feel in this world, Ericka, and then we’ll just include a picture of a pair of Skecher Shape Ups and maybe everyone will be blinded by the way they accentuate the ankle so much they’ll forget all that lonely bullshit you wrote in the first place.  And then I trashed that idea.

So then I stopped by The Daily Post for a little blogging inspiration and this happened.

Shit again.

Yesterday was not such a good day.  I’ve been sick for the past week with what I assumed was a flesh eating virus strep, but it turned out to be a simple sore throat.  Oh and one of my thyroid glands is swollen so it’s been nice knowing ya.  But anyhoo, besides that clusterfuck of medical information that now has me panicking beyond belief (although it’s good to know I’m not alone), I also had to take my child trick or treating with a group of other parents which certainly meant I was going to accidentally say the word “penis” nine times and everyone was going to assume I’m a loony tune for genatalia.

That didn’t happen.

What did happen was enjoying a great time with really nice neighbors and watching our kiddos have a blast hunting for candy like my grandmother hunts for men until roughly 7:30 p.m.  I only managed to mildly embarrass myself once when my two very nice Christian neighbors casually mentioned a Specs liquor store is going in next to the local grocery store which incited me to jump up and punch the moon in the face shouting, “Really? A Specs? Are you serious?? That’s awesome!! Hey Matt, Matt guess what! They’re putting in a Specs!!”  They pretended not to notice in a very obvious way.  But besides that, trick-or-treating went relatively well.

Which is why once I got home I managed to create a mental list as well as a verbal list (much to my husband’s “oh please no, sweet baby Jesus!” chagrin) of all the reasons why they must secretly hate us.  A couple of noteworthy bullets:

  • I look twelve.
  • I’m the size of a small gopher.
  • I have fabulous ankles.  Too fabulous.
  • Matt wore gray.  He should have worn blue.  He’s ruining our lives.
  • Ava looked adorable.  Too adorable.
  • I didn’t eat any candy.  They must think I’m a candy hating bitch.
  • I’m nearsighted.  Too nearsighted.

I proceeded to spend the rest of the night combing through this growing list instead of sleeping because sleeping is for baby pandas and consequently woke up utterly exhausted and mind numbingly depressed.

And very very alone.

I have great things, good people in my life.  But I guess I just want to find more friends, more women like me.  They don’t have to be carbon copies.  That would be no fun and incredibly terrifying, but perhaps if I could find a few women who like to read (real books), drink a glass of wine, enjoy a cup of coffee, make fun of people wearing spandex, hang out in their Skecher Shape Ups, moon helpless policemen while they’re driving, then maybe I’d feel a little less lonesome.

It’s good to know dear readers and fellow bloggers that I’ve got a group of looney tunes like you who kinda sorta know what I mean.

I penis you.  I mean love you.  Nah, let’s just stick with penis.

I Put the “I” in Anxiety

The Funny, , , , , , ,

Severe, life debilitating social anxiety is no laughing matter. Most people who struggle with social anxiety choose to handle this issue with dignity. Perhaps they’ll join a self help group or try reading a self help book or look up how to say “self help” in Taiwanese. I, on the other hand, know that helping myself involves copious amounts of effort which generally turns me off, and instead of getting “self help” tattooed on my forearm, prefer to propel myself face first into society with no help of any kind. It’s how I got this scar on my forehead.

Let’s, take for instance what inevitably happens when I meet someone for the first time:

Funny cartoon of two women meeting for the first time.
STRANGE WOMAN: “Hi, I’m Liz. Nice to meet you.”
ME:“Hi, I’m Ericka. I’m ten feet taller than you in these shoes and what size are your boobies?”

Hmmm…textbook mistake. I should have saved the shoes comment as my closing statement, adding an air of mystery and general good taste. Nobody can argue with Skecher Shape Ups. Nobody.

Let’s move on to that dastardly dance through the doorway shall we? It’s inevitable that at least three and a half times a day I’ll find myself tangoing with a stranger through a tightly spaced threshold. This is usually how that venture turns out:

A funny cartoon of two people trying to get through a doorway.

STRANGE MAN: “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me.”
ME: “Don’t be sorry. Your skin feels good against my skin.”

All right, now we notice the halfway horrified expression on the strange man’s face but that’s only because the truth is hitting him right at this particular moment: skin feels good against other skin. Don’t fight it, strange gentleman. You’ll hurt your brain.

And now for a classic case of social anxiety that usually has me in figurative tears (real crying is for baby pandas).

A funny cartoon of people grocery shopping.
HUSBAND: So should we go with pulp or no pulp?
ME: Don’t look now. Shh…don’t look now. Just turn around slowly.
HUSBAND: Uh, okay.
ME: Did you see it?
HUSBAND: See what?
ME: That baby?
HUSBAND: Yeah, so?
ME: It’s judging me. I can tell.
HUSBAND: What?
ME (to baby): I told her no bangs, all right? All right you silly unknowledgeable baby! I told her no bangs!

Hmmm…babies. Such jerks. I really don’t know what to say other than I think we can all agree I handled this situation with the grace and finesse of three Princess Kates.  And yes, my husband and I wear the same outfits in public.  That way I don’t lose him in crowds.

So there you have it folks, my general social anxiety that I handle on a daily basis with no help from anyone including myself. Proof’s in the pudding: help is for losers. Unless of course I get a flat tire or super glue my hand to my face or forget my social security number (once I get that sucker memorized). In those cases, feel free to help. No, like seriously help me. I hear face gluing is no walk in the park in a pair of Skecher Shape Ups.

But otherwise? I think it’s safe to say I’ve got it all covered.

*I wrote this post hours before I read a read a funny post about depression by @AllieBrosh over at Hyperbole and a Half, so when I read her post I was all like “no way dude!”  Her post is an amazingly funny and open read that proves us slightly off-kilter chicks have something to offer, no matter how poorly wired our brains seem sometimes.  As someone who’s suffered from anxiety and depression for eleven years, all I can say is the funny sometimes comes from a darker place, but sometimes it ends up becoming your light.  Just like Skecher Shape Ups.