When I started my newest round of therapy, it was with the intention of eventually separating myself from the anxiety that is my daily companion. Yeah. I’m ambitious as fuck. I’ve been feeling down and anxious and exhausted and fatigued for far, far too long, and I’d had enough and after six months of saying telling myself and others that I should probably see a new therapist, I finally did it. Already I have some tools for changing how I go about living with my anxiety, and I’m feeling better in that sense. But then I had a round of doctor appointments (only one of which was married to the other), was told that I need a root canal (YES, I’ve always wanted one of those!), and was referred to my ob-gyn.
She’s a genuinely lovely woman, up front about women’s health issues and what I need to be aware of in this increasingly scary-as-hell world. I had the dreaded pap smear, and they’re doing some other tests of samples they collected, and it’s been a week and I still haven’t heard. Well, tomorrow will be exactly one week since the appointment, but today is day seven, so I guess it’s been a week…?
In short, this week has been a huge step back, because all day, every day I am anxious about what I am going to be told, and is it serious? Do I just need a good, old-fashioned round of antibiotics? Or will I need another ultrasound to see if I’ve developed cysts on my ovaries or uterus? Is it cancer? Will they try to send me to the local hospital that I don’t trust, or will they go ahead an refer me to the James Cancer Center? My chest has been heavy for a week with a blanket of anxiety that never really leaves. I’m exhausted by the time evening comes around. I twinge and ache in places that I don’t want to be aching in.
I mentioned to Therapist that I used to write in a writing group. That I’d been doing it for years, over a decade, and I loved it, and I loved getting in to the heads of my favorite literary and on-screen characters, figuring out what makes them tick and discovering that I can’t write an honest-to-God villain to save my life. I didn’t tell her all of that, but I did tell her about the writing, and how much I miss it. Together, we decided that to help with easing out of my anxiety, I needed to write. I have words inside, possibly some books or short stories, essays, rants, and tales to tell that I am too afraid to let loose on the world. I’m afraid that the words won’t be the right ones, or that strung together, they’ll be too simplistic and unfit for public consumption.
I’ll sit with words begging to be let out into the world, holding them in until they explode into a series of tweets. Six or seven related mini-blogs, 980 characters that have forced me to not speak all that is within me. Sure, I’ve learned brevity, but at what cost? So here I am, new blog in tow, with the idea to speak my mind fully, to tell my stories and share myself with the world. Be warned: kindness lives here. Racism, hatred, sexism, and misogyny do not.