Progress thanks to chemicals

I have had OCD since I was 11. I won't go into too many details, but I will see that my problems fall into the trichotillomania spectrum.

Reluctantly, I went to a psychiatric nurse practitioner who put me on Luvox (fluvoxamine maleate). After  5 days, I am going to call this a wonder drug. My brain still functions, I am able to concentrate, but the obsessions are dampened. I liken it to the well-traveled roads of my thoughts and anxious releases have taken a detour.

Blog name explained

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakfast...

I fell in love with films when I lived in downtown Colorado Springs a few blocks from Colorado College and even fewer blocks to The Flick, a tiny art film theater. It opened my mind to Fassbinder, Wenders, Fellini, Bergman, and Almadovar.

The first Almadovar film I saw was Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. Besides the excellent tips on making gazpacho, and a heartrendingly handsome and young Antonio Banderas, I fell hard for Spain. One day, I hope to spend a few months touring Spain.

So, I named the blog in honor of the film and in honor of a personal phenomena: before I go to sleep, I review the day, the week, the month, the year...and I see so clearly how life spun out of control: not eating the healthy things at the right time, not getting to bed early enough, not giving my work the attention it deserves, and not giving my leisure time the attention it deserves. Then, just before I melt into Morpheus's arms, I know what to do. I wake up still knowing what to do. And then it starts.

Anxiety frantically pounds at the door. Is my blood glucose normal or too high or too low? Do I exercise now, or get to work? Thousands of ideas are extras in Braveheart's battle scenes. And then breakfast: I could cook an egg, slice up fruit, and toast whole wheat bread. The well-worn habits of the ages overtakes me, and I pour yet another bowl of nutritionally-iffy dry cereal into the bowl. My good intentions of the night before are gone, and I let anxiety in. Away we go.

Suppressing the Inner Brat

We have all been there: crowded supermarket, small child trying to convince the adult hostage that something is cute and worth buying. Adult hostage tells them "No," "Not now," or "That is not good for you." Child dissolves into a tsunami of blubbering, screaming, and--my favorite--kicking.

Cute, cuddly, and sugary does that to a person. A good parent reigns in those impulses. I think my parents did a fine job, but I flew away at 16, and I suspect I was not completely cooked.

I am 52 now, and the chickens with no impulse control have come to roost. I am an awful parent to myself: if I could, I would live in Candyland.

Oh, yeah, and I have type 1 diabetes.

I want this blog to detail my journey of finally growing up:loving myself enough to say no to the recalcitrant child, and yes to the woman I need to be before that heavy, purple velvet curtain draws closed on my final act (with no encores).