Tag Archives: Anxiety

Fifteen minutes of putting my thoughts on paper

Where the fuck do I begin with that?

(Intentionally fuzzy)


Letter to myself

Dear me,

I’m tired of trying.  I’m tired of everything being so hard.  

I’m angry that I’m feeling like this and I don’t know how to change it.

I’m sad.  I’m sad about nothing.  I’m sad about everything.  Mostly I’m sad because I’ve forgotten what happiness feels like.

I’m worried that it’s going to be like this forever.  I’m worried that this is how it is now.

I’m lonely.  There’s only me fighting this battle and there’s no back up.  

I’m bitter that other people manage this.  I’m bitter that everyone else is doing great things and I’m sat in the car crying.  

I’m hurt that those that should care don’t.  I’m hurt that there’s no one reliable left.

I’m anxious about doing everything.  I’m so anxious I’ve stopped communicating with people I know altogether, and I’m sad because no one has noticed.

I’m frustrated that I can’t snap out of this.  I’m frustrated that it’s hard, and I’m trying my best, and it’s still hard.

I’m failing.  Failing at everything there is to fail at, and all the things there isn’t.  

I’m wrong.  This is not how I should be.  It’s not who I am.  It’s not what I want to be like.

I’m malfunctioning at life and I don’t know where the restart button is.  

I’m overwhelmed with life.  I’m overwhelmed by inner voice thwt keeps telling me I’m not doing it right, that I need to try harder, that I’m not good enough. 

I’m obsessed with social media which makes me feel bad.  I’m obsessed with my diet and the numbers on the scale.  I’m obsessed with how I’m stuck in a place I don’t want to be and I can’t get out of it.

I’m scared of what happens next.

Please help me.

A. Mess

21st century hopelessness

It is odd that in 2015, where the entire world is at your fingertips, in an age of non-stop information sharing, where one can sit in a room and talk to 150 friends virtually, that it is possible to feel entirely and hopelessly alone.

Admittedly, I’m slowly transforming into a crazy cat lady who spends her days looking at memories of days gone by in her pyjamas, minus the cats. I am not making any increased effort to stop being hopeless, or isolated. So I’ve really got no one but myself to blame, but I can complain and whine about it and still be to blame. My blog, and it can write whatever I want.

Thing is, I think hopelessness and loneliness are different. I don’t feel especially lonely. As I write this I have four chat bubbles pinging away indicating that there are four people in the world that want to talk to me. That four more than many people, so I should be grateful for that. Which I am. Sort of. But what I actually want is people to engage with face to face. Real people in real time. Not that the bubbles aren’t real, these are all people I know and see in real life, not some strangers I acquired off the internet, but they’re not really here.

Chances are they’re all sat at home in their pyjamas talking to four people who aren’t really there either. Only they’re probably aren’t over analysing the situation. Maybe they are. Maybe we there all over thinkers and all too socially incompetent to speak to one another about it. Unlikely.

So how does one stop being alone? Meet someone. Well we’ve established that is comparable to scaling Everest, so that’s out. Meet new friends? Ah yes, but how does one do that at nearly 30. Can’t just go to the park and share an affection for the roundabout before inviting them back for tea. You have to join something, or go somewhere where you present yourself to a group of people already bonded and attempt to get accepted. I am no good at this. I am ok at the presentation and the subsequent viva of questions. I’m polite enough and just witty enough without being offensive to get past round one. But the problem is, getting to the presentation part. Whilst other people are fumbling over their words and trying to think of appropriate jokes whilst with the new group, I am stood outside the door, filled with panic and dread. Actually I’m not even at the door, I probably got as far as the driveway and then carried on walking.

I am the awkward kid at the back of the room, desperate to join in the party games, but terrified of rejection, so watches from afar because being alone but with the potential to be accepted is significantly better than being alone and rejected. However you look at it, all the options involve being alone.

It’s all quite hopeless really.

Well we all know what happened here

Unsurprisingly, when things started to get all too serious with the therapist I backed out, put everything to the back of my mind, and have successfully navigated the world for the last four months with no emotional input. Is that worthy of congratulations? I’m not entirely sure. Probably best not to reward my ability to become an android and a hermit in one fail swoop.

As is the way with these things, I’m acutely aware of my incompetence at life, so I’m going to attempt to try again. Be more social, be more open, let more people in, attempt dating.

Having not left the house for basically a month other than to go to work, I’m not anticipating much success. I’ll probably join a new therapy, be fine with it until it starts getting serious, panic, and revert to my happy little insular self.

But that is not the attitude to have. I’m about to turn 30. It is time to get over my shit, and move on. Raargh!

Oh god I’m so not raargh. I’m petrified.

What would Disney do?

Here’s what I have learnt this week. That if I just don’t think about stuff that makes me a paranoid anxious loon, then I’m not a paranoid anxious loon. And I’m pretty good at avoidance, so I’m pretty good at not being a loon.

Fabulous. Problem solved. Just avoid anything emotionally difficult.

Or not.

Not thinking about stuff is easy, but it still means that I can’t entertain the idea of by functional adult relationship with a boy because none of the irrationality in my head has stopped. I’ve just turned the volume off. Which would be fine, but I do want to change.

And that’s scary.

Therapy will go a bit of the way of fixing that, so if I just think for the hour a week there, that might be enough. And when the friend moves in with his girlfriend and I can stop pretending there’s any kind of future in it, or at least pretending that I might want any kind of future in it, or whatever the hell it is I want, that will help. And If none of my friends hear me continuing to be just a little bit insane, then at least they won’t be abandon me and I won’T have to become a crazy cat lady.

So I’m going to Feel it, Conceal it, Don’t let it show.

Until therapy fixes me.

Hmm. What happens if therapy doesn’t fix me?

Doesn’t matter. Won’t think about it.

See, I’m very efficient and burying my head in the sand.

Dating for beginners

I’m back to writing. Because it is 7pm on a Friday, and I have no plans. But this isn’t a wallowy post about lacking a social life. It’s Friday night, I’ve just worked a 50 hour week and I have to get up early, a night in sounds magical.

Instead, this is a wallowy post about dating.

So here the thing, I haven’t really dated in about 4 years. It terrifies me. Like the thought of going out and spending one on one time with a boy makes me want to cry. Why? I’m perfectly competent at conversing. I could go out to dinner with my male friends, chat, laugh, share a wine and have a lovely evening. But put any sort of romantic slant on it, and suddenly it’s becomes an insurmountable mountain.

I’ve established, I think, that it’s the intimacy bit that scares me. I’m so busy thinking about all the reasons they wouldn’t want to be with me, and I’m pretty practiced at appearing socially competent that I can talk my way out of most things. But when it comes to anything else, I can’t talk my way out of, and in an event to avoid history repeating itself, I just avoid it all together.

But, I don’t want to. I just don’t know what to do about it.

Recently, I attempted to meet a boy. I found a couple online. It was all fun and entertaining chatting through the interweb. But then, they wanted to meet. In person. With me. Uh oh.

Most normal people might have butterfly excitement and justify it with rational thoughts. He talked to me, and continued to talk to me. He’s seen pictures of me, and continued to talk to me. He likes talking to me, and the look of me enough, he wants to meet.

I however, am not normal. My irrational thoughts go something like this. Why is he talking to me? He must have no one else to talk to, he’ll stop when there’s someone else. And I’m more entertaining online, more opportunities to press the delete button and time to think of something witty. And My pictures of me don’t look like me in person. He’ll be disappointed and it will show on his face, and he’ll be uncomfortable, and I’ll feel bad that he doesn’t want to be there, and then he’ll make up an excuse to leave, so I may as well not go.

So within about four seconds of finding out they want to me, I’ve decided that I should probably never leave the house again, just in case someone is uncomfortable about having to talk or look at me.

But, I attempted to follow this through. I actually arranged the date. Time, date, location. For one week and two weeks away respectively.

T-7 days. I pretty much decide I can’t do this. I’ve spent 12 hours considering all the possible reasons they won’t like me, which lead me to all the reasons I don’t like me, and no one in the world should like me.
T-6 days. Why dd they invite me out? Maybe it’s a joke and it’s just for shits and giggles. I definitely shouldn’t go tips they’re going to make fun of me.
T-5-2 days. I’m a wreck. Can’t talk to people. Flash backs to all the horrible moments in my life. Memories of all the times people have affirmed my failings at life. Log off dating site in panic.

Date the following week follows the same pattern, just slightly sped up.

So I’ve spent the last two weeks in turmoil because I attempted to date. So what have I learnt from this? Don’t try to date, it’s bad for my mental health.

Who needs therapy when there are biscuits to be eaten?

There is something quite cathartic and pouring out my heart and soul to the internet. I wonder if I will continue to write or whether I will end up, like most things, giving up.

I give up, a lot. If things become too hard, I give up. I’m not sure why because I think I’d consider myself a pretty determined person, but anything that involves self-improvement is basically a dead end.

I’m morbidly over weight. I think that’s the PC term for very fat nowadays. This leads to all sorts of body confidence issues that are longer than my wobbly arms. However, I’m sort of okay with that. I mean I’m not okay with always being the fat kid, and one day I hope I might not be the fat kid, but it kind of gives me a reason to hide.

My weight makes me miserable, and brings out all my low self esteem thoughts, But it’s okay, because I am actually over weight. It’s not hidden. It’s not some deep rooted issue pushing away at me from the inside. I hate the way I look because I should. I’m miserable about being fat, because in am. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror, because it’s ugly.

Unlike the other things that race around my head, I have a justification. A fact. A reason.

But as a result, I sabotage every attempt to lose weight. I broke my leg a couple of years ago and piled on the pounds. Great excuse to hide out. I can’t go out, talk to people, date, because I’m fat, and that’s not what fat people do. So if I wasn’t fat, and I didn’t do those things, I might have to start addressing some of the other stuff.

Being fat, is probably keeping me a little bit sane. Therefore, being fat is good for my health (or is that one step too far? Should I have stopped at the sane bit?).

I am off to find a biscuit. For therapy.