Moods Schmoods

I've been tremendously self-conscious about the nature of my disease (Bipolar), especially when it pertains to my professional life. I quit teaching about a year and a half before I was formally diagnosed. My symptoms were at their worst after my near-fatal concussion, but apparently I was suffering nonetheless (although at the time it was thought I had PTSD...post-traumatic stress disorder). I've since felt that I cannot commit to much without feeling stifled, and subsequently panicked, and when I inevitably feel overwhelmed, I shut down and can't manage to even phone my boss without B's (the husband extraordinaire) help. I feel weak, and I ultimately hate myself, although you wouldn't necessarily notice it if you met me on the street.

I guess this topic arises AGAIN, because I've begun tutoring a friend's children in their English/Language Arts classes. I've grown to enjoy it, but have been encouraged to take on more students, and have applied to work with a tutor-matching service. Ultimately, I could use more money (who couldn't?), but of course that evil voice deep within me says that they'll see right away that I'm a freak. And so what? I know that in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter! But still, I obsess.

Fear of Death

The worst thing in the world is to suddenly become aware of your own mortality.

This thought came to me today as I was driving home from the barn. I'd engaged in a discussion about my catastrophic head injury from '04 with J and C. A fall from a horse nearly killed me, and that realization sent me into a grave depression, a place darker than dark, that I thought would never end.

From the fall I emerged a fearful person. I'd changed dramatically from the risktaking ne'er do well I was in my youth. Suddenly the world seemed far too large, and I this tiny, suffocating speck just waiting to be squashed. And I've spent the last 3 years trying to regain my confidence...not only in myself, but in the world around me.

I find it interesting that my view has taken a negative spin. I survived. I was NOT killed, but now I'm more afraid of life than ever before. I've become ever more conservative with my activities. I still ride horses, but prefer the walls of an arena to the unknowns of the trail. And I hate that fact. I wish I could become the Dawn of years gone by. I wish I could ease those fears and move forward. I wish I could become myself again.

Bonked on the Head, Still Dazed and Confused

So Thursday morning I pulled an Einstein-worthy maneuver by walking into my rising garage door at a brisk clip. UGH. I managed to gash my head open...a small slice in my scalp that sent blood gushing. And of course there was the headache that 2 Darvocets could barely touch. Since I'd survived a particularly hellish head injury 3 years ago, I decided to wait to go to the ER, as I didn't think this incident warranted panic. Still, I've been battling headaches and disorentation for the past 3 days. Of course loved ones inist I should be seen, but really, what will a doctor tell me that I'm not already doing? Rest, icing the noggin, etc... I've got it covered. But damn, my head hurts.

Why Not Start Blogging... ?

I thought I'd take up blogging for real since I've proven that I'm able to keep a consistent diary, however banal, thanks to the structure provided via my daily planner. I suppose the day-to-day drudgery that makes up my "routines" doesn't make for the riveting subject matter I'd love to provide to anyone out there with the slightest interest, so my goal is to chronicle the more interesting happenings to the best of my ability, as often as I can.

I'll not get into detail about my life for the past 2 3/4ish years, although much has happened by way of my advancement as a human being. I'm still a self-proclaimed "barn bum," and have recently left the closest thing resembling a job (caring for horses at my barn in exchange for board) as a direct result of my beloved mare, Contessa, requiring more room to move. I've since taken up tutoring, a fact that my mother LOVES, as I'm finally utilizing my almost-Master's degree at long last.

Almost-Master's? Yes. I acknowledge the fact that I failed to complete my MA in Secondary Education, simply by refusing to complete my FINAL revision of my thesis and turning it in. That's all I had to do and I simply didn't do it. My motivation? Who knows? I have a tendency for leaving projects unfinished, losing interest long before I should, which I suspect is directly linked to my inability to blog consistently. Or something like that. As my only real idol, Kurt Vonnegut, would have said, "So it goes." I can't believe I missed his death...he's been responsible for much of the little inspiration that's come to me over the years...did I mention I met him once? He commented on my viney armband tattoo...I think it was a compliment...

So who is Dawn the self-proclaimed Drama Queen? I often define myself by my shortcomings...don't we all? I'm in my fourth year of being 29, I have Fibromyalgia and type II Bipolar, and I have a proclivity toward sabotaging myself whenever any semblance of success rears its head. I'm ruled by my many fears, which ultimately prevent me from realizing any potential whatsoever.

I suppose I'd like to think of myself as being unique, but the more laps I make around the sun the more I realize that there isn't much remarkable about me. I'm a horrendously boring person, spending my days with my horse and my nights watching TV with my husband. Occasionally, VERY occasionally, we go out to dinner or something similarly "normal." We live comfortably, Bret working as a software designer for a behemoth of a company located in the greater Seattle area.

I love photography, and keep a site containing some of my "better" work: http://andersonequine.smugmug.com/. I have to say I feel pretty good about my ability as an amateur photographer, particularly since I've never had any formal training. My photographs tend to be dark, reflecting my personality and its tendency toward depression.

My daily writings, included in what I jokingly refer to as my "tome," are occasionally spashed with colorful scrapbook-like pages filled with photographs and stickers and all that pretty stuff that spinsters with cats create to chronicle their boring lives too. I write down nearly everything that I do, but not necessarily everything I think, for my thoughts often travel too fast to capture on the page. Of course, like everyone else that keeps a diary, my writings are much more interesting after having a bad day...or a series of bad days...or a manic episode where I feel particularly creative. I suppose if I had the energy I'd take the time to copy them here, but really it's too much of an effort for too little substantial content.

And my therapist thinks I engage in simply too much negative self-talk. Hmm.