It's all me, me, me...

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Vivre Sa Vie
London, United Kingdom
Well hello there. My name is Viv (well, it's not really), and, like a lot of people, I'm ever so slightly neurotic... I have panic attacks and anxiety (ranging from mild to pretty intense), on and off. I also have an amazing and quite high-profile job, so I'm choosing to remain anonymous on here. Not because I'm ashamed of the aforementioned neuroses, but because I don't want to be googled and for my colleagues to read bizarre posts about me breathing into a paper bag and popping lorazepam. I've worked for bookshops, mixed arts festivals and charities, and have met (and still meet!) a lot of famous, fetching and fantabulous people for my job. (See, anxiety doesn't need to stop you being AWESOME and doing what you want to do) Here's hoping you'll find some helpful hints and tips on here which will help you tackle the evil panic heebiejeebs... PS. I'm an Australian, but I live in the UK, and have adopted tea-drinking, pubs, Wodehouse, and a Welsh man.
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Tuesday, 6 March 2012

If I knew you were comin' I'd've baked a cake...

More lavender crack cake, vicar?

I think it was was Gandhi who said 'cake heals all wounds (apart from gangrenous and leprous ones)'.  Or was it Marcus Aurelius? Whoever it was, was a very clever man indeed, and definitely onto something.

I know some days are so full of anxiety monsters chomping at you that you can't think about chomping yourself, and your stomach feels like it's going to void itself all over your vintage velvet sofa. On those days the best thing to do is NOT FRET about the fact that you can't eat, and just sip at some smoothies or Complan or something. No harm will come to you, and your appetite will return. Honestly, the very worst thing you can do is start to freak out that you'll pass out and die (who moi? Catastrophise? Never!), or never be able to eat again (and slowly waste away and *then* die - you can see a recurring theme here if you look hard enough).

But on the days when you CAN eat, and you're just a wee bit maudlin, or blue, or depressed about your anxious mind, or just plain hungover - you need to march yourself down to your closest cafe, and EAT SOME CAKE and drink some spiffing British tea from the colonies. Preferably with a nice, left-wing, similarly prematurely-aged friend, but this is also a lovely solo pursuit too.

Yesterday I had a 'Lavender Victoria Sponge' (see pic above. I thought consuming a cake's-worth of lavender might be just as good as sniffing it), and I promptly fell into the peaceful, post-orgasmic, post-saturated fat happy state I like to call 'cake bliss'. My boyfriend loves cake bliss time, as this is when my most ardent declarations of love come, and when I am least likely to veto any plans he wants to run by me (but there's no mistaking the fear in his eyes - he knows he's living on borrowed time, and that cake bliss wears off just as surely as a bellyful of MDMA).

Take-home message: marzipan is medicine *or* don't cry - have some pecan pie.


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