'Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity'

Anxiety, I find, is like herpes: it surreptitiously materialises with little warning, and can remain undetected for quite some time, until it completes its final journey or carnage. Granted, anxiety rarely results in a mouth that looks like it’s been raped by a rabid squirrel; but then again, not many things do. There doesn’t seem to be a steadfast cure for either of them either, and both will tend to reoccur at times when you need it as much as a fish needs a bicycle. But I will keep focused on the anxiety issue here – venereal diseases are for another time and, (thankfully) not my forte.

I have been a sufferer of anxiety all my life as far as I know, which explains my premature birth, my obsessive compulsive tendencies, and my extreme lack of patience... wait, that is everyone in South Africa dealing with Telkom. If I leave my anxieties to fester for days or weeks, visible signs start to develop. One of these is the telltale glazed over look I get; one I can only liken to that of a schizophrenic patient with cataracts, or Carrie Prejean on Larry King.

The internal symptoms, however, tip the unpleasant-scale far more significantly. An inner jumpiness manifests, as though all my organs are moshing to a silent System of a Down tune on repeat. It is impossible to calm myself down once these drums have started up, and my level of agitation grows exponentially. It is the greatest anomaly I have witnessed – I appear as calm as Buddha, yet my body is having an internal epileptic fit.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (and I don’t know any to consult with) to determine that continued anxiety and agitation directly result in decreased production at work, low concentration and a tendency to redirect your frustrations onto innocent bystanders; although the latter is perfectly acceptable if said bystander is a Telkom employee. These results tend to initiate a vicious circle, because of course all of the above will make you more anxious and tense. Bar popping more pills than Wacko Jacko or identifying the starting culprit, there really isn’t much that you can do except attempt to catch it in its early stages (likewise for Herpes kids). My advice is to invest in some meditation music to placate Serj Tankian and his drums down a little. Additionally, an oil burner will not only relax you, but mask the smell of the copious cigarettes you smoked in your room over the last few anxious weeks.

Failing that – hit the vodka. Guaranteed to calm you the f**k down!

Coping is for Big People

Having started and dropped 4 Bachelor degrees, and being on my second ‘break out of life’ period to recover from an eating disorder – one would think that I should be accustomed to the harrowing emotions of making life changing decisions. Regretfully, I have to admit that my over sensitive and ardent nature still gets the better of me, and I can be seen listening to James Blunt whilst crying into my pillow. In my defence however, I do believe that experiencing all-consuming heartache can make an emo kid out of the most hardened characters.

I am still disappointed with myself. I allowed myself to relapse into the ‘numbing the pain’ phase, and am now suffering the consequences of the proverbial broken heart and a torrent of overwhelming emotions. Denial seems to have a benevolent way of temporarily numbing the pain in this case, and only in hindsight is it a good idea to face it head on.

This scenario and the aftermath of my decision has also made me question whether I am capable of being a true adult – whatever that means – if I mentally crumble when faced with difficult times. Playing devil’s advocate (yes I have not been to therapy for a few weeks), perhaps I should think closely about the many adults there are in the world who still cannot handle the coffee being switched to decaf, let alone major break ups and intercontinental moves. Bad example, given, but maybe there is some truth in not beating myself up about being a little immature with regards to life and the sick and twisted lessons it throws our way.

I don’t deal well with the big blows; perhaps I never will, perhaps I will learn on the 10th kick from the universe, or perhaps the 50th. However, right here, right now I will just have to see myself through this pain and <insert sarcastic tone here> accept it as one of “life’s lessons”, while investing in some Doc Martens and a black trenchcoat.

Great Expectations

After setting aside 3 months in which to achieve my planned goal – I regret to inform that unless this is executed with some degree of leniency and room for human nature, it is about as likely to come to fruition as an apple tree in Chernobyl. Success within the given time is no doubt the respected and expected product, however if the bar is set too high; the time frame too small; or the result board set in mere black or white … well the likely outcome is bound to be failure of some form.

I have known since the moment I arrived here to ‘get better’ that it would be difficult to ascertain the exact measure of these words, or even if I was on the right road towards it. The expectations for me to recover from bulimia were – in retrospect – a little narrow minded. It was always known that breaking my ties with the porcelain express would, on its own, not crack the nod as having recovered from the illness. It was set more as a process of learning how to cope with life difficulties and of self understanding. In light of this, I am not going to waste more energy wondering if I have hit the target, as the answer will unquestionably be ‘Hell No!’ I can assume with some certainty that even Chuck Norris himself could not learn these things in 3 months. I have, however, succeeded in getting into a healthier frame of mind, in gaining self worth, and in keeping my eating disorder under control. For this I would like at least 2 brownie points … and maybe a badge. I have worked for it and I deserve it.

For those that know me, it might be all too clear to you that I do not have it all figured out just yet, but that I learn along the way. I will resolve not to crack like a fat kid at boot camp under the pressures of expectations that do not match my ever changing personality or my wellbeing at the time. I am not going to drag myself down because I make some mistakes along the way, because I am self preserving or because I have not achieved the golden title yet … as far as I’m concerned, the cake mixture can be as good as the cake.