Shaky Egg

coffee and xanax

Is it over yet?

Okay, so it’s a big mug of hot soymilk only laced with coffee. That should be okay right? It was chilly in our house and the thought of coffee at 11 pm was just so delicious. As I waited for the kettle to boil I looked around my kitchen and the mess in there was causing me considerable anxiety. a) it wasn’t that bad a mess and b) who gives a shit, anyway? That’s when I knew it was time for the xanax.

Don’t worry. Anxiety disorder people don’t get addicted to prescription drugs. They will never, ever willingly relinquish control. They are too busy killing themselves trying to make everything just so, to have time for truly debilitating addiction.

A tiny Seussian tree, lime green tinsel, lighted, sits in the east window of my little attic study. My baby put it there and plugged it in for me some time tonight, during the long stretch of hours in which she played by herself, was largely ignored by her parents, who as long as she was nearby and safe did not much notice anything else. She sang, and jetted in and out of the kitchen to crib a snack and get back to play. She played with her Baby Alive and with cardboard boxes and a big stick of unburned firewood left from last night and… who knows what all else. I heard her saying, in one of her  singsongy conversations with herself– now don’t let your daddy be angry at the baby because that’s just what babies dooooo.  She also spoke to Miss Manners and hoped she’d come to our party.

It was a gorgeous day today. I finished up my shopping list, wrote a bit to a friend about my healing school work, grocery shopped, cooked my ass off, and ate a delicious supper. Then I cooked some more.

Since about ten I’ve been thinking I really should just go to bed. One of my new year’s resolutions should be to just say fuck it and go to BED.  I had good intentions of spending quality family time until midnight, playing Great Dalmuti or something, watching a movie by firelight. But they’re all playing World of Warcraft, and I don’t really  mind.

I’m going to get way more mileage from this xanax thing than I should, from perspectives which include but are not limited to that of simple good taste.

You know, I’ve always been anxious. My early blogging was devoted to my anxiety, in a way– based partly on my friend M’s gift of A Perfect Madness Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety–

From The New Yorker
In this polemic about contemporary motherhood, Warner argues that the gains of feminism are no match for the frenzied perfectionism of American parenting. In the absence of any meaningful health, child-care, or educational provisions, martyrdom appears to be the only feasible model for successful maternity—with destructive consequences for both mothers and children. Comparing this situation with her experiences of child-rearing in France, Warner finds American “hyper-parenting”—pre-school violin and Ritalin on demand—”just plain crazy.” The trouble is a culture that, though it places enormous private value on children, neglects them in the arena of public policy. She is concerned less with sexual politics than with the more pervasive effects of the “winner takes all” mentality, and makes an urgent case for more socially integrated parenthood.
Copyright © 2005 The New Yorker

and partly on my relief when I talked to other moms in my educated white middle class cohort and found out how they, too, sold out and were imperfect, in ways from drinking alcohol to failing to teach the baby to sleep in its own bed to failing to let the baby sleep in the parents’ bed to allowing kids to watch tv, mother’s other little helper, to giving them drive thru kids’ meals, buying them things instead of spending time with them…

I think somehow I knew it all that anxiety was was all bull anyway. My blogging was ironical (heh, love that word)– the feelings that drove it were genuine, but I had some sort of perspective or center, a voice within me saying, come ON people. This is absurd. Knowing it is absurd doesn’t stop me worrying or whining about it, but at the heart of it, I know it’s absurd and in my center, I am still here, slogging along being me, my little candle burning bright.

My anxiety made me more creative, made  me think more, makes me go that extra mile to do the right thing. It is a very powerful force for good, and I worry about the oblivious dumbasses who are not anxious. I cannot name a single dear friend who is not anxious about something, and most are anxious about more than one something. Anxiety gives me the power to work a little harder and do a little better and speak a little louder. It is a good thing.

So this is different. My candle is sputtering, often simply blown out. I don’t know if it has come time to lay down the anxiety and look for my personal power from a different, more mature spiritual and experiential quarter, or if I am just bone weary. Probably some of each.