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.
Successfully Mad 