Don’t you step on my blue suede shoes! Not that there is any danger of that. 1. I don’t own any. 2. Too benzo sick to walk anywhere you might accidentally plod over my toes. 3. Too benzo sick to put on shoes, let alone some fancy shmancy blue ones. Only thing blue around here is my mood.

I’m freaking sick and tired of being sick and tired. Who is with me on this one? I see your hands waving out there. I know. I’d give my left nut for a day with no symptoms. Wait. I’m a girl. No left nut, last time I checked anyway. How about i give a bag of nuts. Almonds. You know they say the amygdala, that little jewel that sits in the middle of our brains sreeeeeching at us to be afraid, is shaped like an almond. I’m so tired of being her bitch. Actually, I’ve gotten rather good at ignoring her. She’s always telling my adrenals to pump, and my sweat glands to go berserk. God only knows what else she is in charge of in there. Sure wish my brain would cobble some more GABA receptors back together so AMY, as I call that part of my brain, can be put into check. Sternly. With a crop and a ball gag if necessary. Just STFU AMY.

But I digress from my main thought. I feel like Elvis. No, I haven’t gained a paunch or grown sideburns. I don’t know how to curl my lip or sing sexy. But I do know how to turn my days upside down like he did. I’ve heard that he slept a lot during the day so he could go out at night when there were fewer people to bother him. (I’ve read he was on a benzo too, poor bugger.) I feel so incredibly sick in the mornings that I stay in bed until the crack of noon. When I do get up I drag myself to the couch and plop down. My apartment is pretty small, so we are talking only a handful of strides. But that’s enough to exhaust me. When I am vertical, the head pressure is awful. I am so dizzy. Not spinny like I played beer pong with the frat boys, but a sense of disequilibrium. I feel like a new foal, not knowing quite where my legs should go.

The mornings/afternoons are spent in distraction. I am creating websites for people (bayareacolorconsulting.com) and my own to help coaches with their writing needs. As long as my mind is engaged, I can tolerate my misery.

By late afternoon/early evening, I am less symptomatic. Not well, but I don’t feel that I could fall off the face of the planet and float away to some place no one will ever find me. By ten PM I am usually able to watch a movie and *almost* forget I am battling benzo recovery syndrome. So like The King, I like the nightlife. Such as it is, sprawled on the couch with gum wrappers strewn about, day old dishes with flecks of dried food clinging to the rims, and water glasses that have made permanent soggy circles in my table top. My hunch is Elvis was having more fun than I am in the night. I shit load more fun.

I want to reassure everyone out there who is healing that we do recover. But I don’t know anymore. I really don’t. The mental lets up for me and WHAM the body crap takes over. It is beyond exhausting.

The sun has set here in the west. A breeze picks up momentum here in the garden. I am writing in the dark, happy that the bulk of the day is behind me. I survived it. Etch another mark into the wall. I try not to think about tomorrow. That would be too depressing and scary. Cause you and I both know I’m not going to wake up suddenly healed and have my life fall into place. Stay in the moment. I’m trying. I’m trying.

I sure wish I was well enough to buy some snazzy new shoes and hit the town. I’d show everybody my moves. I think I used to have some, years ago. ๐Ÿ™‚ Until then, I put one stubborn foot in front of the other. All they way to my couch, then the bed. And sometimes, I push myself out into the garden, and pray that soon I can feel alive again. I feel so shut down and cut off at times.

Maybe my next post should be that I feel like Walk Disney. He’s frozen, the poor sonofbitch. And I thought I had problems. ๐Ÿ™‚

Onward .Sigh. Onward.

 

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