It has been more than 5 months now, since my last anxiety attack. I still don't know if it's the result of years of hard working (therapy etc.) or just changing my medication in a way I thought was fit. I like to think it's a mixture of both. I don't like to think that all the years of hard work, with lot of pain and a lot of tears, was all for nothing. It's also not very likely because I took the same medication years ago and than it didn't work then (not enough anyway).
I used to have 1-5 anxiety attacks a week, mostly on sundays. They also caused severe depressed feelings for 2-3 days a week and I shed a lot of tears, sometimes every day.
All that is gone now. A week after I changed from one antidepressant to another the anxiety attacks stopped abruptly, the tears went away (hell, I can't even cry anymore if I wanted to) and I don't stare in an endless black pit anymore. I flourish at work, which pleases me, but it's also very consuming. I sleep a lot. Don't have a lot of energy. Although I'm not old (48), my body feels like 70. Have to do something about that.
What intrigues me, and irritates at the same time, is that now I am an relatively "normal person" my life and that of other people seems so terribly boring. Is this really it? There so much repetition! In the novels I have recently read ("Het Puttertje" from Donna Tart and "Joe Speedboot" from Tommy Wieringa) it's even worse because you read the story of someone's life in a few days or see a movie like High Fidelity in a few hours. The repetition of growing up, falling in love, eat, sleep, get up, go to work etc. is even more pronounced in such short time frames.
It's a strange thing: sometimes I can look at my cat, lying in the sun and be overwhelmed by feelings of delight. So peaceful, so beautiful; life is so good.
And this morning I woke up, with the cat between us, lying with both her front paws around my boyfriends face. The cutest thing to see. And rationally I know that, but I felt nothing.
The only thing that really changed is that I know that there's nothing I can do about it at that moment. Just keep on living untill it changes. Until that uneasy feeling goes away.
But why the hell should I read more books, see films and relive also another men's lifes over and over again...?
I realize that now I don't feel anxiety anymore, instead there's a lot of emptiness. And that emptiness makes me restless and uneasy. I guess I'm kind of jealous that people can be satisfied with what I consider "nothing"...