And, one day, I lose it at work

I'm having a moment.

I told my boss, Stacey, that I would e-mail her, but I'm a lot more candid in my blog. I think some part of me feels like I can just unload everything here, since I'm not really writing to anyone in particular.

You know, I was really touched when my GP told me that I hid my anxiety really well. I mean, my own doctor didn't know what was going on with me, even though I hinted with all my might that something was terribly wrong. But here come the stressors -- work and life and even driving my car -- and I'm just biting my lip and holding it in. So, today, when a coworker brings up a problem with a legal, I bite my lip hard enough to make it bleed. And then I cry, but I try not to let her see that.

Look, I used to view things around the office as a challenge. I was here to impress, and I never accepted second best. I read the legals and wrote events and stuff like there was no tomorrow. When I made a mistake, I took it to heart. I learned SQL so I wouldn't have to rely on the tech guys to do my legwork. And I think, with probably an exception or two, that people noticed. I was proud of myself, maybe too proud of my abilities -- when they failed me, I beat myself up more than anyone else.

When the anxiety really started to set in, it was scary. It's scary and it's downright disabling. I can't explain it, because it sounds so lame. I mean, I don't even go to yoga anymore because the thought of it turns my stomach. I have to prepare myself mentally to drive to work. I don't go grocery shopping. I don't clean the house. I don't go out with my friends. I work late to avoid driving home. (Incidentally, a coworker asked me why I started working so late all of a sudden, and I don't think he bought my lame excuse.) The whole GAD/SAD/PD thing seemed very small and very foreign until recently. Now, it seems all-consuming. The violent thoughts -- they're horrible -- and nobody knows about them but my psychiatrist and Paul. They push in at the most random times and move other things (like editing) into a tiny, dusty corner.

I feel like I'm on the edge of a precipice. Slowly, it's become clear that I'm going to fall no matter what I try to do. And the scariest thing is that I don't know where the bottom is, or how bad it's going to be, or how it's going to affect me. I don't know anything other than pushing myself 110 percent -- that's how I've lived my whole life. And now, when I push and push and push, I feel the rocks sliding under my feet, and it's everything just to hold on a little bit longer until I calm down and get over it.

Of course, this leads to a whole other set of emotions that I'm not used to expressing. I feel foolish for letting this get the better of me. I feel ashamed that I'm acting self-absorbed when that isn't my intention. I feel angry that I'm repressing so much, but scared to let any of it out.

I don't want things to change around the office. I mean, somewhere in the back of my skull, I think that Stacey and Eric know something's wrong with me and that I'm trying very hard to get it fixed before it gets worse. I think they're patient with me coming into work late because I'm willing to stay late. (I don't think they have any idea that I come in late because I have to psych myself up about getting ready for work and driving into the office.) I don't want them to change my responsibilities or lessen them, because I feel like I'm giving as much as I can, and that's what they pay me to do.

I would like to say that as long as Stacey and Eric understand what's going on, I don't care what anyone else thinks. But if I said that, I'd be lying. I care very much what they think. I mean, especially now that I don't really leave my house much, they are about as close to "real social interaction" as I get. I also want them to know when I lose it (i.e. when I am sniffling because Sandy criticizes me about a single legal out of the 40+ I read each day), it's not because of them. It's because I'm trying very hard to maintain a facade of total-okayness (yes, I made that word up), and I feel like they're chipping away at it. Also, I'm quite aware of the things they say about others behind their backs, because I've heard it. It's not always bad or salacious, but it's talk. And that's the kind of talk I'd rather hear to my face.

So, I've written a whole lot, but what have I really said? Who knows. I'm tired of hiding this, because it's no more a "private disease" than any physical ailment. I'm ready for the ordeal to be over. I'm ready to move on with my life. And does that mean that I can't accept criticism for what it's worth? Well, no. But I'm having trouble focusing on the positives when I feel like the negatives are taking over everything.

I think the worst part is that my GP reminded me that there's no magic pill that fixes everything. I knew that was true, but hearing him say it really burst my bubble. It's like it's finally occurring to me that these three mental conditions are here for the long haul, so I might as well settle in and pour them a cup of coffee.

Now, against my better judgment, I'm going to paste this in an e-mail and send it to Stacey. I'm not going to reread it, and I'm not going to edit it. I'm going to let her see it for what it's worth -- raw and hurting badly just like the rest of me. And then I'm going to paste the smile on, read this stack of legals, and maybe make a pot of tea. I'm going to put off driving home, wait on a call from the psychotherapist I'm trying to see, then finally collapse into a video game with Paul. And maybe then, when eight or ten of my friends help me fight bad guys, I can start to forget about the reality of days like today.

Fighting off the crazies,
K