Pity Party

I've been trying to make some changes in my life, as of late. In a frantic effort to cope with the depression and loneliness that plague me on an almost daily basis, I've noticed that I've grown entirely too reliant on the warm, fuzzy embrace of red wine in the evenings.

Ahh, wine. My best friend and closest confidante..until the morning, that is. The trouble with this potent nepenthe is that, while it temporarily assuages feelings of emptiness and calms my anxiety, it also creates in me a false sense of self. More precisely, it brings the Shadow Self to the foreground, giving it license to run amok, with a Machiavellian disregard for long-term consequences or the feelings of others.

 Occasionally, when feeling unable to deal with rejection or loss, The Shadow Self has said some terrible things to people who did not deserve it. This twisted version of me seems to think that this is an effective way to communicate, and fails to recognize that unpleasantness, negativity and vitriol will only succeed in driving people further away. In the morning, Stef is left to pick up the pieces of the Shadow's self-aggrandizing pity party, grasping desperately to recall exactly what was said, or why, and attempting to determine if the damage caused is in any way reparable.

After the recent loss of someone who was special to me, I recognized that I need to confront my emotional issues head-on, and without donning the distorted lenses of inebriation in a misguided effort to see the situation clearly. Therefore, I've spent the past week alcohol-free, and trying to practice mindfulness exercises.

 I've noticed that, as I am forced to sit with my unpleasant emotions, my brain seems to have reverted back into the dissociative state that has plagued me at various points in my life, after prolonged periods of distress. I first began to experience this sensation as a teenager. It has been best diagnosed as "depersonalization" - a feeling of being separate from my body, not recognizing or fearing my own voice, looking down at my hands and not feeling connected to them or wondering whose they are, etc. When this first began to happen, it was incredibly frightening. Now, having experienced it several times, I know it well and have figured out how to cope with it.

On top of all of this, I seem to have come down with a head cold forged in the very bowels of Hell. My throat feels like I'm swallowing shards of glass and I hurt everywhere. Yesterday evening, I had to force myself out of bed and to the store in a zombie-like state, so that poor Lola had something to eat for the morning.

Somehow, through all of it, I'm managing to get to work and get the things done that need doing. But, oh! Living alone when you're feeling like this is unequivocally the worst. I'm sure I'm setting the image of the independent, ass-kicking woman back about two hundred years by writing this, but how lovely it would be to have someone around to make me a bowl of soup.