...To Not Go There

Everyone should be sympathetic to other people's problems. Right? To be able to put themselves in other people's shoes. My problem is that I don't just try on the shoes. I wear them around for days at a time. I wallow in those shoes until they form to fit my own feet. They become my shoes. Their problems become my problems. And they can be stranger's shoes. People I've never met. I don't even have to know their name. This is why I can't watch the news.

When you hear of a local tragedy, someone losing a loved one, someone going through a personal crisis, it is normal to feel bad for them. It's called being kind. Human. That's not enough for me. I have to take it one step forward. I will sit and imagine what it must have been like to experience it. What they saw. What they felt. Playing out a little movie in my head. Making up scenes of what I think must have happened.The crazy thing is I feel like I owe that to them. It's the least I could do. These poor people had to actually live through this horrible nightmare, the least I could do is make myself sick over it. Maybe that is rather normal when it is your neighbor or a relative or a friend. But for a faceless stranger who lives on the other side of the planet? My therapist has said to me "What are you going to do? Leave your own children and family to move to Africa and volunteer there?". Well obviously not. That's just crazy talk. So, no CNN for me. Or FOX for that matter, although for different reasons. 

Yesterday another child got diagnosed. Another parent had to go through what we went through. 

My kids have a disease. 

There I said it. 

We were blessed to have three children. Two of them were blessed with Type One Diabetes. It sucks shit. It's everyday. No breaks. No holidays. And it's never going to go away. I could write pages about the stress,the lack of sleep, the fears, the heartache. And maybe I will. Just not today.

Today is about me not going there. Not going to the dark side. Not making an unnecessary trip for someone else. It's hard. I know what they're going through. Literally. No imagination needed. Been there, done that. Still doing it really. 

But that is their story, not mine. Their time of sadness, of struggle, of being overwhelmed while trying to learn a million things. Their path. Their shoes. And while I can be overwhelmingly sympathetic to what I know they are going through right now, I can't let it overpower me. I can't feel guilty for having a good day while someone else is having their worst. At least, I have to try. For my sake. For my own family's sake.

Today is a good day here. A normal day. A calm day. And I am grateful. 

....To Be Honest

I am home alone right now. Laid up with a bad back. My first experience with such an ailment. I enjoy being home alone - maybe a bit too much. I love the quiet.

I started this blog as a tool to help me. I thought perhaps writing things down, sharing with the void, may be useful. May cause me to open up more with myself. To look inside myself and start to like what I see. To accept myself for who I am. To love myself even.

I suffer from anxiety. I'd say this was a secret but I don't think it is. I think everyone knows. How could they not? In truth, I tell people that I do. Well, some people anyway. I try not to "add to the stigma" as they say, so I try to be honest. Just not too honest. More of a vague honesty, if there is such a thing.

I've had anxiety for probably 8 or 9 years now. I'd have to look it up. I should say that's how long I've been diagnosed with it. Looking back, I can see where I always had it, in one form or another, just not to the same degree. More of a normal level of anxiety, or what I always thought was normal. My normal.

I've seen a psychologist countless times over the years. Sometimes with my husband, sometimes alone. Sometimes it's him going alone. Sometimes it is me accompanying him. I should note that my husband also has issues which I do not feel comfortable talking about. Not even here. They are not my stories to tell. I'm currently on medication to help cope with my anxiety. My second time round. Same prescription both times, although this time it's at a higher dose. I've gone from being scared to take them, scared I'd never get off them, scared to go off them, to being off them for years. Then last year it started all over again. Only this time I knew I needed them. Wanted them. Couldn't wait to start taking them. It's only now, months later, that I start to wonder if I will ever be off medication. Is this really who I am? Or just who I am right now? And is it really such a horrible thing, if it helps me live?

Besides anxiety, I have also been blessed with....how do I say this...low self esteem? Lack of self confidence? Both of these make me sound like an angst ridden teenager. Suffice to say I can be hard on myself. I seem to hold myself to a much higher standard than I would anyone else. Which to me, ironically sounds a bit egotistic. I think I am so much better than everyone else. Which I obviously do not believe. Not in the slightest.

I can understand cutters. I've never done it but I can understand it. In my darkest of days, when it is all consuming, I have to fight the urge to hurt myself. It's not the same as being suicidal. I don't want to kill myself - just hurt myself. I want to rip my face off. Scratch my skull or my legs til they're raw. The urge, no the need, is almost uncontrollable. I need to do it. It's this feeling coursing through my whole body. At that moment I hate myself so much that I need to do something to cause myself physical pain. It's like it would make myself feel better. It's complicated. It's fucked up. And if you've never felt that way, I can't explain it to you.

The important thing is I don't do it. I resist. I fight. Partly because I know how wrong it is, and partly because I'm scared if I start, I won't be able to start. It will become just another bad habit. It will become real.

My trigger is guilt. Guilt can get me pretty much every time. I can feel guilty for anything. I'm good at it. I've had years of practice. I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't feel this way. Not even as a child. And before you ask, Mr.Void, the answer is no. No I've never been sexually abused, or at least I have no memory of it. I've never been physically abused either. Verbal? Well really, who hasn't had that? You can't live, exist on this planet, and not had some form of that come your way. But no, I don't think I've experienced any abuse - not as a child or as an adult. Really the only abuse I've had has come from me. I'm the abuser here.

Which brings us to today. Why I am writing. Sharing.

Stay tuned.