Tag: Anxiety

Peanut Butter Withdrawal

To say I like peanut butter is an understatement. I LOVE peanut butter. For the last several months I have been pretty much living on the spread. I buy it at Costco in the double 40 oz jars and can lick the plastic clean in two weeks. I don’t think it’s just the peanut butter, but the honey I squeeze into it and mix in before hand. Yum!

I had deluded myself into thinking peanut butter is a healthy food. It’s high in protein and that is my only requirement for my diet right now. It’s easy. I just have to take the lid off and grab a spoon, no cooking, no prep, just eat. And, if a little is good for you, a lot has to be sooooo much better, right? Hence the killing of 40oz jars in record time.

There are some health benefits to eating peanut butter, including reducing heart disease, weight loss and satiation. And believe me, you are satiated when you eat four or five recommended serving sizes. With honey.

Peanut butter has been a staple in my life since I was in grade school. We rarely had jelly, jam or apple butter but we did have a dense wheat bread and peanut butter for lunches. I would put it on so thick it would get stuck in my throat and I’d have to run to the water fountain to push it all the way down my throat. We never had the money to buy milk at school, and knowing this I’d still slather the bread with an unhealthy serving.

I don’t know if it’s the taste, the texture, the childhood connection or just that it’s fast and easy but I do love me some peanut butter. Until I realized I was going through 40 oz of it in 7-10 days….not to mention a hive full of honey as well. Even when I was doing it I knew it was a reaction to the stress of the holidays, unemployment, no money, terror of the political climate being unemployed, coupled with depression and anxiety and, well, life. But I knew it had to go.

I went cold turkey on the peanut butter. I still smell it and it sets my mind wandering the empty shelves looking for it, but I refuse to be addicted to it. I have tendencies towards binge eating, which is what I was doing with my delulu attachment to the peanut butter. My compromise for binging currently is I can have anything I want out of the house, I just can’t bring it home because I eat it…..ALL OF IT….in one sitting. So if I want ice cream I go out and get it but not have a stock pile of Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer. However, it’s hard to go out and have a small jar of peanut butter, so it’ll be gone from my life until a time when I can be reasonable about my portions and contain my emotional need between two pieces of bread.

What do you use to satiate your emotional hunger?

Update

I found out peanut butter is good for depression.  Junk food science?  Maybe.  I’ve switched from regular Skippy to Natural Skippy and I don’t buy it from Costco, so I don’t have as much on hand but it is nice to have it back. 

Starting Over…..Again

Although no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start now and make a brand new ending.

Carl Bard

I used this quote in my Birthday Blues Early post what feels like 100 years ago. It is more relevant now than it was then because it feels like I’m starting from zero in my public life. I’m trying to step in time with the spring renewal and make a new start with what seems to be a world against me. As an unemployed woman who is actively battling high functioning depression with a heaping side of anxiety I feel most days aren’t worth getting out of bed for. I toy with the idea of going on disability but I know it won’t get me to my goals…..and my goals are everything. But I am getting out of bed, and I am fighting the good fight most days.

The absence…

My absence from the blog wasn’t planned. I thought about it often but my job had become too much for me to do anything else other than work, eat and sleep. I stopped going to church, I stopped writing in my journal, I stopped writing period and I stopped sharing my struggle (which had almost become a pleasant journey instead of the arduous saga of anger and sadness it started as).

I’ve been able to track this physical change back to January 2024 when I got COVID-19 for the first time. My symptoms started a week before the traditional COVID symptoms started. I got the gastro-intestinal start, and with IBS it’s hard to tell the difference. I used all my sick days (5 work days) and went back to work feeling not totally well but I persevered and I slowly eased back into the workload.

then, people quit, people were fired, people changed positions and I ended up working alone which caused the lingering COVID to encourage my IBS into overload……or over un-load, if you will. I was taking an antidiarrheal every third day and being completely exhausted when I got home to the point I had to sit in my car for 15-20 minutes after the drive to just rest.

My symptoms progressed to sever bouts of nausea, light headedness and my eyes pinning down to a single point of light if I stood to long……Essentially I couldn’t work. I took a month off to find out what was going on. When I went back I was okay according to the tests and paperwork but I wasn’t. The company and I found it mutually beneficial if we parted ways and I’ve been unemployed since.

Now…

Being unemployed is both a boon and a bane. My hope is these intervening months of rest have strengthened me physically and mentally. I will say, the holidays were hard and dark and somewhat dicey for my mental health. I continued to employ the tools I have learned in therapy like breathing and CBT, I took my medication religiously, and I crocheted a lot and listened to a multitude of books.

Additionally, I’ve prepared the first book in my trilogy for publication, completely wrote the second book and I am outlining the third book….when I’m not telling myself I’d be better off dead. Suicide does not align with my goals for life or the afterlife so I know not to take it seriously but it upsets me when my brain falls back to the old coping mechanisms. It does remind me how much I need to be ever mindful of my recovery. I don’t like feeling ‘the void’ in the background but I am very proud of myself that I am aware of it and I am fighting the good fight to get away from it.

Preverication

a false or deliberate misstatement; lie:

Dictionary.com

Last Saturday I volunteered to close at the site we staff 365 days a year. I came in at open so it would be a nine hour day…ten if you count the hour I get for lunch…away from home and out of bed. I was trying to be helpful to my team and my bank balance. Mostly my bank balance. I made the decision before I left home actually, so when the offer came I didn’t ask the necessary question…Who am I working with?

I was working with a person who’s opinion of herself in regards to the rest of the team is of a queen bee over her drones. When I worked with her a few weeks ago, she said I “You are so slow. I’m fast.” When I scowled at her she quickly clarified “Because I just ate sugar.” Yes, I hadn’t gotten much processed for the first pack (40 something), but I got something done and it was correct. I tried processing the first pack early on in my tenure with the company which ended with me in tears and my manager and I agreeing I shouldn’t do the first pack until I felt I was ready. I did it that Saturday because I wanted to see if I was ready. Her jab, though self-aggrandizing, placed a spotlight on my self doubt and discomfort at the job I had done. I decided I shouldn’t do it again for another several months.

Saturday she came out and told me she talked to our manager and our manager said “She wants you to do the first pack,” I objected and said I was more comfortable doing the evening pack, she cut me off before I could finish with “No, our manager said I should do the closing pack so it’s done right.”

Saturday was our managers first day of vacation and gave instructions to contact someone else. If she actually did talk to our manager, our manager wouldn’t have green-lighted me working the first pack because of our past discussion. I could have called her on it, but I didn’t. I was angry and instead of confronting her about it I allowed the fury to transform into a soul darkening I’ll-show-you mantra knowing if I failed she’d have to clean up the mess ‘so it’s done right’. I processed and packed over 80.

I’m very pleased I did so well. People do more during the first pack but people do less too. I don’t need to be the best; the middle of herd of phlebotomists is just fine with me. What I am upset about is how I handled it. Though I’m not caught up in the anger of being so blatantly lied to, I am upset I didn’t stand up for myself. I am upset I didn’t protect me from what my psyche sees as a bully, a manipulator. I hate I still fall prey to those people. My protection for now is to not work with her again. Meaning, not working the closing shift which she normally covers and if that leaves my team in a bind then it leaves my team in a bind. I don’t like being around abrasive and abusive personalities, and if I can avoid it I will.

My other need to do is to talk to my manager. On the off chance she actually *did* talk to her on Saturday I need to clarify with her we hadn’t decided I was ready to do the first pack and to tell her I can do the first pack if called upon to do so. The discovery I am just as good and bad as anyone else in the group is the one positive thing from this negative episode at work.

Why am I so focused on this? That is the question. I’m still not back to writing other than here and my journal. I haven’t really discussed this in my journal, but I will. I think I’m taking this person’s behavior as a personal attack on me when I know she does this to EVERYBODY. What I’m realizing as I write this, which is why I love writing here, is if I were back doing what I’m supposed to be doing with my life-Writing-things like this roll off my back because I gain strength in and for myself when I write. Starting this weekend I’m going to force myself, in a nice way, to sit at my computer and try to push past the last of the debris of my fall and start taking those small steps I talked about. I need to stop self-prevaricating that I can’t so I shouldn’t try, for there is strength and honor in the trying.

Slow Small Steps

That’s what I’m doing, slow small steps out of the madness I pushed myself into. I’ve been writing, but just in my journal. I can say anything I want in my journal; no one is listening. It’s the only true place where I can open a vein and allow the words to flow out with the pain. The writing there is a pressure bandage on the gushing self-inflicted wounds I’ve made. Yet to truly stem the flow I need to make plans. Real plans. I’ve found opening my heart here helps me form the lumps of ideas into a solid sculpture; something I can work with and towards.

My last blog “Humpty Dumpty was Pushed!” I talked about needing to go back to basics. Journaling. {check}. Chilling {check}. Blogging { }. That’s where I am today. Where chilling has been mostly watching TV/Movies and Miss Fisher (I don’t know why but the show is the best at relieving me of my need for reality for a short time). As things have quickly changed I’ve changed my to-do list as well….

Murphy’s Law popped up and ripped the rug out from underneath me with the news I had to close down my site and work at the other one in the same town. Not a horrific thing, I’m still employed and it’s only temporary, but it’s a new site, new people (not absolutely new, I’ve worked with the other two at different times). Today was the first day in the new work environment. It’s not horrible. I still get lost, it’s like four times larger than my site and there are two room dedicated to just employee space. Quite posh for a PSC. (Patient Service Center). I still turn into the wrong room for processing and I always go the wrong way to find the employee bathroom. But it is just the first day. Knowing this would be a challenge I spent the weekend trying to put my life (room) in order. I didn’t get it all the way there but enough so I can try and do a little bit every day to keep it neat and orderly. I don’t need orderly, per se, but it is nice to find what you’re looking for or having a nice clean space to write it when the urge hits. So, that’s the other small step out of madness: Making space for healing.

The writing…

The writing still scares me. I hate how pathetic that looks on the screen. Something I love, something I feel defines who I am and what I’m suppose to be doing with my life scares me. Even still, my brain is simmering the storyline in the back of my brain as a way to keep the aroma wafting in the air to call me back to the page with intriguing turns in the plot….but I just can’t do it. It’s too soon. I was hoping to do something this weekend, but instead I cleaned. I work next weekend and I’ve made plans with my niece for The Renaissance Faire for the 14th. Again, a way to chill and allow the pieces to come back together and solidify to bear the weight of my working again. So, in essence, I won’t be ready to present anything to anyone by the following weekend. And, as badly as I wanted it a few weeks ago, I think I’m okay with that. I’m not beating myself up about it, or berating myself…I’m just taking care of myself. Maybe the next time I push myself off the wall I will only crack, and the time after that I should have enough epoxy on my soul to bounce and laugh it off like a whole person.

Humpty Dumpty Was Pushed!

…and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men didn’t want to put Humpty back together again.

I’m not Ms. Dumpty, but I pushed myself over the edge…again. And now I’m AGAIN trying to put myself back together. I want to be put back together again because the heights I reached when I was whole was GLORIOUS. I’m sorry you we’re along for the ride, but as I explained in One Ball Juggler I can only really do one thing at a time without completely overwhelming myself. So, I’ve been working five to six days a week as a vampyre and spending my off days writing for five to seven hours at a stretch. The week I took off for my birthday in July I finished the first draft of my second-go-round of a book I’m breaking into three parts. I jumped straight into editing.

I hate editing. It’s a journey into everything that’s wrong with your writing, with you, and it screams why you shouldn’t be a writer. Amazingly it went smoothly and I was proud of the finished product. During this time I was aware I was feeling unnaturally drained, loss of appetite and wanting to crawl into bed long before the sun goes down. So I ignored it and pushed past it, like I used to do because this was more important. I would go to my room and sit at my desk, give myself an hour to do some more editing, and push beyond the hour and then try to turn off the chatter of the people in my head trying to explain to me how I can better present them on the page. (I know it sounds crazy to a non-writer but the fiction writers out there are just nodding their heads). The task was to just edit on my lunch hour but I kept pushing for more and more to get done.

I got time off work in October to attend a writing/media conference where I want to make some contacts (Maybe meet someone special: an agent!) so I’ve been trying to get the second pink edits done. This round is editing the edits and approving the edits before I actually make the edits in the computer. The goal was to have the lavender edits done before the end of October. (Pink and Lavender are just the color of paper I print on to keep track of where I am in the process) Every night I would go to sleep reminding myself that I only had X amount of weeks to have this done then calm myself with sweet words of “It’s plenty of time. You can do it.”. I was excited by the challenge and so proud of myself for getting so much done so quickly.

Then life happened.

Before I could manage the stimulus I tripped over old habits and I was crying in fear and rage and I think disappointment in myself. Physical manifestations of anxiety began to run roughshod over my emotional state; palpitations, shortness of breath, sleeplessness. Walking from the bathroom to my bed (maybe 10 steps total) felt like I did in PE class when I had to run the mile for the first time. I was overcome with the fear I was dying but I was too afraid to do anything about it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to alert anyone in the family of what was going on. I went to work because I thought if I ignored it it would go away and it did when we were busy, but it always came back. I asked to leave early and I talked to a doctor in my car, he agreed it was probably anxiety but suggested to keep a low threshold and go into urgent care if it doesn’t subside in a reasonable amount of time with a reasonable amount of medication. I told my family I was sick, they assumed it was gastro-intestinal which wasn’t far off because anxiety viciously works both ends in my life.

Luckily, I had therapy scheduled for that evening. We worked through the anger I was feeling, the fulcrum which catapulted me off the wall. I felt better emotionally and not horrible about my choices to protect myself. I felt safe again. Physically I was still dealing with the palpitations, shallow breathing and a rapid heart rate. I did more deep breathing before I went to sleep and slept fairly well thanks to the wonders of pharmacology. In the morning my Oura Ring told me my resting heart rate was 123 which wasn’t good. (It’s back down to it’s normal mid-50’s)

Deep breathing has healed a lot and has allowed me to rebuild my center. Pulling back on my mad-dash to get my book done before the end of October has been painful yet when I sit to work on it I feel like I’m trying to stuff myself into a box where I can’t breathe. What editing I have done has been, dare I say, revolutionary and changing some of the tone of the story. I respect the voices that are showing up on paper.

In the clear light of rationality I realize I broke on some of the old mended cracks, pieces that might not have had enough E6000 to weld them together, so I am going slowly and not pushing myself. I need to get back to the other things in life which were left behind in my pursuit of publication; journaling, blogging and just chilling. I’ve not picked up my journal since my birthday. Journaling and blogging has often been the alert bell when the cogs and wheels of my inner-workings are in need of a little oil or TLC. I’m back scheduling journaling, blogging and looking forward to Sunday drives and playing with my parrot. Writing to publication is my raison d’être it can’t be all there is to my life.

Another Spare

My mother used to joke when people asked how many daughters she had and she would laughingly reply “A pair and a spare,”.  I didn’t realize how she really saw us until later on in life when the spare had to take care of her.  She  wanted, and invested in, the pair with full rights to demand care when she could no longer care for herself, or when she was just tired of taking care of herself (We’ll never know which).  Both my sisters, twins, knew how to cook, knew how to clean, had practice with their own children on how to change diapers and how to take care of another human being.  I can barely take care of myself even now and I’ve been practicing.  I prefered to write or craft rather than clean house, sue me.

I just finish listening to Spare by Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex.  I appreciated his experiences with depression and anxiety and felt a kinship with the rage that accompanied his depression which he called “the red mist”.  Though he was allowed to wallop his brother and friends to get it out of his system, a perk of not  having any proper parental supervision and being a boy, he described the pain of it very succinctly.  Though each journey through depression is unique to each individual it’s nice to know you aren’t alone in the void.

We are reading/listening to the book for the Aunt/Niece book club.  The chapters read like blog posts, chronologically from the death of his remarkable mother to the present.  I know the book was about his coming to terms with the unnecessary and tragic death of his mother, the lethal abuse of the tabloid press, the absolute narcisism of his father, his service, his stumbles in the public eye, the rank racism towards his wife and children and ending with his separation from the institutionalized dysfunction of his family.  That was the point of the autobiography; to take control of his own narrative and his own life. I guess, on a microscopic scale that’s what I’m doing here as well.

I pulled a different meaning from the whole of the book.  I saw it as his fight and flight from the void, almost completely on his own.  But more important, discovering the happiness to be had in the light.   He reached a point in his recovery when he realized  he had progressed beyond the constraints of the little bubble universe the family and the tabloids created for him.  I’m still occadionally bumping my head on the constraints my up-bringing (such as it was) put on me.  Writing here has helped me push my mental and emotional boundaries to realize I am the master of my own mind/life/soul.  Like Harry, I understand the need to move far away from the funk in the my dysfunctional family because I’m afraid I will go back to where I was.   That is not a crack at my family in any way. We are all on different paths now, nolonger slaved to the one our mother picked. I like the path I’m on but it’s new and it’s scary and it would be so easy to go backwards and be, instead of moving on my chosen path to becoming.

The book as a whole is an interesting, albeit asingle hyperfocused view of the monarchy. He is very respectful to the Queen yet didn’t exclude her from the spotlight of dysfunction either. He owned up to the things he had done wrong, the few things the news outlets got right and how he is working to move forward in his life. I appreciated his honesty. If you are an anglophile you should enjoy it.

Merry Christmas!

May all the good tidings of the season be yours, and please dear God, bring on the new year!

Now & Zen

I’ve been working on reducing my need for Ashwagandha, not remove it, but to lighten my dose a little to see what happens and what other supplements I can use in concert with my Ashwa habit.  I’ve done some research and I settled on L-Theanin.  It’s found in green tea, but it isn’t green tea…no caffeine, no tannin no thermos full of machta to get my RDA.  It’s suppose to sedate the mind without making you tired.  At the moment,I want to be sedated.

Perhaps starting this new regime while still trying to acclimate to my new job might not have been the best decision.  I added it to my morning meds on Monday and until Wednesday everything was peachy, nothing had really changed.  I even had the same trainer I mentioned in Training Is Fun-Da-Mental who seemed to want to kick my legs out from under me every chance she got.  (My paranoia has informed me she has reported every foible back to the boss lady.  It has been a struggle to keep my paranoia and anxiety from comparing notes.)  But I survived, that was my point.  I had therapy on Wednesday night and woke up tired on Thursday and struggled to do the morning draws and processing but I felt every prickly ounce of stress and salty drop of anxiety the whole day.  I came home, ate a bowl of cereal and went to bed.  Today was a re-run, just add diarrhea .  I did do better with getting through but the Zen-like calm I normally feel with the double-double dose of Ashwa was barely holding me up.  I hate feeling stupid, and constantly correcting myself when I call myself stupid, idiot, etc. 

I have noticed though when I am able to push through the initial onslaught of anxiety due to a new situation, or a change in process, correction and so on, I can quickly take stock and realize what it is I need to do to get it done, fix it, or who to ask to help.  I am asking for help.  I consider that a win and a move in the right direction.  I’ve been assured I am doing well, and my coworker has heard nothing but good things about me from the people who have trained me but when I have days like today and yesterday I wonder.  I soothe myself with the statement “lf if this job doesn’t work out I will just get another one”  I honestly don’t want another one, the benefits of this one is AWESOME. 

Tomorrow I work at a busy site that’s open 7/365 and I don’t think anyone in the group will assign me to work in the processing lab or checking people in so it should just be a busy day of sticking people with needles.  I am going to double my L-Theanine dose and see if I feel any calmer.  I can’t afford to lose my Zen.  I like my Zen.  I want to take it home, put it in a box and buy it squeaky toys.   Plan B of my Zen-Quest is to take the L-Theanine at night and the Ashwa in the morning.  Plan 3 is to just go back to the double-double dose  and keep and eye on my Thyroid. 

Wish me Zen.

UPdate

i was wrong. When I showed up on -time with my co-worker from my site I couldn’t find a lab coat in the room that was in my size. No lab coat, no sticking people with needles. I spent the first few hours on the front desk after everyone else on the team trickled in fifteen to thirty minutes later, giving the people in the waiting queue about and hour to contemplate how easier and convenient having your blood drawn on Saturday isn’t. The lead eventually found me a labcoat that would fit, almost, and I’m pretty sure by the wrinkles in the thing she pulled it out of the dirty dab coat bin. It didn’t smell and it didn’t have any unsightly or unexplainable stains on it so who am I to complain. It got me off the desk.

As for the re-mix of the morning supplements, the double L-Theanine did the trick. I still felt a little harried, especially when the lead would go through her personal exercises of correcting everyone, not just me. I guess that was something, I’m not the only one she feels is totally inept and needs “training”.

I was exhausted though. My mind work up at the normal time, 4:30am, and wanted me to get up and work in my journal, write, or do something productive. My body refused to obey. It’s been a nice quiet restful day. I did get the nibs and converters in my fountain pens cleaned and ready for the new ink I just bought….One is called writers blood. If I like the way it flows I might buy a big bottle and make it my signature color. I don’t feel the heart of darkness black ink I used to use doesn’t represent me any more. We shall see.

Doing the Needful

Boxes have been dancing around my head like cubed sugar plum fairies. In my first attempt at therapy with a Jungian therapist she diagnosed me with past sexual trauma based on an image in a dream she made me draw out (it was a doozy of a dream). I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO MEMORY OF THAT KIND OF TRAUMA. She told me it didn’t matter if I remember it or not, the dream image was proof. So I’ve been carrying around this idea in my head and dreading the day I would have to unbox it and deal with something I couldn’t remember. Ellen and I talked about this. No memory means no memory. The dream image is just a dream. There are survivor behaviors I exhibit (behaviors defined by talk-shows and internet articles), but it’s still not proof of abuse. We discussed my childhood and some of the frugal techniques my parents employed could explain a lot of those issues. Something which needs reframing further down the road.

Ellen pointed out the issues are in boxes and neatly put away. They are safe and secure and they don’t need to be dealt with right now, if ever. Not avoiding. Not ignoring. JUST NOT NOW. I can adjust their position on the shelves, but I don’t have to do anything right now. Right now is just too busy to be opening a possible cobra-in-the-box to scare me back into the void. I don’t need that right now. Relief doesn’t even describe what I felt at this realization.

Then why have the dream? Why would my subconscious bring this to my attention? One of the ideas which came to mind is I am starting to reduce my dependance on Ellen. It’s nice to have someone help you sort out the threats from the paranoia, if you will and it’s easier to have her on my calendar then to deal with things as they happen. I am doing okay on my own but I’m always afraid I’m going to mess up. When I start spinning on that fear I eventually stop myself and correct it with: “So what? You mess up. It’s not the end of the world.” Considering how many time I’ve found myself at the equivalent of square one due to mis-calculations and didn’t die or get arrested proves messing up isn’t the horror my brain has always made it out to be. Though the tool doesn’t present itself at the start of the spin, it does work once I get my hands on it. As long as I don’t stop trying I will succeed. As long as I get up every time I fall, I will cross the finish line. Right now, doing the needful is enough.

Dream a Little Dream

I have always had vivid dreams. I think of it as the wellspring of my creativity and imagination. You know, if you dream it you can do it. Unfortunately flying is still only capable in a plane, but I love flying in my dreams. It means you’re happy. I haven’t flown in months. What I don’t normally have are nightmares. Dreams where you are so relieved when you wake up and realize it isn’t true, when you have to repeatedly assure yourself ‘the monsters aren’t real’. I realize now that writing in my journal on Saturday defining my current mental state and having a frustrating conversation about my mother and brother with my sister the night before might have been enough to crack open the door of darkness.

The Dream

I was with my mother again and she was ordering me around like a five year old. I felt compelled to move around boxes, like wood shipping cartons, in a storeroom to “straighten things up”. The containers were too heavy, too over my head and the utter helplessness made me feel too weak to tell the monster of my dream “No, I don’t want to”. I was plotting to let one of the oversized vessel fall carelessly on my forearm and I could vividly envision the ulna and radius shattering about one third of the way up my right arm; essentially hurting myself to escape the situation I was in. I was successful at talking myself out of it because there was the an urgency of having to have to move in a set amount of time oppressing the whole psychodrama. I felt as trapped as I was when she was alive. Back at the time I didn’t realize I was feeling trapped because I committed to taking care of her, I just felt tired and drained. Not knowing I was trapped it never occured to me to gnaw off my leg to get away because it would be better than to be dead. I was trapped again, I was terrified and I couldn’t find a way out. Then I woke up.

My Interpretation

  • The boxes: Boxes that are out of the way, tucked high on shelves in a dark warehouse-y environment I see as the major issues I still need to address in therapy. They were on huge gorilla racks and I needed an industrial step-ladder on wheels to reach them. The shelves below were empty. There was trash on the top shelves around the boxes I was able to remove but trying to get my arms around these sharp edged monstrosities was not really an option. I’m not sure I was able to even shift them on the shelf much less navigate them to break just my arm, I did try. Luckily unsuccessfully.
  • The Warehouse: This is rather obvious, but the portion of my subconscious where I store all the things I don’t/can’t deal with right now.
  • The Shelves: The lower shelves were empty. To me, that is a confirmation of the work I have completed. I have done a lot of work. However, I have done the stuff that was in reach, the more recent trauma/drama of the last, I dunno, fifteen years or so. Having made the room, maybe that means I can move the bigger boxes down to the lower shelves and spread out the items in the box one by one. This would negate the need to accidentally lose control of the box and break something in an act of defiance and avoidance.
  • The Trash Around the Boxes: I’m not completely unaware of the storage facility in my subconscious. I know there are big things in there that need to be addressed. Since the lower shelves are clean I keep making a superficial attempt at moving the boxes around to make it look like I am working on it. Its like I can’t open those boxes until everything in my life is perfect. I need to stop studying the trees with a magnifying-glass and take in the scope of the forest ahead of me. I have tools, whether they are strong enough to fell trees we will see.
  • Mom: Other than being the general dragon in my dreams, trapping me and stripping me of all power, I don’t think she has any more weight in my dream than that. I believe your subconscious pulls the best characters in your mind to put on the scariest, freakiest and most unsettling drama it can to both scare you away from what it’s protecting and yet to encourage you slay the dragon.

what’s Next

I don’t know if it needs to be said, but I need to slay the dragon, (overcome my fear), bring the boxes down to a safe and comfortable working height (figure out and deconstruct the hidden trauma) and then store it in the light and close down the hidden place where only trauma dares to tread (bravely confront the past injuries, resolve the confusion, and end the subconscious suffering to move forward).