Writing the next chapter?

saradobiebauer

writer

Since I’m a writer, my therapist thought it would be good for me to write about my life in order to see where I am and where I need to go, considering I’ve been completely lost for a couple months now.

Fair enough. So far, I’ve written eight pages of pretty much stream-of-consciousness. Have some snippets …

(And yes, for some reason, I wrote in third person, which my brother thinks is a cop out. He thinks I’m distancing myself from myself. But I’m a writer and couldn’t help the third person POV. I swear, this even reads like a children’s book on occasion, if you discount the content.)

She gets anxiety in grocery stores. She hates grocery stores—the people and the bright lights.

She reads a lot to escape. She prefers the lives of fictional characters. She knows her friends (especially the ones with kids) think she lives a golden life. They know she has “mental health issues,” but they don’t know the reality of her mysterious misery. What does she really have to be miserable about anyway?

She relates to Tom Petty:
Every now and then I get down to the end of the day
I’ll just stop… ask myself: why I’ve done it?
It just seems so useless to have to work so hard
And nothin’ ever really seem to come from it

Sara has too many thoughts about too many things and too many opportunities that swirl around her head until she’s overwhelmed and can’t do anything.

The problem is she looks outside herself for validation, for joy, when it’s not fair to put that much pressure on the world. The world isn’t always a very nice place, so why should it be nice to her?

So, as you can see, I’ve pretty much pegged where I am RIGHT NOW. However, my therapist’s challenge was to write “The Next Chapter.” What does Sara do next? I’ve been thinking about focusing more on public speaking. Maybe returning to journalism … although I never was much of a fan of that. Finding a way to travel more. Even teaching yoga.

Yet, nothing is clear, possibly because I’m not psychic, but possibly because in the thralls of mental illness, it can be impossible to picture what it looks like on the other side of the road. I mean, how do you remember light when you’ve been in the darkness so long? How do you regain purpose, remember how to dream, imagine doing something NEW and BIG when you can barely wash the dishes without wanting to nap?

I see what my therapist is getting at. “Write your next chapter.” She’s trying to get me out of the present depression and into a future where I’m happy and healthy. Or perhaps just content. It’s okay to be content, I think. We don’t have to be smiling all the time, but we can be just … good.

I could totally type “She lived contently ever after!!!” New chapter finished! But that’s a cheat. How do I reach that contentment? It’s something I’m seriously trying to think about and actively take steps toward.

What about you? What does your next chapter look like? Step outside whatever crap you’re going through right now and try to picture what would make you happy–and how to get there.

Invisible me

saradobiebauer

ghosts hand

One of my earliest childhood memories is from when I was three. I was friends with these twin sisters who were blind, and we were looking under my bed, possibly for monsters. I told them to “Look,” and they told me, “We can’t.” I’m not sure my childhood brain really understood, but I knew they couldn’t see me.

A later memory was of swimming at the Perrysburg pool. I was a good swimmer, but I was tiny. A friend of mine—who was a lot bigger than me—started panicking in the water. She shoved me under, held me under, in her rush to get out of the deep end. Once I was able to escape her grip, I vomited. Hygienic, I know, but it was like she didn’t notice I was drowning.

When I look back at school as a kid, I was the smallest one in class. I wore big glasses and had a funny haircut. I was smart, well behaved, and shy. No one saw me. I was an invisible kid simply because I was good and average and quiet.

This isn’t to say I wasn’t loved. I’m sure I was, dearly, but when I think hard about my childhood memories, they’re mostly of things happening to other people, like I was an observer but not a participant in life. I remember my dad crying when his father passed away. I remember a drunken woman peeing on our front porch. I remember watching the neighbors have a huge screaming fight. I saw, and no one noticed because I was the invisible kid.

Most of my current issues, seemingly, have to do with my fear of returning to that state—of becoming Mrs. Cellophane. (Look right through me, walk right by me.) Maybe this is why I dye my hair crazy colors and wear revealing clothes. Although I can’t imagine being anything else, maybe this is partially why I’m a writer. It’s a limelight sort of career, especially the romance genre, especially erotica. (Look at me! Look at all the smut!)

Lately, despite professional success and an amazing support system, I have felt invisible. Like no one cares. Like no one is listening. Like no one can really see me. It’s partially my own fault, because I come off as happy and carefree—the social butterfly. And, yes, there’s a thing as being “too seen.” This past weekend, I was sexually harassed at a convention, possibly due to my weird hair and revealing clothes. Desperate to disappear on Monday, I wore a huge coat, didn’t wear makeup, and covered my head in a big hat. Sometimes, surprise, I want to be as invisible as possible.

But not usually. Usually I want to be seen and heard and understood. Our early memories shape us greatly, and the invisibility of my youth has followed me like a ghost into adulthood. I fear being forgotten, being ignored. My depression thrives in this space. When I begin to feel invisible, the Depression Monster loves coming around to remind me … “You’re not important. No one needs you. They look right through you, walk right past you.” Maybe this is why my mental health has been so bad lately.

Do you know me? Do you see me? I’m barely here.

Con-drop

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drop

According to the powerful Internet, con-drop “is a physiological reaction that often has emotional or psychological symptoms. Essentially, it’s the endorphins and other happy chemicals your body has been spewing out the last 3-5 days drying up. It’s the crash after the high.”

This feeling applies to huge events like Comic-Con in San Diego or something smaller like a local book fair. I went to Cleveland Concoction this weekend: a big geek fest featuring movies, comics, books, and cosplay. I was one of the featured authors, which meant I spoke on panels, signed books, and mingled for two days straight.

Contrary to what you might think based on my ravings, I am actually an extrovert. I’ll talk to anyone about anything. I actually approach strangers. I’m, like, charismatic and shit (I’ve been told).

However, in the opinion of my therapist, I’m an introverted extrovert. In other words, no matter how much of a social butterfly I am, being a social butterfly sucks the very life out of me.

I’m beginning to think this is both literal and figurative because not only am I thoroughly depressed today and basically unable to do anything, I also feel physically ill. I slept twelve hours and am still tired. I have a sore throat and headache. I’ve been sick off and on for months, so I’m frustrated to be SICK again, but there’s nothing to be done. I spread myself too thin at Concoction. I literally networked myself into a physical and emotional coma.

Con-drop is a thing that happens to many convention attendees (especially the introverted ones). The energy at conventions is so high, and you have to be constantly on your game because someone is always watching. People are talking to you or you’re speaking in front of a room-full of people. Then, there’s the bar mingling and NSFW panels at 10 PM that pretty much require you never, ever rest.

I feel freaking terrible today.

I’m glad I went to Concoction. I always have a great time, and I get to see all my nerd friends. It’s wonderful … but this is a reminder of why I don’t do very many conventions. In the beginning, with the release of Bite Somebody, I traveled all over the place for promo. Now, I do two or three events a year because I literally can’t take anymore.

The depression is back so hard right now, and I feel so sick. Why does one late night give me a terrible cold? Why does a weekend of excitement, fun, and yeah, high pressure, make me so very sad? Does anyone out there know how to fix con-drop? I’d love to know how to heal myself this week.

I get scared sometimes

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12

I get scared sometimes. Irrationally, stupidly scared. Morbid scared. Want some examples?

Sometimes, when my brother leaves to walk to work in the morning, I sit at my desk and tell him, over my shoulder, “Have a great day!” Then, I listen to him walk downstairs and putz around in the kitchen. I start freaking out, thinking I should have hugged him because what if he disappears on his walk to work? What if I never see him again? He lived so far away from me for so long, and we didn’t talk very often. Now, he lives with me, and I’m scared of taking it for granted. I’m scared of losing him again, so I rush down the stairs and say, “HUG DAY!” And we hug, and I tell him “Have a great day” again. He thankfully puts up with me.

Before leaving for yoga (which I do three time a week over my lunch break), I kiss my dogs. I check all the candles in my house to make sure they’re blown out because I’m convinced my house is going to burn down, and my dogs are going to die. Due to this, I even got stickers for our front and back doors so that if firemen show up, they know to rescue my children. I’ve gotten halfway down the street and turned around, convinced I forget to turn off a string of twinkle lights, which could and will somehow prove fatal to my pups.

I’ve gotten better about the Jake thing. When I first moved to Arizona to live with my then boyfriend-now husband, I felt very alone in a big city. Jake was the only person I knew. My dark, little mind was sure he was going to die in his sleep. Every night, I would wake up randomly, reach my hand out, and expect to find his body cold. Like I said, I’ve gotten better about this, but I still do it sometimes … reach that hand out and hope and pray that the love of my life is okay.

This isn’t a phobia (as far as I know). I’ve seen phobias. My girlfriend Lindsey is scared of butterflies. I thought she was sort of kidding until we visited Charleston, SC. We walked through a garden, and a couple butterflies flew by. She froze. She couldn’t even speak. We had to carry her out of there. Same with my friend Steph and snakes.

From what I’ve witnessed, phobias make you freeze; fear makes you moves. It makes you over-active as you worry about everything. Your mind races about all the things that could go wrong.

Fear is real.

Today, in fact, I came home from yoga to find Bearenheart, my oldest childhood stuffed animal, ripped to shreds on my office floor. (See picture above.) The dogs had gotten to her. Her smiling face is now distorted. Her clothes are ruined. There’s an empty hole where her teddy bear heart should be. I have a headache from crying so hard. I couldn’t stop crying.

Maybe this is a sort of phobia. Maybe my phobia is loss. I’m afraid of losing people and dogs and favorite stuffed animals. But, again, I don’t freeze when I fear loss. No, I reach out and hold and hope these things I love won’t leave me.

I’ve dealt with a lot of death in my life, but the ones that hurt the most were the ones I never saw coming–especially my Uncle Barney, who died in a hospital in Bali randomly one summer day. I remember my mom calling. She said, “We lost him,” and I didn’t understand. Was he in a maze somewhere? Lost at sea? No, WE LOST HIM.

I’m afraid the shock of loss, years old, is still with me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be free of that fear, so now, I hug my brother, kiss my dogs, and reach for my husband in the dark of night. And just hope the fear one day goes away.

Nightmares

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Weird Mystical Fear Nightmare Horror Creepy

I had a dream this morning that my brother fell off a cliff into a raging river, and I couldn’t save him. It was a “screamer,” my affectionate term for a night terror. I woke my husband crying for help. He had to basically hold me down until I stopped shaking. I couldn’t breathe. Once I realized where I was, I clung to him and sobbed.

I’ve had nightmares my entire life, but screamers have become rarer and rarer over the years. That doesn’t mean they’re gone. Very few aspects of my mental illness are ever gone; they just take breaks. For instance, I’ve been waking up feeling okay lately. I don’t feel okay today. I feel sad and panicky. Scared.

Nightmares don’t just happen in our beds. Mine, at least, tend to follow me throughout the day. I will be seeing the image of my brother being sucked underwater for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. I’m a writer. I’m great at visualizing things. When I write, I even visualize scenes like movie storyboards.

This is why I’m careful about what I consume. I’m not talking about pizza toppings. I mean I’m careful about what I watch. For instance, Jake and I started watching a movie called Polar recently because we both love Mads Mikkelsen. As soon as his character drilled a, well, drill into a villain’s forehead (extreme gore, folks), I told Jake, “Turn this shit off.” I knew that image would haunt me, and I didn’t want to know what other images would eventually be warped by my too-creative subconscious into a screamer.

Same with the news. I stopped watching the news years ago. I apologize for my ignorance over some current affairs, but it’s either I sound informed in political debates or I sleep better at night.

Nightmares often make their way into my fictional works, probably because they’re such a big part of my life. Real life tends to pour into my fiction–an exorcism of sorts. Get the poison out by putting it on the page. (Actually, more on that later today. I’m making an announcement on my writing blog in a bit in direct relation to this.)

I know I’ve been dealing with nightmares my entire life, but it never gets easier after screamer nights. Right now, I feel disoriented, unfocused, with a curious lump of dread in my chest as if my stupid dream portends some future event. No, my nightmares have never come true, but they feel true in the moment, and this moment is all we have.

The PMS problem

saradobiebauer

cryFor one week out of every month, some women lose their damn minds. I am one of those women. PMS. Premenstrual syndrome, otherwise known as “Sara is a psycho.” (Feel free to insert your own name here.)

The week leading up to Aunt Flow’s arrival, my mental health takes a nosedive. The depression is practically crippling. My temper FLARES. (Flames basically shoot from my eyes.) I feel fatty fat fat. I make bad decisions or I am incapable of making decisions. I want to scream at everyone and then, cry about it.

This shit happens every month.

My husband, Jake, has a radar for its arrival. He claims he gets more annoying whenever I’m PMSing, like he needs to annoy me on a deep, hormonal level. (The man has no sense of self-preservation, considering PMS time is the time when I am most capable of homicide.) He’ll suddenly realize he’s acting super annoying and say, “Wait, you’re PMSing, aren’t you?” It’s uncanny.

The problem with PMS (other than the obvious emotional turmoil) is the difficulty in treating it. I’ve talked to my doctor about this. Many doctors, honestly. They all suggest going on antidepressants … to treat one week of the month. No, thank you. Then, they say maybe I could just take antidepressants for a week of every month, but that doesn’t make any damn sense because, in order to work, antidepressants need to build up in your system … which is when side effects show up … which is exactly what I do not want.

There are the “natural cures:” take more B vitamins. Chaste Tree. Ashwagandha. Physical activity. Eat healthier. Drink more water. Avoid alcohol and caffeine around the PMS time.

Far as I can tell, nothing works.

So, dear reader, I implore YOU. I know I’m not the only woman who goes possible-serial-killer once a month for seven entire days. For the women out there who’ve found a way to manage their PMS, what do you do? For the husbands whose wives are not Pennywise with better makeup during PMS time, what have your wives done as treatment?

SEND HELP!!!!

Bad reviews

saradobiebauer

review

There’s a book reviewer who goes out of her way to say mean things about my work. She spends her own hard-earned cash in order to buy my novels and then, rip me apart online.

I find this all very confusing.

I’m not only a writer but also a reader, which means I’m reading all the time. If I start reading a book and don’t like it, I put it down because I don’t have time to read a book I don’t like. There are too many other wonderful, beautiful books out there waiting for me. They scream my name in dreams. (“Read us, Sara. Reeeeead us!”) Why waste time on a book that doesn’t tickle your fancy when there are so many books that might?

Beyond the time spent reading, she takes thoughtful time to write terrible things about me as a writer and as a person, and it all just seems like so much work. Why does she punish herself with negativity? Why does she upset herself on purpose?

I say I think this is confusing, but maybe I don’t.

Isn’t this what we’re looking for when we scan through Twitter or the national news? There is so much annoying shit out there; it’s like we actively go looking for it. We can’t wait to respond with a scathing comment to something that annoys us, angers us, offends us …

Isn’t this what we do when we gossip? Especially as a woman, I know I love a good gossip fest. It’s fun digging into other people—pointing out their flaws—because then, I can avoid my own.

“I might not be perfect, but look at her.”

“My marriage is tough sometimes, but we’re better than that couple.”

“Did you see the article he posted on Facebook? I can’t believe he thinks like that.”

It’s so easy to fixate on the negative. My therapist says it’s easy to be depressed; getting better is difficult. She also likes to remind me (especially when I tumble into negative self-talk), “We all think we aren’t good enough.” And that emotion manifests itself in many ways, whether through our online presence or day-to-day conversations or even our own internal monologues.

I made a promise to myself years ago: don’t read bad reviews. They don’t do anything but bring me down. They make the work suffer, because bad reviews make me question myself and if I’m worthy of creating. I am aware of the book reviewer who hates my work (and seemingly hates me by proxy), but I don’t actually read her reviews. Friends have read them and shout their frustrations, but I won’t allow myself a detailed study of everything that’s “wrong” with me.

It’s easy to avoid the one-star reviews on Goodreads. It’s not so easy to do in real life. It’s difficult to avoid the gossip, comparisons, and negative self-talk. If only a warning light blinked right before an annoying tweet or a destructive conversation. I’m not suggesting blinders; I am suggesting we all act a little nicer to other people and ourselves.

Cold season

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IMG_8021

My brother and I sometimes joke about how nice it would be to have the emotional sensitivity of a sociopath. It’s a joke—mostly. However, it would honestly be nice to just not care and not worry about what other people think and not worry about emotions and blah blah blah …

Let me be Sherlock Holmes for a day and just. Not. Give. A. Shit.

Currently, I have a cold. A terrible, stupid cold that doesn’t let me sleep and makes my brain all fuzzy. And honestly? I feel nothing. I’m like the honey badger. (“Honey badger don’t give AF!”)

In physical therapy recently, my doc talked about how that one joke is true. You know the joke, goes like this:
Person one: My stomach hurts.
Person two: Want me to punch you in the face?

The distraction of pain is actually a real thing. When people get into car accidents, their bodies are often only capable of reacting to the worst pain. Usually, that pain is whiplash. They get the whiplash treated without realizing they have a broken wrist until two days later.

That’s what it’s like being physically ill right now. I have all this work and house cleaning. My husband is traveling. I could be stressing, but I’m not. I float in a cold medicine haze. I do not clench my jaw as I type. The faulty, injured rib in my chest is forgotten. My sickness has made me a momentary sociopath, replacing emotional duress with a pile of snotty tissues.

It’s sort of nice really. Alarming but nice, so long as my emotions do eventually come back. (Even bad emotions are better than no emotions.) Today, my body is too sick for my brain to be depressed. Maybe it’s the cold; maybe it’s the Mucinex. Whatever, I’ll take it. It’s a relief giving my emotions a break.

On meditation

saradobiebauer

meditation

I tried meditating before bed last night. Usually, this is the time when I make up “stories.” They are often horrible stories that never see the light of day, but I tell them to myself, like a small child with a half-drawn picture book. But maybe telling stories isn’t that great of an idea, because sometimes, I actually tell GOOD stories that end up as novels, which means I’m awake and scribbling notes at 11 PM and my husband is like “Sara, WTF?”

So anyway, meditation.

There’s this meditation guy that’s really popular: Jason Stephenson. He’s Australian, which I admit did add a little je ne sais quoi to the experience. I used a guided meditation exercise where the guy talks at you and tells you to breathe and relax above a massage parlor soundtrack.

Traditional meditation as I’ve tried it in the past is worthless to me. I can’t sit there and think of “nothing.” My brain is infuriatingly loud, so telling me to think of nothing is like telling me DON’T THINK ABOUT PIZZA.

See? Now, you’re thinking about pizza. I’m thinking about pizza. We are all thinking about pizza, preferably with mushrooms, sausage, and black olives and this white garlic sauce they make at the parlor down the street. This is why the “think about nothing” meditation has never worked.

Last night, I let Australian Jason guide me through a 15 minute meditation, and all it did was make me remember I’d left the front door unlocked.

It’s not Jason’s fault I couldn’t relax. I’m pretty sure meditation is a skill that takes practice, so I’ll try it again tonight … and the night after that. It’s a re-training of the brain. It’s not often that I’m fully relaxed. Even while sitting still, watching TV, I’m usually making a list of some kind in my head.

The coloring book has helped with that because I’m a perfectionist and refuse to color outside the lines. Yoga helps the most, though, because if you zone out in the middle of a hot yoga flow class, you’re gonna end up on your face.

I promise, I’ll try meditation again … and again. Maybe this is something I could eventually get into? Not sure. Do you meditate? If so, got any tips for the newbie over here?

Stressors

saradobiebauer

journl

My therapist asked me to write my daily stressors in a journal, but I feel like “my dogs barking” is trite when there are things like school shootings and walls being built out there. But I am me, and my world is small. Therefore, “my dogs barking” is indeed a stressor. My girlfriend says, “To each their own.” She says this in reference to my fixation on actor Timothee Chalamet. He’s too skinny for her.

To each their own.

My dogs BARKING.

What else is on my stressor list? I’m not ready to tell you the big ones, I don’t think. We’ve only just met. Maybe a couple little ones. Hmm…

Therapy. Therapy stresses me out, which is funny because it’s supposed to help–and it does really. I’ve only been in therapy for about three weeks now. It was my last resort because I’ve been severely depressed for two months and don’t want to go back on medication. In regards to mental health, I’ve been doing the right things. My “witchy” friend in Arizona (who’s not actually a witch, but I like calling her that) suggests making tinctures and teas with ingredients like St. John’s Wort, catnip, and ginkgo. I use my sun lamp in the morning. I binge Letterkenny and Seinfeld on Hulu. I write smutty fan fiction and make myself laugh. I even bought an adult coloring book with cuss words to add some color. Nothing helps. I’m not getting better. So therapy. I’m trying, really, so I don’t have to go back on meds. And even if I love my therapist (she’s awesome with funky hair and a nose ring), I still get stressed about therapy because I know I’ll be tired after. I’ll probably cry. I’m tired of crying.

My body stresses me out. I pulled a rib/muscle (the exact prognosis is up for debate) in the center of my chest in October, which means I had to cut way back on my yoga. Yoga is like a religion to me, and I’ve missed it. I just started going back, but it stresses me out that I can’t do the moves I used to. It stressed me out that I can’t challenge my body. I’m a China doll under the radiant heat of hot yoga. I’m trying to go slow, but I’ve never been good at that before. It’s hard to break old habits … which I’m learning in therapy.

No matter how much they bark, I stress over my dogs. Maybe I accidentally leave a candle lit and my house burns down and my dogs are trapped inside. Maybe they run away. Maybe they get hurt. Maybe I won’t survive their loss.

Sometimes, I stress about drinking. Am I doing it to numb myself? Adversely, am I doing it to be able to talk to people? I’m an introvert with an anxiety disorder, but I’m actually good at talking to people—unless I’m depressed. However, add alcohol, and I’m the life of the party. I worry, though. It’s very easy to make myself numb; what if I start needing to live that way?

I stress because I don’t dream anymore. All my life, my dream was to be a published author, and now, I am. I thought it would make everything okay, like “Once I get published, I’ll never be depressed again.” Lie. Huge lie. I don’t know what to dream about anymore. What do you dream about?

I stress over mistakes I made ten years ago. Those mistakes keep me up at night.

I stress over dumb stuff, too. I was sad for a week after Timothee Chalamet didn’t get an Oscar nomination for his role in the addiction drama Beautiful Boy. How dumb is that? I don’t even know the guy.

But ah, we’re back to the dogs barking.

Just because a stressor is dumb doesn’t mean it isn’t a stressor—doesn’t mean that stressors don’t affect your mental health. No matter how trivial, stress is stress, and I’m trying to find patterns. I’m trying to see what ruins my day so I can make the days better. I’d suggest you do the same. You’d be surprised.