Okay so this is just ridiculous. I'm fine now.

Anxiety faded out of my gut while having a really lovely conversation with someone just a few hours after the last post and it's been fine since, even with some weather fluctuations and being a little haphazard with what I eat.

I'm not sure it completely rules out the possibility of histamine induced ulcers, the physical discomfort is still there if I press down on my abdomen, though becoming less so by the day. It's funny, I press down expecting to feel more pain than I actually do.

I still feel some anxiety, some residual tingles at the edges of my fingertips, some deep gut activity that's probably just normal digestion.

I wonder if it'll surge up again, or if this is just that yearly pattern that leads into summer. I don't like being uncertain. I put a lot of time and energy into figuring out who I am, how I work.

But y'know I don't really feel like dwelling on it. That's sort of the irony of times like this, that when I'm fine there's no point to examining myself closely trying to figure out the nature of my wounds. Sometimes I wonder if times like this are actually better for trying to figure myself out.

When I'm not crippled from whatever trauma I've had I just want to spread my wings and live life, y'know? I try it even when I'm bleeding, but most of the time I can only enjoy those times in hindsight through photos or my rambles in this blog.

The first time I went to therapy I was in undergrad back in 2015. My anxieties had built up to the point where they were ready to burst and were spilling outward at anyone close to me. Ultimately I couldn't stay in it long enough to get much progress done, but it was important to have someone validate how much trauma I'd actually undergone, and I started learning to be kind to myself.

But I went back for a few years right after my Dad passed away in 2020. We met in person a couple times before switching to remote. Some folks have told me they don't find that to be ideal, but it worked for me. I think I did need to meet with her in person for a bit though.

She helped me through a lot. And she was never harsh with me even in my obvious alcoholism. She encouraged me to go out to events, that if I was going to drink myself stupid I should do it around other people. And I think ultimately that did help me get over it.

I've done a lot of reading and self reflection over my trauma over the years. Learning about how my brain works and why it made things the way they are, and after a while I was able to start changing a few things.

A lot of the time, I brought things to my therapist who did less and less to guide the therapy. A lot of the time she couldn't help 'cause of SLS (Shitty Life Syndrome), but she always encouraged my positive attitude.

Something about trauma is that it embroils all my emotions and experiences together in a tapestry of self-destruction. A lot of my self was consumed in guilt, whether it was my responsibility or even knowingly a result of someone else foisting it onto me.

I felt absolutely unworthy of the good things I had in my life. Whether it was my nice apartment, cool car, low-stress job, or my wonderful friends. And it tore me up that I couldn't take care of myself.

And that was it, y'know? I wasn't taking care of myself. I relied on a lot of people around me, but that didn't make me a bad person. Just about every great thing I've attempted in my life I've failed at, and after a while, wouldn't you know it but I didn't want to try anymore.

But I came to a conclusion: that what I owed to everyone who loved me, above all else, is to take the best care of myself that I could.

Around that time, my therapist told me that I had everything I needed. That I wasn't going to learn anything new with her. She told me I was always welcome to come back when I needed to, but it was time to do the work.

When I was a kid watching cartoons, my favorite was GI Joe. At the end of every episode was a PSA, some lesson a character from the show would impart to some kid, like how to swim or not to talk to strangers or whatever. And they'd always say that famous phrase: "Now we know, and knowing is half the battle."

When I was around four, I asked my Dad what the other half of the battle was, and he just looked at me and said "the battle" with a shrug.

I think we forget that a lot. We spend so much time learning and then we forget the work that has to be done and that's nothing to scoff at.

So here I am in the wild, and that's what I'm doing. I'm fighting the battle.

Some days I guess I'm going to be behind. I don't know why my body spent most of May telling me to give in to despair. I don't know if something I could have done would have given me a better time.

My life isn't perfect. It's definitely lacking something. I wonder constantly if there's something I'm not cunning enough to see, some action I'm not courageous enough to attempt.

This past month I've felt the worst I've felt since I quit drinking. And I don't have any clear answers for why. I'm still going to talk to a doctor about every possibility, something I might do to improve myself. Maybe I'll get lucky and all my problems will be cured with an antibiotic or a dietary tweak.

More likely I'll have to keep fighting the battle though. And sometimes I'll be ahead and sometimes I'll be behind. I've been fighting in the arena of my mind my entire life and I've gotten pretty good at following ol' Marcus Aurelius' advice, which my Dad always tried to instill in me: "you have power over your mind- not outside events."

So here I am, back on the path forward. Not sure what lies ahead. The stormcloud's passed for the moment, and the sunny day beckons me forward.

I don't really have a choice. I take a step forward.