Slip slidin' away

I am a strange person. Yes, it's like a Strange Person Anonymous meeting, "Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm strange." I have weird physical issues, like being allergic to everything they test you for, sinus infections can quickly turn into pneumonia, flu, or strep throat for me because it takes at least 2 rounds of antibiotics to cure anything I have, just tonight, my left hand and the side of my face broke out in hives for no apparent reason, and any prescription meds tend to do the opposite to me that they do to normal folks. This really only started to happen about 3 years ago, and let me say, it is not fun at all; yet, I have to laugh at it or I would be on Thorazine.

Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.

First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)

Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.

I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.

I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.



"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain