Symptoms revisited

I really didn’t think I was going to make it to work today. I went to bed at 22:30, but the itching and swallowing and whatnot had me in such a state that none of the cats even bothered to follow me in to bed. Tossing around in frustration I imagined a gang of tiny invisible faeries poking at me and laughing at my exasperation. The last time I remember looking at the clock it was 23:30. Rising and shining was out of the question when the alarm went off at 8:00, so I moved to the couch and set another alarm for 9:00. After hitting snooze several times I eventually forced myself up at 9:45. I fed the cats, washed my face, and brushed my hair but concluded that it was a hair-up kind of a day. I scrambled around to find the most recent (sic cleanest) clothes I had discarded about the house – yeah, all the laundry is still in the basement – and sat down at my vanity to pick myself ready. I’m trying to be quick, but oh how stupid can I be getting drawn back in over and over with just one more little spot over here. The clock is behind me, beaming a toxic anxiety ray through the back of my head and into my brain with those big ugly arbitrary green numbers. I can already hear the uncertainty in my supervisor’s response as I struggle to put it into words that might make some sense to another person.    

How am I going to get out of this one? My battery is dead, I can’t make it today. Yes, I’ve already called and I’m waiting on the truck. God, I just want to go back to sleep. Am I going to lose my job? Would it be more honorable to just resign now, before I ruin my reputation as a reliable employee? I can’t even manage one 4 hour shift a week? Has it really come to this? OK, I’m making myself move. I just have to push myself harder. It will be OK once I get moving. I can be 10 minutes late if I call from the car, right? God I don’t know how I’m ever going to do this. My crazy is sticking out in too many places right now. Maybe today will be the day that it comes out so undeniably obnoxious and uncontrollable that I make a real mess of things.

I chatted with Gus about the insanity of it all during the staff meeting. I was feeling super insecure about doing it, but the subject came up so I swallowed back my reluctance and shared a few of my irrationalities because I knew he would benefit from hearing the vulnerable testimony of a fellow OCD sufferer. Yeah, sometimes I’m codependent like that. We each do our own crazy shit to exert control over the meaningless things that we’ve convinced ourselves are essential. I only wish my crazy shit was more simple and straightforward like his.

I almost forgot just how crazy I am until he said that he couldn’t see the rash around my mouth. Well, no, of course not, nobody else can see these things like me. Just like that shameful scar on my face that I walked around sporting like an extra limb throughout my entire youth. That scar that nobody else ever even noticed. I know it. Sometimes I can pass by a mirror and glance over at myself quickly enough that my eyes miss the dozens of tiny imperfections that scream hateful demeaning things at me when I’m at home all alone with my tweezers. I have to be quick and it doesn’t always work, but sometimes I can take a step back and see the forest for the trees. I know I’m crazy that way, but at least I am aware of it.

  

I can remember first learning of the phenomenon we now know as body dysmorphia in the context of Karen Carpenter’s death, and wondering if it was like looking into a warped mirror that distorted her image into a larger version of herself. How else could you explain an otherwise lovely and talented young woman starving herself to emaciation? Turns out, if she was anything like me, it’s not so simple as a vision problem. She didn’t perceive herself as any fatter than she actually was, rather it was an error in judgment that had nothing whatsoever to do with the blatant reality of size. Her identical weight and build would have struck her as sickening on any other body, but somehow she was *different* from everyone else. The same rules didn’t apply to her; there were extenuating circumstances. While the literal image she saw with her eyes was identical to what everyone else saw in the mirror, it simply was not *good enough* to compensate for the ugly unlovable parts that only she could see, larger than life, announcing to the world her despicableness, compelling her to punish herself into conformity with whatever version of acceptable she could *control*. The devil is always in the details. It’s like looking at old footage of a successful youth enrichment program showing happy, bright-faced children wearing clean crisp uniforms, blissfully singing and dancing together out in fresh air, enjoying all of the benefits that their community could possibly provide. It looks idyllic if you don’t understand the significance of the crooked cross down in the corner of the screen, in which case your impression changes from delight to horror in an instant.          

During my shift I printed out some training materials on PTSD that caught my eye. Reading it over tonight I learned about complex trauma. Altered self-perception? Check. Guilt and shame? Check. Critical inner voice? Check. Self-destructive behavior? Check. Difficulty trusting? Check. Trouble managing emotions? Check. On and on it goes. “Self-soothing” really stood out to me. I had difficulty identifying ways that I know how to do this effectively. I also began to think about just how much I dissociate. I was rather alarmed when I did a quick self-appraisal. Great, another horrifying label that doesn’t help a lick. More tears, no more answers.

Instead of crying about it, I sat down to update my health spreadsheet. There were a few pills I stopped taking, and I added a category I’m calling “other symptoms” which lists problems that are not currently being formally treated by doctors or with pharmaceuticals. So far I only have three: Photosensitivity, chronic headaches, chronic back pain. Not sure how significant they are, but I do like to be thorough. And then I got comfy at my disaster of a desk and repeatedly pushed my cat away so I could write this. It’s going on 22:00 so maybe my broken brain will let me go to sleep. I’m meeting with a care manager for the first time tomorrow in hopes of getting access to services that could help me. Should be interesting.