Blog Moved

You now find my blog at

http://anxiousmusings.blogspot.com/

Marriage - Day 67

I've been waiting for a burst of inspiration to make a worthy first blog post after marriage. I just can't seem to decide what that is.

Marriage is wonderful and frightening at the same time. The feeling of coming home to someone who is anticipating my return, greeting me with hugs and kisses (and sometimes even dinner), brushing my teeth next to each other...it's the best. It's frightening because a spouse can often act as a mirror, and sometimes when I'm at my vilest, I catch a glimpse of myself in a pair of hurt eyes and I'm reduced to a crumble of self-hatred.

But my husband says it best when he turns to me every so often and says, "You know...I like being married to you. It's fun."

Countdown - 10 Days

As the wedding draws near, anxiety has become a fixture in my day-to-day life. I'm living my days at about a 6, and the hint of any hiccup...an additional task, a need to reschedule, a missed appointment...they bring me up to an 8. The second I start thinking about my parents takes me up to a 9 or 10.

The past few years, especially, I've endured my share of drama with my parents. After they moved, I felt a sense of freedom...to be able to come and go without ridicule, without the lingering possibility of an emotional and abusive episode at any given time. But as the wedding comes closer and closer, I can't help but worry. And it's not a baseless worry; there's a reason why I know they'll be angry leading up to, the day of, and following the wedding.

I keep telling myself that I should put those thoughts away, enjoy the celebration starting now, and since they no longer live here, to remove myself from situations where I might be verbally or emotionally abused. But it's returning to the scene of the crime...going back to the place where I never felt safe, loved, whole...and it scares me. Those feelings I had of loneliness, isolation, worthlessness, hopelessness...they scare me.

I really hope my wedding is happy.

Back in the Pool

I feel like I'm on the verge of that drowning feeling again. I recently read a post from a blogger who also struggles with depression about how she has been teetering, wondering if she's fallen back into depression. Her descriptions of the endless slew of negative thoughts and feelings both overcome you and leave you wondering if you're actually feeling depressed or stressed or what.

I'm not sure what it is, but the stress of crazy days at work, managing a home that's not mine, saving money for a wedding, planning and doing for the wedding, planning and nightmare-ing about the parents and the wedding, and this nagging cold/bronchitis I've had for 2 weeks now (wah), I feel overwhelmed. Or I'm on the brink of overwhelmed. Sometimes I have a premonition of myself, balled up and crying, trying to escape and cleanse all the negativity, but it hasn't quite exploded yet. Is it about to? I'm not sure, but it sure feels looming.

As if a stereo was blasting white noise and I just couldn't find the "off" switch, feelings of nervousness and anxiety, worries that things won't get done, and fears that I won't be worthy or successful crowd out any joy left in me. Sleep no longer brings rest, and I feel like I'm waiting... waiting to let a breath out... waiting to open my eyes to some relief.

Everything inspires more anxiety. The absence of a smile. The addition of a project. The ringing of my cell phone. The notice of a new email. Why do I think it's all out to get me?

Happy Tuesday.

Nicknames

Muffin. Honey. Honeybuns. Babe. Baby. The boy and I used to always mock couples who have nicknames like these for each other. We always thought it was way too cutesy for us. Individually, we didn't really have nicknames ourselves either, with friends or with significant others.

Of course, having said that, we do have names we endearingly called each other, but we would NEVER utter them in public. So they don't exist...not really. Right?

The other day, the Czar sent me an e-mail just saying hello. That part I could get over. It was surprising but not overly so. The ending was what got me. He called me a nickname that roughly translates to "cutie" in English, something he probably hasn't called me in more than 15 years.

It was a one-line e-mail, but I thought about it again and again over the next few days. A nickname is such an intimate thing in my mind, and "intimate" is not how I would describe my relationship with him.

Maybe I've already told this story here, but it just goes to show how much it's stuck with me. I think the feeling of being a "Daddy's Little Girl" is one of the sweetest dynamics of a father-daughter relationship, but it's one that I'm not familiar with. When I was very young, probably 5 or 6, I remember watching a baseball or football game with the Czar. In typical fashion, I laid my head in his lap. But this time, he told me to get up. I wasn't to sit with him that way anymore. I was too old. The effect was like road rash. It burned and it scarred, and it changed things. It was breaking ground where a huge chasm would continue to grow between us.

So when the Czar called me "cutie," it brought me back to a time where I was Daddy's Little Girl, a short-lived time but a time that did indeed exist. So it IS true. That DID happen.

Strong, but Not Tough (Part 1)

Growing up, I was painfully shy. I remember grocery shopping with the Czar and Queen one day and asking where something was. When they told me I should ask a clerk, I immediately burst into tears. The thought of talking to a stranger filled me with an intense and inconsolable fear.

Whenever the Czar would discipline me with his time-tested method of endless hours of berating and yelling, I was never allowed to speak up. Of course, the occasional yes ("Do you agree with me?") and no ("Do you think what you did was right?") were in the script, but outside of that, I was to keep my mouth shut. I learned very early on that truth and justice had no place, but instead compliance and silent suffering were the easiest way to escape the verbal and sometimes physical lashings. I resolved that nothing was worth looking at that enraged, red-veined eyeball as he whipped me with a hanger, comb, shoehorn, whatever was nearby.

As I grew older, I got the bright idea that I should at least say something if the Czar misunderstood something. Any time I attempted at justifying or even proving my innocence, the result was merely more culpability. Whether it was for talking back or suggesting that they wrong (how dare I?), any words from me were met with more punishment and anger.

I learned that the most my "voice" would ever be was an internal wail of injustice, an all-night crying session, a cold ice-pack on the welts on my thighs. But even nurture can't quiet quell nature entirely. Outside the realm of home, I began to find my strength. Excelling in academics earned me a bit of authority, at least with classmates and teachers, and I began to find joy in others hearing me.

When I moved out for college, I decided to reinvent myself. I didn't want to be the girl that people knew was smart but never invited to parties. I didn't want to be the sucker who always took the blame because someone else told me to. I learned to be friendly. I learned to talk to strangers. I learned to talk to large groups of people. Recently, the boy asked me why I never considered business as a major. I explained that, as a shy person all my life, I never thought a career of working with other people and mingling suited me.

Anyone who met me after high school, knows me as a fairly outgoing, often funny and goofy person. I'm not a natural leader, but I'm not afraid to lead. I wouldn't say I'm combative, but I'm not afraid to call people out or make complaints when it's called for.

But at the root of my being, the insecurity and fear of returning to that once-lonely girl whose pillow was her only audience lead me on a spiral of anxiety. Like an offensive lineman, breaking through a row of bodies, I see everything as an obstacle. Everyone looks like the Czar to me. They're trying to shut me up. They don't believe me. They think I'm mindless. They'll never listen. They'll never care unless I force them. I bite, punch, kick, shove my way to the podium, when there may be no obstacles at all. The longer it takes to reach an assurance that I've been heard, understood, feels like precious seconds of holding my breath underwater. As another second ticks by, my heart quickens, my breath shallows, my mind races, and panic grows. I flail, I reach, but I can't seem to break the surface, find any relief.

While explaining this feeling to someone recently, I mentioned that I had felt weak for so long that I had to teach myself, make myself, be strong. They replied that, while I can be strong, and being strong is good, I didn't have to be so tough. That the forceful and abrasive nature with which I demand from people only recreates the loneliness. Navigating clumsily from one extreme to the other, I guess I haven't quite picked up the skill of asserting my strength with grace. I only know this because I see the one I love most has scratches and bruises from my pointless attempts to be heard.

Runaway Train

When you're hit with a bout of anxiety, whatever the reason, it hits you like a runaway train. You can kind of see it coming, but by the time your eyes have focused and you realize what it is, it hits you. And while it's running you over shredding your body limb by limb, wheel by wheel, you're also standing alongside the tracks watching it pass. Car after car, you marvel at the speed with which it's passing by. It feels like there's nothing you can do to stop it. It's sheer speed and strength make you wish you had shot yourself before it hit you are overwhelming.

Bursting My Bubble

When you don't have much history in the way of relationships, what happens is that your image or idea of what your love life will look like becomes inflated. Like a giant bubble. The more time that passes without experiences to bring you back to reality, the bubble just fills with more and more air.

Lately, as I spend more time with the Boy in the absence of my previous dictators, I'm coming to grips with the reality of the limitations of my relationship with him. In the way movies teach us, I want him to be my all, everything and the only thing I will ever need. But as the book tells us, Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. We are so different in the ways we think, and that means that there are so many things that he can't possibly understand or empathize with.

Last night, I thought I was joining in his ongoing conversation about work frustrations, but it was heard as complaining. While silently handling the logistics of so many small and odd details, delegating the honeymoon planning to him was felt as unsupportive. In the grand scheme of things, I can understand that these translate to I don't want you to be so stressed and affected by work, so let me help you and I want to plan the BEST honeymoon for you and I'd like to do wedding stuff together, even the honeymoon planning.

But it seems to me that as women, the capacity of our empathy tanks are ten-fold that of men, and it's times like these where I become painfully aware of this fact. Throw my battles with anxiety in there, and you've got a night of restless sleep, tears, and hour after hour of anxiously wondering and worrying about what's happening next, tonight, and tomorrow.

It seems a little silly to me now, but that's the story of my journey through love. Time after time, every time a bubble is burst, I mourn the slow death of my fairytale. Of course, once you realize you've been living in a snow globe of a reality and that what's real is life, much more worth it than the sterile imagination you've rendered, you know you've traded in your Prince Charming for your soul mate. You turn in your two-dimensional fairy tale for the depth of reality.

A Baby's Desperation

Now that the Czar and Queen are out of state, I've been spending a lot more time with the Boy (yep, somehow there's more time to be spent together). During the first 2 years of our relationship, the Boy held on so stubbornly and anxiously to his time, his space, that we fought often about our individual readiness for a serious relationship. Was he ready to commit? Was I ready to let go of my imaginations of love?

There's always a part of me that remembers those times with a twinge of...regret fear unease. I wonder if maybe he'll get sick of me. I wonder if a few days in a row of seeing me will weary him. There are times when a small annoyance on my part will grow into worry that he's silently scheming on how to get more alone time (projecting, maybe?).

Last night, as we spent yet another hour chatting and watching Anthony Bourdain, he looked at me in a way that reassured me he's far from sick of me. Even as I try to keep my distance at times and leave him to his work, studies, or whatever it is he's doing, he'll approach me in a way that shows his longing for me. It surprised me that this morning that I was excited to see him again. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but as if we haven't seen each other in weeks, I can't wait to be near him again.

This past weekend, I babysat for friends, new parents of a 6-month old little girl. Normally, with her and other babies, I've got some magic touch (or extreme body heat, whatever). I'm a baby-monger, and this little one generally falls asleep or is exhausted with laughter when she sees me. No problem, right?

Wrong. She's experiencing some stranger anxiety, and I could not console her for the life of me. She was so genuinely distressed that I was not her mom. As I held her while she cried, slept, cried, slept, and cried some more for about 6 hours, it made me think of friends who are going through the adoption process... how they endure this for weeks at time as their children grieve the loss of their foster parents.

I thought about the weight of being a mother. Not that I have the slightest idea of what that really means yet, but I kept thinking of the deep and utter sadness this little girl felt that she could not see her mother. She looked everywhere for her, pushing my face away. I fed her, held her, sang to her, talked to her, but none of that mattered because I was not her mother.

And it hit me...as my arms burned and my lower back ached from carrying and bouncing little M...the weight of being a mother...the ability responsibility of having such an effect on another human being. This little baby was so desperate and lost without her mother, regardless of what I had to offer. Am I ready to be that mother?

I've always wanted to be a mother. I have dreams of pregnancy and motherhood. I imagined I would get married at 24 (I'm 29 now), and I would have children at 26. Obviously, I'm not pregnant or even married yet. But I'm more sure now that I'm not ready to give up this feeling of excitement for my evening, free to be with my soon-to-be husband, carefree and aimless. I still can't wait for motherhood, but being a wife is excitement enough for now.

Different Friends, Different Hats

Maybe some would disagree with me, and I suspect that many would, but I think that the notion of a "best friend" at my age doesn't really make any sense. Of course, if you're thinking in terms of the one person who is closest, nearest, and dearest in your life as far as proximity, time spent, and knowledge of one another, the Boy definitely fits the bill. He knows (and will come to know) more about me than even my family or closest girlfriends do, I probably spend the most time with him, and when my day winds down to an end, he's really the one I want to talk to about the happenings of that day.

But when I think of my girlfriends, I realize that they fulfill different roles in my life. I don't think that means that I use specific friends for these reasons or even that they are limited. I guess all I mean is that the closeness of a girlfriend isn't measured the way it used to be. In some ways, it can't even be measured anymore.

I have girlfriends whom I have known for more than a decade, maybe more than 2 decades, who may not necessarily be the first person I call when I have great news. I have girlfriends whom I've known for only a few years who I find myself desperately needing to talk to throughout my week. I have different girlfriends I call for advice, to vent, to get excited with me, to calm me down, to be angry with me, to understand me, to correct me, to cry with me, to laugh with me, to lighten my mood, or to make me feel grounded.

When my cell phone rings and Paramore's sound fills the room, the Boy often says, "You're soooo popular!" As someone who grew up painfully shy and intensely introverted, sometimes it can bother me. I'm not some shallow person who has a million friends and the depth of a cereal bowl!

But the truth is, I've learned not to rely on one single person to define my life anymore, and I don't think that's cynicism, I think that's reality. Maybe even maturity. I know not to get offended when one friend doesn't get me or says something to offend me, because they are the one who challenges and questions me. I don't get disappointed when an old friend doesn't quite understand my point of view, because she is the one who shares a long and deep history with me even if we don't look at the world the same way.

Sometimes I look at girls who have the same 2 girlfriends in all their photos and I wonder if I'm missing out on something big. Have I let conflict rob me of true friendship? Do I not know how to be a friend? (I'm sure I have a long way to go in that department anyway.) I do admire those relationships, but I'm not jealous. My "best friend" knows me intimately and deeply, even if that friend might have a different face from time to time.

So Long, Farewell

Ok, I don't want to seem bitter and heartless, but as I send off the P's to their new home, I can't help but let out  a big sigh of relief. It's really a new chapter, one that I hope will endure as one of the happiest in my lifetime. What's left to worry about now but flower arrangements, packing up to move in with my soon-to-be husband, and picking out destinations for our honeymoon. Really, what is there to be worried about (meant to be rhetorical, to be honest).

I appreciate the concept of moving. I knew a lot of friends who moved around quite a bit in their childhood and they never really felt they had a true "home." But in my case, each move I've made has come with some significant shift in my life.

When my family move in high school, it was really beginning of my own reinvention. It marked the start of my transformation, out of the timid and shy little girl who was too afraid to ask grocery clerks where things were.

When I moved away for college, it helped me to see who I could be on my own. It helped me to find out what I wanted to do with my life, apart from anyone else's expectations of me, and gave me the time to build the courage to go get that life.

When I moved out of the P's house after graduate school, it really emphasized and deepened the rift in our relationship. Maybe one of the hardest times in my life, but like ripping off a band-aid, though it was painful at the time, the wounds really needed to breathe in order to heal. The only way I would gain any true independence was to be the one to deliver such a sharp blow.

As I get ready to move again, into my husband's home, I first send off the P's. I really hope that it's a new beginning for them too. The beginning of their discovering who they are again, as individuals. Rather than dutifully denying themselves their own identities, I hope they can rediscover what it means to live in this world, to enjoy what's out there.

So here's to the weekend. There's much to celebrate...my first weekend on true freedom, raises...just plain making it through another week without going entirely insane. But not too much rest for the weary. I've calculated that I need to lose 2 pounds a week to be on target with my weight loss plan. Yikes. Good thing my DVDs came in today.

Yes, another one

While I'm here...

I haven't done much shopping over the past several months. (Weddings are expensive. So was grad school.) But  in preparation for her transplant to the South, the Queen proposed a shopping trip. We visited a local outlet mall that I consider bad for the health of my savings account (or any other account). Here are a few of my purchases.

Kenneth Cole Knit Drape Cardigan ($40)--This isn't quite the one I purchased, but you get the idea. Same color and texture. I've found that this goes well with a tank and dark jeans or even slacks and a blouse for work.













Kenneth Cole Barcelona Leather Wallet ($20)--I got this in gray. I've been looking for a wallet for a long time. For 2 of the weddings I stood in, I got small Coach clutches that I've been using. It was time to stop folding all my money.

Nike Hoodie ($40)--I got this one in white with turquoise and navy stripes. SO SOFT and perfect to throw on top of a casual outfit. The boy asked me if I "want to play tennis" when he saw it. Thanks.

Inspiration 2.0

Since I'm on a roll here...

I've been a member at my gym for about a year now, and after losing 12 pounds, gaining back 10, losing 4, and gaining back 3 (yep, that's a net loss of just 3 pounds), I'm realizing I'm only wasting my own time and energy by being inconsistent. I finally get what people mean when they say they "have" to work out. It's not that they love it or that they have so much fun working out (ok, maybe some of you sickos do mean that). Instead, it's rush of accomplishment when you're good about going to the gym.

The downside of a long engagement is that you don't really feel the urgency to lose weight. But now that the wedding is creeping up on me (which means engagement photos and wedding photos), I feel some pressure to work for more results here. After working out the first 3 days of this week, I feel anxious about not being able to go the gym today. So I ordered this:

A combination of my girl-crush on Kim Kardashian and hoping for a little help in the process, I've also been testing these out.

The Extreme Burn is doing a pretty good job of giving me the boost I need to push through my workouts without making me feel crazy. I tried the Iso-Burn from the Burn & Cleanse set, but it made me throw up. (Don't take it on an empty stomach.)

As a way of keeping myself accountable and instill a healthy dose of shame into my lazy days, I'll report updates soon.

Waiting...Always Waiting

As I face some of the most promising and positive changes of my lifetime, I guess I'm worried that it won't live up to the hype. I'm waiting and dreading at the same time, as if I'll find out that, in the end, these things won't bring me peace either.


I've always admired the "cool girl." The one who refuses , even forgets, to call her boyfriend. The girl who doesn't care too much about her job yet excels in it. But instead of that girl, I was always the girl who cared and thought way too much.


This has been a tough year on that end. I've cared too much when my boyfriend was angry with me or just plain having a bad day. I've cared too much when I screwed up at work. I've cared too much when the P's said something I didn't like. Last night, I lay in bed and felt myself begin to worry. Not about anything new or anything worth losing sleep over, but nevertheless, I did. At one point, I had to just say to myself, "What's the point, anyway?"


There is none. The increased heart rate, the loss of sleep, the welling of emotions, and the constant (no, really, CONSTANT) level of fear is really pointless. If there's no crisis to worry about, I'll search my life for things to pick apart. Yes, it is a beautiful day, but I feel fat. Yes, it is exciting that I'm getting married, but some things may not go my way. Yes, it is a relief that I'll have some distance from the P's now, but I don't know the exact timeline.


The Boy is recently studying for his master's, and he said that there are several times a day when a man's brain is literally "at rest," but it doesn't appear women experience the same. This attests to the notion that women are better multitaskers, but it also points to the fact that women are worriers. I'm tasking myself with learning and practicing brain rest. To enjoy the good without a second thought. To be thankful for the good without a "but."

From the Outside In

Ok, a month has gone by and I've had nothing to say... But this is not to say that there's nothing to talk about.

The Czar and Queen are moving! The Czar has moved OUT OF STATE, a clear 3-hour plane ride away, and the Queen will follow in a few weeks. You'd think the very notion of freedom, in the metaphorical and now physical senses, would shove me into utter giddiness. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited as hell. But it all feels very strange at the moment. It's like I'm watching my life unfold, only I'm not really in it.

I've been wondering lately why it is that I don't get overwhelmed with emotions like I used to. Don't get me wrong, the anxiety of pending relationship doom will send me into a tailspin, but where's the quickened pace of my heartbeat when a road trip is coming up. Or the screaming, jumping up and down elation when I hear great news. Or even just telling the story really, really loud? No?

Maybe it's just the pure weight of what those things mean. It's exciting, of course, all that's happening or going to happen in the next few months before my nuptials. But there is a LOT that is changing. The biggest transition of my life (up to this point) is now coinciding with the greatest and maybe most permanent experience of separation in the single, most painful relationship in my life to this point, too. And it's not as simple as opening presents on Christmas morning. The joy of separation is also fused with grieving the end of very significant phase in my relationship with the Czar, the fear or anxiety of what's to come and the big responsibilities of being a wife and then a mother... These are crazy big changes!

I can hardly wrap my mind around it right now. But the bottom line is that there could be no better way or time for all this to be happening. Maybe more explanations on why that is to come soon.

I Do Solemnly Swear...

This weekend, I will

• not worry about the wedding.
• not worry about my parents' opinions/emotions.
• not worry about making everyone else happy.
• eat well, but not unhealthy.
• drink a lot of water.
• go to the gym and sweat hard.
• not call myself fat.
• compliment each girlfriend I talk to (honestly).
• hold on to a hug just a little bit longer.
• not feel bad about abilities.
• be thankful for my raise.
• be thankful for my job.
• read my bible.
• read my book.
• thank a friend for being my friend.
• love my fiance, without fear.
• let my fiance love me, without fear.

Mute

I have nothing to say. I have been wondering, though, why it's so hard to remember and hang on to the good (trust, faith, love, hope) yet so easy to let the bad in (doubt, fear, misery, hopelessness). Why is it that I could be facing, eye to eye, a happy and joyful day, and the very next morning (maybe even the very next breath), be overcome with fear for what's to come. Why do I ruin it?

Things are going fine, lately. I'm not sure if it's the very realness of the possibility of the Czar having to move for a new job, but I've been on the receiving end of some random acts of affection lately... and it really weirds me out. I'm suspicious of it. I don't buy it. Regardless, I should not fall into despair because I received a "Have a good day" text.

Every morning this week, I've woken up already in a state of panic. In the shower, at the sink, in my car, the panic follows me. I wonder if this poison can ever be extracted, or is it there forever? Or maybe it's just that I know doom is coming and that anything good has to be patiently waited for. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak.

Eventually, though, even I get tired of holding my breath, peering around each corner. At that point, I have to just shrug my shoulders, grab my coffee, and keep going.

Fancy Meeting You Here

Typically, when something comes along to ruin my day, I let it. It ruins me. Through and through, I give in to the anger and bitterness, and I let it flow freely... in my mood, my words, my thoughts.

Over the last 12 hours or so, I've been confronted with the oh-so-familiar cancer of negativity, but something is keeping me from giving in. I'm still angry and bitter, don't get me wrong. I'm the same girl. But there is a stubborn cheerfulness and hope deep inside me that is refusing to let it consume me. It's like being mad at a friend who has just eaten your last french fry, but they tickle you to make you laugh. You don't want to and you cross your arms and try to frown, but instinctual reactions make the sides of your mouth curl up and eventually you let it burst into laughter. Ok, fine, Joy. I will let you win today, old friend.

Why Do I Bother?

Mother's Day lunch. $150.
Mother's Day bouquet. $50.
Never-ending backhanded comments, vilification, and ingratitude. Priceless.

What a waste. Happy F-ing Mother's Day.

196 days.

The Perpetual "Off Day"

When I was first learning how to drive, my legs and arms would be sore after just a few minutes of driving. I realized that I had been so nervous, all my leg and arm muscles were clenched the entire time. A very physical indicator of my emotional state.

Lately, I guess I just haven't been feeling like myself. I notice I feel like this the most at work and in social situations. When I'm alone or with the boy, I feel a little more relaxed, but should I run into a coworker or acquaintance, small talk is such a chore and I can't muster up the energy to com up with the typical response I would give. I can't make a joke. I can't think of a follow-up question. I feel like it takes years to finally answer them. What should I say?

Nothing. I having nothing I want to say. A friend says that it's because I'm overstimulated, overwhelmed. I'm not free. Maybe that's true. The feeling reminds me of that time in my life where I was learning to drive. I may not have been driving erratically, no accidents occurred, I never hit anything, and no one ever hit me. But sheer nervousness, a complete inability to relax, meant that my body was in a constant state of tenseness.

I keep thinking, I'll be better tomorrow. I'm having an off day. But everyday, I sit here wondering why I feel so "off" or "out of it." Whether it's from holding on so tightly to my sanity that I've exhausted myself, or from holding my breath until the wedding that I'm suffering from oxygen deprivation, I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm tired of being tired.