I’ve been travelling this road of life for over 41 years, so you would think I’d have a pretty good idea on where I was going. For a smart girl, my sense of life direction is pretty bad. Put me in a roundabout and I’ll drive circles hoping to spin myself into the right lane. I’ve been known to take the same wrong exit turn off over and over again. What’s worse is I know I’m taking the wrong turn, but I do it anyway.
My life, in reality, is not as confused as I make it sound. My anxiety disorder keeps my mind in a constant state of unsuredness, so it’s hard for me to tell if I’ve made it a mile down the road, or if I’ve doubled back and now heading south. The medication I took for my anxiety put me on a 10 year straight-a-way that had no beginning or end. For anyone following my blog, you know I tried switching my meds a few months ago. Last Monday, after very careful consideration, I’ve made the decision to come off medication. I’m saving that decision topic for another post. I’ve been struggling with whether or not to share the med talk, but I’m sure I will soon. Weaning of meds has brought with it a level of emotions I haven’t felt in over 10 years. Some good; some not so good. It’s the not so good that I’m focusing on today.
Coming off meds has reduced my impulse control, which led to a week of self-medicating with wine. I didn’t realize that I was doing it at first. Typically, I try and only have a couple of glasses on the weekend: “try” being the operative word. Sometimes I slip, and when I slip I can get into a pretty bad habit of nightly drinking. When I’m really struggling with anxiety, I tend to want to shut down, and drinking is an escape for me. I don’t drink to get drunk; I actually hate being drunk. I limit myself to one or two, but there really is no reason for me to make it a daily habit. So here’s my real issue and the climax of this post: I’m a rebel who breaks all my own rules!!! DING DING…. hit it right on the head there didn’t I. I’ve been obsessing over this all weekend, actually, I’ve been pissed at myself all weekend. But enough of that — self-love; not self-abuse. It’s time to get over my anger and do something about it, so I came up with a pretty brilliant (if I don’t say so myself) idea.
I’m writing myself a Life Manual. Why I haven’t thought of this before is beyond me; I mean come on it’s genious. How can I expect myself to follow my own rules if they aren’t set in stone (or paper). This manual will be my guide to anxious free living. I know what trips me up, so I’m going to plan ahead — map out a route, and follow it to the finish line. I might even add pictures just in case I’m too lazy to read my own instructions. This manual will be my summer project, and when it’s ready I’m gonna bedazzle the crap out of it. OR maybe not.