Andy. Andy Anxiety.

Well my new stress ball came in the mail the other day.  I was so anxious about it, too.  They told me they were going to send a confirmation email when it sent, so I was checking my email every few hours to see if I had anything....nada.  Nope, never got an email.  The ball, however, did arrive two days after ordering it, so I guess that makes up for their email failure. It's green, and I love it.  I've decided to call it Andy.  Andy Anxiety.  Don't laugh, I thought it was cute.  My hubby thought it was cheesy.  Well that's me, the queen of cheese.  Anyway, my amazing father in law has ordered me half a dozen stress balls.  I have been instructed by well, you know who, to have a stress ball every where I go.  The point is to have a back up for my back up's back up.  So, when my six stress balls get here, there will be one everywhere that I regularly go.  Glove box, purse, backpack, kitchen, bedroom, refrigerator.  Just kidding.  Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.  

Well I've been making it a point to "meditate" every day.  Right now, my waves are playing again...and it's almost like they're rolling through my brain, pushing my vacant thoughts to the surface.  Maybe that's why I can write when I'm supposed to be "meditating."   (See, I told you I'm not good at sitting still and relaxing.) No really though, when I'm alone in this dimly lit house with my piano crashing on the waves behind me, I find myself in a state of reflection.  Some days I just want to stab at my brain until I can get some answers.  There are so many questions that have been eating away at me  Figuratively,  and at times, literally, through the picking.  I can't remember a time when I haven't thought about it.  I can't remember a single school picture where I didn't have some kind of cut or scab on me.  (Mom, if you're reading this, can you?) I just so badly want to get back to that point, even though I think I was maybe three or four.  I hate it when I hear eighteen-year-old girls on Dr. Phil complaining that they're ugly, that they have this devastating problem.  "I've been picking at my skin for six months.  I don't know how to stop!" Well I have news for you, hop into this brain and take a spin, then see what Dr. Phil can do for you.  Really though, I feel like a prisoner to my hands.  I just wonder, what if I had my fingernails surgically removed? OK, so that's a little bit drastic, but it just seems like a simple solution. 

I wish I could pin-point that exact moment, the time my little hand first went to my face, or to my arm.  I would grab myself by the hand and say, "don't do it.  You're better than that."I would have stopped me. I would have flown to the future like the ghost of Christmas and shown that little girl what lies ahead. Some days  I look at my little girl, and I think, what could a little girl be so anxious about that she starts doing this to herself? Where did it all go wrong?  Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm depressed about it or anything, I just badly want to be free from it all.  Is that too much to ask?

On a different note....the font from my first few posts, where did it go?