7PM on Hydroxyzine

"I'm trying to herd my thoughts into a linear path, but I'm in shock." -Me, 10 hours ago

My need to be medicated today began early morning with a drip in my first-floor apartment. Droplets of water to my temple spit me out of my sleep and jerked me upright. I stood up, and within seconds, water stormed down from the ceiling fan into my bedroom. It was raining in my room. The downpour lasted 20 minutes and soaked the space—my bed, my carpet, several paintings—all drenched. I'd soon learn that it was not the fault of accumulated rainwater meeting an infrastructure issue but instead the actions of a careless fool. 

See, my erratic neighbor upstairs overflowed her bathtub and walked away from it. Why and what was she doing instead? I do not know. I'll find out when I meet with my building's upper management on Tuesday. I do know that my concerns and complaints about her behavior to property management have been ignored. Now, they have thousands of dollars of property damage due to her negligence. But enough about that.

I've been a magnet for bad luck recently, professionally and personally. Truthfully, I’m doing my best to fight off depression. It's been this way since April, hence my absence here. Since my first GIST cancer diagnosis, I've dealt with generalized anxiety disorder. My nervous system easily gets stuck in trauma mode. This means feeling unsafe even in safe environments because my brain remains anxious and on high alert after dealing with past emotional trauma. The underlying feeling is a deeply rooted perception shaped by a mind conditioned to prioritize safety.

It's a protective instinct triggered by a trauma response. My mind knows what hell feels like and stays hyper-vigilant to shield me from further emotional turmoil. So when genuine threats like this morning's event occur, my safety concept becomes even more distorted. The stress of having my room destroyed by someone's soapy bath water has become an unwelcome addition to my tangled emotional landscape. I'm a neat freak, and I'm not gonna lie; knowing the water's source is really doing me in. All of this is a layering of emotional turmoil that feels like the last bit of weight that triggers a loaded land mine. 

When it happened, I cried and spiraled mentally as I quickly shuffled around my bedroom, salvaging my valuables as water crashed down on me. The carpet squished beneath my feet as I collected what I could, struggling to think straight. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough hands, and everything in that room was valuable. Now, most of it is damaged. 

It's times like this that I realize how fortunate I am to have my mom with me as she's getting older. I frantically went to her room. "There's water coming from the ceiling," I said before returning to my room. She dressed quickly, knowing maintenance would have to be called, and found me in my room. I had put on my hooded slicker coat by then. She took a beat, in shock herself surveying the scene. I was falling apart, trying to save the items in my arms, and she shifted into mama gear, forcing me into the living room. She hugged me, speaking life into me as I balled. She told me to sit and took over after that. 

I sat on the floor with scattered thoughts, trying to temper the seismic breakdown brewing inside me. I composed myself and went mute, staring into space. In that spot, I didn't move. One minute blinked and turned into an hour without me noticing. Afterward, I managed to move to the couch, where the mute staring repeated. 

For 10 hours now, this has been my reality. I have since moved to the couch, and I'm writing this to the sound of an industrial-strength fan drying out my neighbor's mistake. For those wondering, I'm okay, but I'm not. However, I will be. What I am is numb, a functioning numb. I'm experiencing shock brought on by compound stress. 

I'm learning that shock doesn't always scream. Sometimes, it whispers, holding you between conscious and unconscious. I envisioned it differently. I pictured wild thoughts and chaotic upheaval, but it's more subdued than that. For me, it's manifesting as a protective mechanism, a brick wall built to buffer emotional overwhelm as emotional resilience kicks in. 

I’ve absorbed enough science books to know that, at this time, my brain's active mission is to help me process and facilitate a pathway forward after the buffer clears. I've been through a lot of shit—hurtful, scary, mind-crippling shit—which ultimately reinforces a cycle of fear. It's a lot, but years of therapy have given me the tools needed to challenge the chronic feeling of being unsafe, even when my circumstances suggest the opposite.

Basically, I'm able to check myself before I wreck myself. I have the mental fortitude to step outside myself and evaluate my emotions. When life overwhelms me, when water crashes into my space, when depression tells me it's always going to be like this, I can sift through my feelings and question them instead of mindlessly falling victim to them. It's not easy, but it's possible. I'm doing it right now.

Deep down, I know things will get better. Nevertheless, it's still rough because the pain, confusion, and aggravation don't just fade away with self-awareness. I have to ride it out. Still, no matter how dark it gets, I remember that challenging times are temporary and tomorrow could change everything. I just gotta hang in there.