The Stalking Tiger, such a pretty, seductive, sneaky girl when she’s trying to convince you that her presence is really not a big deal.
I thought I had my eye on her well enough. I thought she was being soothed and kept in her cage.
It turns out her cage wasn’t locked securely. The door has been open and I didn’t even realize it.
It’s a dance we do. It’s a dance I’ve done my entire life. I’m used to hearing the purr grumbling in the throat of The Tiger. Even with treatment, I don’t know if I can say that I’d know what I’d do if I didn’t have the breath of the tiger behind me. When she’s laying at my feet or at the foot of my bed, I can fool myself into thinking that it’s manageable. I can fool myself into thinking that she’s not stalking me, but protecting me, and that she’s keeping her distance.
But I keep feeling her bump into me, and now her teeth have scraped my calves. She’s drawn blood, and there’s simply no denying that. The rivulets of anxiety drip upward and sideways, making their path to my brain. Odd… odd how I’m associating anxiety with blood. Or maybe not so odd considering the state of the world right now, and the current headlines over the past month. Maybe it’s not so odd with the anniversaries and end of the year anxieties in work and the usual holiday worries.
I’ve noticed the depression getting increasingly worse over the last couple of weeks, as the symptoms I feel become too much to ignore. I’ve been forcing myself to take some stock in my language, my outlook, and how I’m feeling in general. I’ve been feeling as if I’m floating and watching myself act and react, or not act and react enough.
I’ve been feeling as if I’m separated from the Me part of me. It’s somewhat surreal. It’s almost as if I’m a different me taking care of Me, but I’m not doing a really good job. It’s likely been affecting me and my performance in, well, life for longer than the past month and it’s only just now caught me bleeding.
I’m having trouble concentrating in conversations.
I’m having trouble socializing.
I’m dreading most events.
I cry at the news. I cry at blogs. I cry at happy stuff.
When I should cry, I can’t even shed a single tear.
Laughing feels forced.
I dread leaving the house every day. Of course this hampers errands and shopping for groceries.
I’m having trouble remembering details, even when I write them down.
I’m losing focus.
It’s harder for me to care about getting ready for work. I do it… but the drive isn’t there. Physical pain, of course, is a huge driving force regarding that.
My emotions are leaning towards sad, extremely sad, anxious, angry, frustrated, annoyed, flat.
A perpetual state of anxiety.
I can fake happy. OK, I can try to fake happy and the truth is, I’m not really sure that in the stage of depression and anxiety I’m in if I’m really pulling it off.
I can almost fake being able to tolerate my physical pain levels. I can’t tell if I’m covering up any of the feelings that would make other people uncomfortable. I hope and pray people only approach me when the pain isn’t so high that I can concentrate on what they’re saying and it’s not making me feel like throwing up.
I don’t know if I’m making enough of any of it work to succeed at Life right now. I can’t tell.
I want to withdraw into myself but there’s too much going on, and that’s making things worse.
And oh, the CFS. I find that I don’t want to fight it. It gets me through excruciating physical pain and yes, it gets me through emotional pain and the non-ness that I feel. It’s not intentional going through CFS, or to be forced some days to give in to it. Accepting it is a different matter. The CFS can drain the Jessica part of me although it can give some of the Jessica part of me back when I can give in. Refusing to give in to the CFS makes the Depression worse, sapping even more of the Jessica part of me. The pain worsens the depression and the CFS; the pain steals more of the Jessica part of me and I’m just less.
It’s like… an in between of existence. There’s a less-ness in how I affect others lives, and a less-ness, a non-ness in what might happen if I just disappeared. But being Non-Jessica can be a skill, too, helping me to be successful in that one thing… hiding, making the Jessica part of me less noticeable, so that she won’t be missed and no one will be angry if she can’t participate.
Can Non-Jessica still be a good person? Is my Non-Jessica-ness even still a person at all? Because what I get is a feeling of non-presence mixed with indeterminate value joined together with the un-, in-, non-. I suppose I know I’m here, but I’m still feeling unseen. Or maybe needing to be unseen. Needing to hide in plain sight so that Non-Jessica can slip away unnoticed. All of that is non-ness. Non- whatever. Non. Non-ness.
I’m not necessarily losing my bits of me. Those bits, those chunks that the Stalking Tiger likes to bite away in nibbles, then chunks, the times when even Non-Jessica is nowhere to be seen and Eaten Whole Jessica has taken her place, because when the Tiger nibbles, when she thinks I won’t notice because she’s feeding off other pain, she’s really stowing some of it away in little Tupperware boxes with little lids to be dusted off when it’s safe to take them out again, without even a dash of cinnamon sugar.
I feel as if I need time and space, which is difficult at this time of year. Everyone and everything else needs me. The problem is that the Jessica part of me, floating above Non-Jessica and watching the movie, trying to direct Non-Jessica, is forced to take control for spans of time to be functional enough to get through each day.
I need a time out, and a better lock for that cage. And also, maybe a better shrink.