It's days like today that make me wish for my old coping mechanisms.
I feel like holing in a booth or a chair with unlimited cups of diesel fuel coffee and chain-smoking while I journal. I want a big soft hoodie to shield me from the outside. I want to plug my ears with my iPod and journal through the music.
I still use music. It's hard to connect with my feelings. I don't like to face them. I would rather bury everything and just clean my sink or sort laundry. Instead, I sit down with an empty page, a pen and a few playlists. Rage Against the Machine pounds in my ears while I mark up my journal in big block letters. I let the anger flow out of my body and onto paper where I can deal with everything without it being so jumbled. I turn the music to Alison Krauss and let the tears smudge the page while I allow myself to be sad and write about why I'm sad.
The coffee keeps me alert and focused. The cigarettes make me calm and take away the facial twitch that seems to get worse whenever the anxiety gets in the red.
I can't do this anymore. I can still journal. I can still listen to music. I have to limit my caffeine so that I can get enough sleep to get up in the morning and take care of the kids. Smoking is right out. Can't pick that habit back up.
I'm a suburban mom of three. I have to act like one. Take my medicine, say my prayers, stop complaining and just do what has to be done.
Still, every once and a while, my finger itch.