A Rough Christmas

I remember when I loved Christmas. There are pictures of me as a kid standing next to a pile of presents as tall as me. The cookies, the lights, the music…I loved it all.

And then I started to have panic attacks, and the holidays meant something completely different to me.

Stress.

Not that there aren’t aspects of Christmas that I don’t still love. I just have a harder time enjoying it all.

This Christmas started out pretty well. I took a Clonezapam before Lee drove us to Houston, and seeing family was fun.

But what I was truly looking forward to was a night with my husband. Alone. No dogs, just us. And a roaring fireplace that we could sleep next to.

My mom graciously came to Austin to stay with our dogs while we went to stay in Houston and offered her place to stay for the night.

It was cold and rainy when we started off for Mom’s place, and I was a bit weary, but I was looking forward to the crackling of the fire.

Then I forgot which gate to enter my mom’s apartment complex. We parked in what I thought was Mom’s parking space, walked three flights of stairs, and found that we were at the wrong building.

We drove around a little while and finally called Mom to ask for directions. By this time it was not only cold and rainy, but foggy as well. Yet I still held on to the image in my head of relaxing with Lee to get me through.

We made it to her apartment and then it hit us. We don’t have a key. We forgot to get the house key.

And then I lost it. I was cold, tired, and I needed peace and quiet.

Trying to get a hotel room on Christmas Eve night? Impossible.

We ended up back at Lee’s parents’ home. They were kind enough to let us sleep on our air mattress in the kitchen, but it was hard for me to sleep.

It’s hard enough for me to sleep with just Lee and the dogs in the room, but seven other people in the house besides us?

Luckily I was exhausted from the panic, but the downward spiral kept going…even through today.

Today we are home. Today I should be happy and relaxed. Today I’m on edge. And depressed.

I tried retail therapy, but couldn’t find anything I liked. I even dyed some fiber, but that didn’t cheer me up, either.

I’m grateful that I have an appointment with my psychiatrist in a few days. It may be time to take a look at my meds.

Or maybe the ghost of Christmas will stop haunting me by then.

Nighttime Is Not the Right Time

I hate the night.

I guess I shouldn’t say “hate.” Hate is a very strong word. But I definitely don’t like nighttime. My vision is impaired. Bugs come crawling out of their daytime hidey holes. And for me, it’s too quiet.

That gives my mind plenty of room to play. And by play, I mean play clips of songs in my head over and over. This happens during the day, but I don’t mind it as much because I can focus on other things. For some reason, darkness removes all concentration I have and leaves my mind vulnerable.

Right now, my mind is playing back every song I’ve heard or thought of today. “Wake Up, Little Susie,” the theme to “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine,” “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” (Burl Ives and Michael Buble versions), “Silver Bells,” and “White Christmas.” I’m sure there are others in the mix, but these are the most prominent.

When I am preoccupied with a cacophony of songs that I can’t get rid of, I can’t sleep. I think the Trazodone, which is supposed to help OCD and sleeplessness, is not working anymore. It didn’t take long, and I’m thinking that it is because I have so many medications in my body already that my tolerance level is too high for Trazodone to work anymore.

But that doesn’t mean my days are miserable. I went and had my car tuned up and didn’t have a panic attack while I waited. And I finished Lee’s Jayne Hat, complete with pom pom. I had never made a pom pom before. It was fun.

But now it’s night. It’s silent outside, but an eclectic concert inside my head.

Finishing What I Started

I did it!

Today is the last day of National Blog Posting Month, and I successfully published a blog post every day. Thirty posts. I can’t believe it.

There were days when I didn’t want to post. There were days when I posted only a few lines. But I’m happy with my effort, because I finished something.

You see, I have a bad case of “startitis.” I start a project, am enamored for a while, but then am distracted by the sparkly and decide to start something else. I probably have about 20 knitting projects sitting unfinished.

So the fact that I finished NaBloPoMo and didn’t skip a day means a lot to me.

I think I’ll give myself a pat on the back. And those who write, in any form, I admire you. Thanks for inspiring me!