30-Day Song Challenge: Day 15

Day 15: A Song That Describes You – Death by White Lies


How do I begin?  Let’s see:  I was born anxious, nervous, fretful, apprehensive, mentally restless, emotionally uneasy, not quite sure what to do in the world.  Would it like me? Would I like it?  The answer is…

Uh…I don’t know.  We’re still figuring each other out.  So far, my brain likes to make fun of the fact that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.  To shut it up, I write and take medication (okay, so the medication is for my girly parts but, believe me, there’s some special ingredient in there that totally tries to balance out my bitchiness. TRIES, not to be confused with ALWAYS SUCCEEDS.)

I’ve always been a sufferer of my own self, my own worst critic, my own worst enemy.  My anxiety encourages my depression and my depression furthers my anxiety.  How did I come to know all of this?  Before I was ever put on Wellbutrin or Paxil (none of which I’ve needed for many years), I was persuaded, at the age of 16, to join a group therapy session being held in a conference room of Malcolm Grow Hospital on Andrews Air Force Base.  It was in this session that I met young soldiers returning from Iraq (the first war in the early 90s) without all their limbs or all their marbles. 

At least we had that in common, having lost all our marbles.

Dramatically enough, I had a panic attack and walked out.  My fellow therapy participants, whom I’d known for all of 10 minutes, asked me to stay but wished me well once they fully realized I wasn’t able to.  I just didn’t feel worthy. 

Their post-traumatic recovery was a battle they shared collectively.  My battle was my own, with myself and nobody else. 

It still is.

Floating neither up or down, I wonder when I’ll hit the ground…

Yes, this fear’s got a hold on me

I can honestly say, though, that life is a hell of a lot easier once you realize why you have always felt so scared of everything.  There is no such thing as a small triumph.  In my head, every accomplishment deserves a 30-minute round of Independence Day-worthy fireworks.  But to most people, some of my accomplishments are often considered simple things that I was expected to complete anyway, as an ordinary person.  

Some days, it’s an emotional drain on me to even make my bed.  (Yes, mom. This would explain why I never made my bed as a teenager. It wasn’t out of laziness. It just involved too much thought.  Yes, mom.  I know that sounds stupid and utterly ridiculous, but it’s the truth.)

I don’t want this post to be anything other than an explanation for why I do the things I do.  The things I do may never make sense to you, but they are the only things that keep me in control of a couple of otherwise uncontrollable situations called life and death.


About Dena

I'm a suburban Clevelander by way of Oklahoma City, by way of North Florida, by way of Southern Maryland, by way of Upper Michigan, by way of Northern Italy, by way of Lower Michigan, by way of Texas. Because of living in so many places, I have something in common with almost everyone I meet. I love reading, writing, and American history (especially reading or writing about American history). I'm interested in culture of place, historical trauma, and writing about the kinds of histories most people don't know about.
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