Often we want answers. I often find myself praying. Then I find myself looking for the answer. Wondering where and who to turn to to get the answer I am looking for.
...Because God is silent.

But what if He wasn't?
What if he gave solid answers.
I have been trained to believe that he does and yet it is a code you have to decipher and while no one else can receive revelation for me I am supposed to turn to certain books and people for answers. Who have been trained and conditioned in the same way. and sometimes they are wrong.
So why isn't God himself giving me answers that I know are actually coming from him? That I know I can trust? I am sure I am not the only one to feel this way.
I am not one who likes to believe down the line. I like to go directly to the source or at least as close to it as I can get and then figure out and decipher for myself how to interpret that data.
There is so much data out there.
And data can be changed, tweaked, manipulated for what ever purpose people have.
It's exhausting.
No wonder there are so many crazy people.

I once rolled my car by over correcting.
My metaphoric mind was thinking about all those "crazy" people who tout loving and forgiving yourself, and all the good karma ideals that occasionally frustrate me. (We can include at least one of my alter egos among the tout-ers.) But I think the thing that can frustrate is when I see those who fully love and forgive themselves all the time instead of changing the offending habit. I feel a bit apprehensive to fully accept myself as a good person when I am not yet.  It's tricky.
On the one hand I realize the power of forgiveness and that I'll not be capable of change if I don't forgive myself and give myself some credit and yet I don't want to excuse my own bad behavior. To correct is good.
...But to over correct can be just as bad and at times even worse.
I rolled a car once because I over corrected.

Sometimes I think I just might say "depressions a #@*$^*" but I think the censored word is quite offensive and degrading toward women and it bothers me that there isn't a term as equally degrading to be directed toward men.  Or maybe "man" is offensive enough. Kidding, that is my super-feminist alter ego trying to overtake.  I'd really rather the world just be less derogatory toward women. But I digress.
Those thoughts weren't even on my radar when I logged in to write about my bouts with the depression and anxiety that are recently trying to overwhelm the system.
Depression is a beast and it's not easy.  It seems to lie patiently waiting for any break in the system. Pressing on all sides just waiting for any little crack to open up so that it can ooze back in and slowly, or rapidly depending on the size of the gap, attempt to drown out all hope, ambition, light and joy.
A sinking ship.
But I've come up before and I will again. My ship will not go down today nor tomorrow. And it most certainly won't go down without a fight.
So to repairs before all sides collapse against the weight!

 :)
(and the little iconic friend is the first patch)

Sometimes I feel as if locked inside of me are the secrets to the universe.  Deep, deep down lie all the answers I am searching for. Just don't know quite how to tap into them and utilize my enlightenment.  Should I ever access those reserves...

Rational?

A punching bag.  At sixteen, that is all I wanted for Christmas.
My dad tried to convince me that I wanted a little speed bag.  He said "you'll get out more energy and aggression with that."
He may have been right but it was not what I wanted. Not what I felt like I needed.
I wanted to hit something.  But I wanted to hit it hard. I wanted to be able to hit and kick and punch and tear it a part with all of my pent up fury.  I could punch it, kick it, push it and even body slam it.
I couldn't do that with a speed bag.
I got a punching bag for Christmas and my dad hung it in the basement for me.  One of the last unfinished rooms in the house.  It was my dads old work room, so-to-say, full of wood for the construction and completion of our house that he and his brothers had built.  There was a tall black and wood table for a large radial arm saw (or at least I think that was the type of saw), a couple of five gallon buckets, various tools, a few hidden treasures left from us kids when we'd use it as a play room, several spiders no doubt, and who knows what else.  Now in the center hung my punching bag.  A large blue bag suspended from shiny silver chains with the word "Everlast" stamped on it.

I'd bloody my knuckles on that bag.

Sometimes my aggression would result in a black and blue hand, or two.  I didn't have gloves but I eventually got some wraps. I had to learn how to keep my thumbs in and hold a tight fist.  Little things like that.  Then I could unleash and beat the crap out of that bag, the blood scars evidence that I had won... And yet I didn't feel any less defeated.

Sometimes I feel that same pent up aggression. Fury.  The desire to tear something apart and roar like the Hulk as he turns green with rage.

In the car I felt like ripping the steering wheel right off and throwing it through the window.  I didn't because I understood the consequences of my actions. I knew that would mean no car to drive and a pricey repair or replacement.  But I really wanted to unleash.  It would be so satisfying to just tear it right off and hear it crashing through the glass as it shattered into a million little pieces of sparkling satisfaction. But I wouldn't even try because I knew I didn't want to cause damage that would later be regretted.

At least I have learned that much.

...But I'm not strong. This hadn't occurred to me before.
Then the thought, "I probably couldn't actually tear the steering wheel off... really."  Probably I wasn't actually strong enough to get it all the way off.   I realized I have never actually tried. Always resisting because I didn't really want to deal with the damage.

Then my scientific nature set in and I wondered if I really actually could (How come I had never considered this?).  I still was reluctant because really I didn't even want to cause minimal damage. "I'll just give it a little tug," just to satisfy curiosity.  It was completely resistant to my effort. Not the tiniest bit of insult. So I decided to give it an honest yank.  Completely solid.  No tension on it at all.  My best effort could not yield even the slightest stress on that steadfast steering wheel...

What me should I entertain?  What me should I develop?
Currently I find myself all dressed up for church and I actually look pretty good. But having such a hard time making myself go.

Sometimes so much of it feels like superstition.  Sometimes I seem to have an overactive imagination and lately I am feeling the need to break free of superstitions.

I'm not so sure that reflecting on the unknowns of supernatural settings is a good thing for me.  I find myself trying to attach meaning to everything but logically trying to remember that is probably not accurate.  So I decide it might be a good plot for a story and that maybe I should develop that idea.  But somehow in the developing of the plot for what is sure to make a good novel or movie, or something, I find myself trying to attach meaning and symbolism that again connects me to some supernatural, spiritual, transcendental, or psychic phenomenon.

aaahhh... sigh

And here I am all dressed up not wanting to go.

Ever Plagued by Ghosts of the Past and Love that does not Last.

"Anxiety girl"
That is how I was labeled in my high school senior yearbook by a cute well liked boy who had barely started allowing himself to speak to me again after my hurting his heart just before our junior year.
I couldn't understand why he hated me so badly for not wanting to be in a committed relationship at sixteen.  (Which suggests it may have been his ego that I hurt more then his heart.)
Why anxiety girl?  Did he know me that well though he didn't speak to me or be even remotely friendly for well over a year?  Was I transparent?  Was that what others said of me?

It's been many many years since I've last encountered this boy and yet he haunted my dreams the other night.  He's haunted them before.  Too sensational and very romantic causing a deep pain upon waking that is not to my liking.
A hundred or so years ago when I "broke up" with him I really truly did not want to hurt him.  I still like him quite well.  In fact there were things about him that I liked so much it frightened me. And I couldn't restrict my repertoire to one flavor when there were so many to try.  Especially knowing that I could easily find myself getting into trouble over indulging in a flavor that agreed with me when my senses were so new to these tempting treats.
As high school progressed and I watched this flavor develop I was sad that it was not a flavor that I was any longer allowed to even flirt with.  He wouldn't have anything to do with me.  He seemed angry and cold toward me ever after.   I was not good enough for him then but why did he have to hate me for it?  It hurt me.  Then he deemed me anxiety girl. Is this why he haunts me?  He saw what I was and since it hurt me that I was no longer worth his time or energy I feel compelled to work out my feelings of inadequacy via some mystic connection to the vain imaginations of my heart and soul?

This is nonsense. The imagery is quite romantic but it is merely symbolic.  Logically I recognize this.  But symbolic of what? Symbolic of  lost time and my own shortcomings and lack of accomplishment.  Back when I was 16 I hadn't figured out what was worth holding onto and investing in.  My own sense of inadequacy has ever thwarted my attempts to pursue dreams.   Maybe it is my lack of faith in myself that hurts me.  Maybe it hurts others. I don't know if I have figured out yet what is worth investing in and holding on to.  What is worth working at or through and what is worth letting go of.
...or how
I am trying to change my course.  Trying to "make" something of myself in order to open the doors to dreams and possibilities.  My insecurities have not vanished. My flaws seemed to have, if anything, more deeply rooted themselves over the years.  It would be nice to feel that security of passion and possibilities cuddled up next to an icon of handsome success.  To feel desirable and worthwhile.
Nail is this the head?

And yet here I am Anxiety Girl through and through.