But here I am now, because I realise that writing here processes my thoughts in a different manner than journalling somehow. I have to make what I type here coherent for a reader that is not myself. And that means my internal turmoil becomes more coherent after I'm done typing a readable blog post. In a way, it is self-therapy. 

I'm here to write today because of the increased stress and anxiety I've been under for the past few days. I dont yet have a clear idea of what will be in the following paragraphs; I just need to find a way to ease this internal pressure. Nothing else works except taking xanax, and while that breaks my internal systems out of the fight-or-flight response fairly quickly, I either sleep or feel a little dazed thereafter, which was what happened yesterday. 

Besides meds and the usual deep breathing, I've also been texting with friends who have similar struggles as I do. And especially last year, these friends have become closer and more precious to me. We often end up helping each other, even though I feel that the burdens of mine that I lay on them weigh far more than those they share with me. The covid restrictions on real life socialisation, plus the amount of time I've had to spend staying at home working on my renovation designs (which is the source of stress for me right this moment) has made friendships and socialisation even dearer to me, even though I am not always free or in the right frame of mine to interact with others. Last year, I also set up a Discord channel for friends on Twitter to be able to hop on for a voice or video chat anytime, to combat the covid isolation. Time, however, just hasn't availed itserlf regularly enough for me to be a good host for the friends there. It is the same for Twitter. I have also totally stopped using Instagram except for people I need to talk to that are most available on that platform, such as our vet, or a post now and then just to let people know I'm alive and haven't been captured by aliens. 

Perhaps then, just as I am on my almost-two-decades old blog right this minute, typing away on a large canvas, I should reinvest in my support networks to help myself get out of funks like the one I'm going through right now, because I've run out of ideas to help me get through this tough time. I think I am going to be more active on my Discord channel, after having let down my early members by not being around after they joined, because I need it and they might need it too: a chat, a laugh, a heart to heart talk - in text, on voice, in video, whichever works. I've often felt awkward having VOIP or video chats without a headset because I don't always have privacy, but honestly, fuck it. I don't care anymore. 

I can't write about the details of what is stressing me right now regarding my new house, because I am alone right now and not with a friend via real-time text, which helps me feel safe and allows me to articulate the problems I'm going through without feeling alone in my anxiety or emotional breakdown. I recall now that when I self-diagnosed as having depression as a young adult, I read about how repression leads to depression, and so I raised myself up and called friends just to tell them what I was feeling. That was how I got out of my first depressive episode. I still struggle a little sometimes, to burden others with my problems instead of listening to theirs. But I keep at it with some discipline, I guess. 

The only person I feel open enough to unload myself to is my therapist. As a doctor who is disciplined in his practice, he never wants to reply my how-are-yous and suchlike, often deflecting my questions so that he remains as neutral as possible. Unlike my previous doctor who didn't practise such boundaries and seemed more like a friend, this was at first a bit jarring for me, but I've gotten used to not knowing anything about my doctor at all. As a result, this therapy has become a lifesaver for me. Sometimes it feels like I have no one else to talk to but him. 

I've always felt this way about sharing the deeper tenets of myself. The first time I experienced it was when I was ten years and felt unable to share with my best friend at the time, about what was happening to me at home: my parents were leaving me with relatives to go out of the country to escape their creditors. How was another ten year old going to understand that? My best friend at the time was a bubbly girl who was always smiling or laughing, she matched my outward craziness that masked whatever sadness was deep inside me. To this day, I still sometimes feel like that. Since my second depressive episode started in my late twenties (which never went away, because it became chronic), I have turned away friends and social groups partly for this reason; I feel like I just have too much to explain to them about what I was going through and simply didn't have the energy to do so. 

I don't know whether I will feel better after I hit the Publish button on this post. As I am at this paragraph, I don't feel any better, I don't know how to go on with my day. Reach out and talk to me if you think you could comfort or encourage me. For now, avalon out. 

worlds upon words