When I started this blog, I swore…SWORE…I was going to post every week. Over a month and a half after my last post, I realize that may have been a little ambitious. I actually have felt anxious that weeks have gone by without a word from me, but I set myself up for that. I didn’t sign a contract obligating me to post every week.
What got me think about this was a few days ago, I received an email from WordPress informing me that Stupid Anxiety may have experienced a FATAL ERROR!! OMG! NO! This can’t happen! I’m just about at 50% to figuring out how to run this thing! I quickly logged in. Everything looked OK, and by that, I mean the same as before. My front page still isn’t the way I want it, but the “fatal error” didn’t undo what I had already done.
But that is when I saw I hadn’t posted since May 28, 2022. All of June and half of July gone, and nothing. At first, I thought, “That is just poor blogmanship.” However, I don’t want to write just for the sake of writing something (like this current post, for example). If something comes up that seem like it would be cool to write about, I will write. No more self-imposed deadlines.
Because once I set a deadline, then it becomes a chore, and once it becomes a chore, then I will avoid it.
The issue of anxiety and avoidance will most certainly be a future post, but I won’t tie myself to an exact date for that. Because no more deadlines.
Back in the 70s, there was a “movie of the week” called “See How She Runs.” Joanne Woodward (who won an Emmy for her performance) plays a 40 year-old divorced mother who decides to run the Boston Marathon. She initially gets no support from her bratty kids or her ex-husband, but she is strong-willed and determined to do something for herself, for a change. Running becomes her life and she makes it to the marathon.
Let’s fast forward to the end (I will give a **SPOILER ALERT**, but this is a 44 year-old movie). She’s got a bandage around her knee, she’s limping, she’s in obvious pain, there’s blood running down her leg, they are starting to dismantle the equipment at the finish line, and her daughter is begging her father to stop her, but he doesn’t because NOW he’s very supportive, and she would never forgive him. Three dudes just hanging out on the street observe her struggle, start betting each other about whether she’ll make it, and head on down to the finish line to wait. Now, it’s dark, and she’s still struggling. She’s in the middle of the road with cars honking on either side of her. She can barely see. But she’s RIGHT THERE! The finish line is in sight! She stumbles toward it, stops, and then…crumbles to the asphalt. NOOOOO!! Everyone is looking on with pity and horror. Her daughter turns her head because OMG she just cannot watch anymore. It looks hopeless. Then someone yells, “C’mon lady, get up!” Of course it wasn’t one of her family members, but one of the three dudes who was betting on the end result of her pain and struggle. That’s enough to get her back on her feet. She starts running! Everyone is cheering! Her family is cheering, her friends are cheering, the three dudes are cheering, her cop friend from her precinct is cheering, and I’m BAWLING!!! She runs through a ribbon that her friends found on the ground and were holding for her because they wanted her to have something to run through! She made it! And….scene.
My story is not nearly as dramatic. I did start running when I was 42, but it wasn’t to train for a marathon. I was having difficulty dealing with depression, and I thought running might help. So, I just started running. Actually, it was more like run maybe 50 yards, then walk, then run a little again, then give up and walk the rest of the way. My stylish running outfit was a pair of beaten-up, old, funky, Hanes sweatpants and a concert T-shirt.
I did this run/walk thing for awhile and was about to give up because I just felt hopelessly out of shape, but a friend encouraged me to continue. This was how he started, and he was now running marathons. I kept trudging on, and eventually I was running more than walking, then I was able to run a loop around the neighborhood without stopping, then a mile, then 2 miles. I even bought a nice pair of running tights.
Eventually, I ran my first 5k, and then my first half marathon (badly, but I finished). I went on to run about eight more half marathons (all badly, but again, I finished them all). I actually found an interest that I seemed to have a passion for, and I thought I would never lose it.
Then I lost it. I had another depressive episode that was brought on by a horrible work environment at a new job (not the current one}. I didn’t feel like doing much of anything, let alone running. I eventually pulled myself out of it, but it had been about nine months since I had done any regular running. When I did start running again, I found that I had lost much of what I had worked so hard for.
That’s where Stupid Anxiety decided to butt in and fuck everything up again. I couldn’t face the fact that I was back to practically collapsing halfway around the block, when it seemed like just a short time ago I was finished 13.1-mile races. It got to a point where I actually seemed to develop a phobia of running outside. I had this ridiculous image in my head of neighbors clucking their tongues and saying to each other, “It’s a damn shame, she used to be so much better.” On gorgeous, sunny days, when I should have been on the trails, I was running on my treadmill in my basement, where no one could see me.
I kept telling people I was going to get back into running. My husband would ask me once in a while, out of concern, because I had once loved it so much. I felt terrible each time he asked because I really wanted to run again. I just….couldn’t. He even bought me this:
Most of these are finishers medals from half marathons. Not bad for someone who only started running in her 40s. I think I still have some races in me, if I can just kick Stupid Anxiety’s ass and get back out there. In the past week of writing this post (yes, that’s how long it’s taken), I have donned the running shoes and tights. No, I am not in the shape I was in before, but I have accepted that. I no longer feel like the neighbors pitying my downfall (anxiety is a liar).
I am determined to turn the “She believed she could, so she did,” into “I believe I can, so I will.” Again.
Yesterday, Elon Musk made this bold statement on Twitter about the anti-depressant drug, Wellbutrin:
I don’t know Mr. Musk’s experience with Wellbutrin, aside from conversation, but I will share my experience.
I have been taking medication for depression for almost 20 years. I started with Paxil, and then switched several times before finally switching to nortriptyline. Although nortriptyline seemed to work the best for me, something still seemed to be missing. I couldn’t say I was depressed exactly, but I still didn’t seem to be enjoying life as much as others around me. However, I felt “ok,” and I assumed that was the best it was going to get.
Then I saw a commercial for a medication called Abilify, a drug to address the exact situation I just described, a drug to take in addition to a patient’s regular depression medication. For the first time, I had hope that I didn’t have to accept just “ok.”
I know this is a long lead-in into the Wellbutrin, but I’m getting there…
I spoke to my doctor about the commercial and asked about the additional medication. She didn’t prescribe Abilify for some reason, but she did prescribe Wellbutrin. After taking Wellbutrin for a couple weeks, I realized, “THIS IS IT! THIS IS WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR!” I felt more than “ok.” I felt good. And then I felt very good. My attitude improved. My work performance improved. My patience improved. And yes, my ability to control my anxiety improved. Wellbutrin was a game-changer for me, and I am still taking it.
Although my original intention of this post was to refute Elon Musk’s “honest opinion” concerning Wellbutrin, the more important point is that you do not have to accept “ok.” If you are being treated for depression, and you still don’t feel quite right, talk to your doctor. You can have more than “ok,” and you deserve more than “ok.”
Do not accept “ok.” Ask questions and advocate for your mental health.
Stupid Anxiety needed it’s own identity. It’s own email address. I googled instructions on how to create a new Gmail address, because yes, I didn’t even know how to do that. I just one day announced, “I AM GOING TO START MY BLOG” completely clueless about how to do anything.
To create a new profile, it asked for a first and last name. Well, what would that be, I thought. I don’t want to use my own name. So I put “Stupid” for the first name, and “Anxiety” for the last name. It seemed logical, right?
This is how Google addresses me at Stupid Anxiety’s new Gmail account.
Hi Stupid, Welcome to Google.
I LOVE IT!
Hi Google, this is Stupid. Thank you, I’m happy to be here.
I have to admit it. I have no idea what I’m doing. I was so excited about starting this blog, but right now, I’m ready to throw my tablet out the window. This, my friends, is just a taste of how frustrating it is to dare to try new things as a person with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, the fancy name they have given to overly anxious people like me, because “nervous Nellie” doesn’t quite cut it.
So here I am, trying to patiently follow instructions of a website I found when I googled, “how to start a blog.” I went through the steps, yet what I see on my screen does not match the screenshots on the website. I don’t know why this is so difficult. “I had my blog set up in 45 minutes!!” said the testimonials. But here I am, a week later, still trying to figure this out.
But stick with me, folks. I will get through this. Anxiety, you will not win this time! As God as my witness, I will have a blog! And it will be good!
