It's a journey, not a destination. It's a journey and there will be ups and downs.
Of course, when I'm in the ups, it seems obvious. Like, d'oh.
But when I'm down, I'm like, 'journey, what journey? I don't want to feel like this, make me better now'.
And maybe I shouldn't feel like this. I mean, for sooo long I've been telling myself, 'it will pass, it will pass, it's just a down, it will pass'.
But when it never passes, or when it passes for a few days only, and when I can't link it to an event in my life, then I think medicine should help.
The problem with the downs is, I still haven't quite figured out what to do with them. I mean, how to react.
Anxiety has been gripping me for the last month or so.
The problem is it's gripped me right after about a week after I started the olanzapine. And that week has been fantastic, and calm, and I was home and happy and it made perfect sense to take things slow and rest and take time to get better.
And when the anxiety started, it was like a crash. Suddenly I didn't know what I needed anymore, and I was home and I felt alone and dissociated from the world, and felt this pressure, this need to DO SOMETHING, and everything fell apart.
I've realized that this need to do is actually a response to anxiety and not so much a pressure from my childhood. I feel anxious and I WANT to be better, and so the logical thing is to do something to feel better - but when nothing really helps this pressure actually makes it worse.
I know by now that this anxiety is some kind of improper response to the environment. Like some limbic reaction, a response so ingrained in my brain it starts up even in moments that shouldn't trigger it.
But knowing doesn't stop it. Maybe it stops it from getting worse. But it's like a pain in a broken leg. You know it's broken, but you can't stop the hurt just by acknowledging it.
It's also very difficult to define it. I was at the psychiatrist two weeks ago, and I was already anxious, but I couldn't really tell her how I felt. It takes a few weeks, it seems, for me to understand what's going on inside of me.
And I'm now understanding its physical effect. I can feel my throat constricting and my limbs turn to lead. Every physical movement that's more than a walk becomes an effort - running, stretching, climbing the stairs.
Which is why I think I need to move more, not while I'm anxious but when I'm ok, or at least not made from lead. So my body will be exercised and bearing the anxiety should be easier. I think.
Of course, when I'm in the ups, it seems obvious. Like, d'oh.
But when I'm down, I'm like, 'journey, what journey? I don't want to feel like this, make me better now'.
And maybe I shouldn't feel like this. I mean, for sooo long I've been telling myself, 'it will pass, it will pass, it's just a down, it will pass'.
But when it never passes, or when it passes for a few days only, and when I can't link it to an event in my life, then I think medicine should help.
The problem with the downs is, I still haven't quite figured out what to do with them. I mean, how to react.
Anxiety has been gripping me for the last month or so.
The problem is it's gripped me right after about a week after I started the olanzapine. And that week has been fantastic, and calm, and I was home and happy and it made perfect sense to take things slow and rest and take time to get better.
And when the anxiety started, it was like a crash. Suddenly I didn't know what I needed anymore, and I was home and I felt alone and dissociated from the world, and felt this pressure, this need to DO SOMETHING, and everything fell apart.
I've realized that this need to do is actually a response to anxiety and not so much a pressure from my childhood. I feel anxious and I WANT to be better, and so the logical thing is to do something to feel better - but when nothing really helps this pressure actually makes it worse.
I know by now that this anxiety is some kind of improper response to the environment. Like some limbic reaction, a response so ingrained in my brain it starts up even in moments that shouldn't trigger it.
But knowing doesn't stop it. Maybe it stops it from getting worse. But it's like a pain in a broken leg. You know it's broken, but you can't stop the hurt just by acknowledging it.
It's also very difficult to define it. I was at the psychiatrist two weeks ago, and I was already anxious, but I couldn't really tell her how I felt. It takes a few weeks, it seems, for me to understand what's going on inside of me.
And I'm now understanding its physical effect. I can feel my throat constricting and my limbs turn to lead. Every physical movement that's more than a walk becomes an effort - running, stretching, climbing the stairs.
Which is why I think I need to move more, not while I'm anxious but when I'm ok, or at least not made from lead. So my body will be exercised and bearing the anxiety should be easier. I think.
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