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.