Torn in Turmoil

I’ve spent most of today (at work, in between customers) writing pages and pages about my current issue (according to the writing, though, there are a couple issues).  And it didn’t change anything.  Well, ok, maybe a little, since I DID come home afterall.  The worst thing about this particular issue is I know it is not blown out of proportion by hormones (which would usually be the case).

Of course, the problem could be (is likely) me, myself.  The way I deal with things is sometimes overly emotional and maybe even a little immature.  But just being aware of these things does not make it any easier to spot, stop and control my reactions at the time of implosion.  Perhaps it is the chemicals in my brain again, meaning I need to go get some pills to fix it.  But maybe this turmoil is something that can’t be cured with a pill.  Or maybe it can.  It worked last time.  For like 12 months, the pills sorted the brain chemicals and I felt normal.  No freak outs, no over-reactions to things (aside from the normal hormonal issues I have every month anyway), that was, until about a month after I stopped taking them (thinking I was much better).  And now that I think about it, it might be the right thing to do to go back on the pills.

Because, no matter how much I wrote today (and it was a LOT!), I seemed to be going round and round in circles.  Backwards and forwards over the same things.   And always coming to the same conclusion.  The best course of action (and least troubling for everyone involved – and this was before I thought about the pills) is to suck it up.  Compromise and make the necessary sacrifices that everyone else has to make in order for relationships to work.

It doesn’t seem so hard.  Except it is.  Because I’m a selfish, self-centred person who wants to have everything my own way to feel happy with my life.  Because my life is disappointing.  Not going anywhere.  Aww shit.

About Inner Turmoil

This particular brand of inner turmoil comes from being unable to speak openly when agitated. 

It’s taken years of feeling what I (still) call ‘psycho’, to realise the agitation is born of frustration with self-censuring.  Oh, of course, there are other causes, effects and over-reactions, but, well, you get the point.  And if not, I’m sure, if you read for long enough, you will.

Instead of speaking, and on the occasions where I can’t internalise any more, I write.  There are countless ‘diaries’ and ‘journals’ I have written in (longhand, no less) over the years, detailing over-analysing thoughts and silent outbursts during any given mini-meltdown.  And perhaps some of those entries might find their way here someday.  Until then, this is my new venting place.

It’s the way of the future right?