Dear me, it’s not your fucking fault

Dear me,

It’s not your fault if you were humiliated as a child.

It’s not your fault if someone who had no business to undressed you against your will as a young child.

It’s not your fault that schoolkids said your nose was ugly and your ears were big.

It’s not your fault if a teacher tried to get schoolboys to stop you from leaving a classroom.

It’s not your fault if your family members compared you to a monkey.

It’s not your fault if you felt like a nothing and a nobody every day of your childhood and teen years.

It’s not your fault if you spent your young adult life cutting your arms, and cutting your hair twice trying to make your mother notice.

It’s not your fault she ignored you.

It isn’t your fault you suffered from so much severe anxiety.

It’s not your fault you hated yourself, and have begun to do the same.

It’s not your fault that the men you dated called you ugly, a whore, weird, and a terrorist.

It’s not your fault that one was married. It’s not your fault he didn’t believe you when you were pregnant. It’s not your fault he called you a murderer when you have to terminate for fear of your life.

It’s not your fault that people still bully you on social media.

Dear me,

It isn’t your fucking fault that when you commit suicide, the world will not miss you. None of these people will. Only your parents will mourn you.

It’s not your fucking fault. Stop hurting yourself. Just stop. Stop crying your heart out. Stop hurting yourself. IT. IS. NOT. YOUR. FAULT.

I need to process my grief, before I can look to the future

It’s been almost two weeks since I resigned from my job.

It’s been difficult, and I’ve slept a lot. I haven’t done any gardening, ‘spring’ cleaning or work.

But I’ve been keeping myself busy by going out here and there and starting a new diet and exercise regime. But it’s only stopped me from thinking about my issues. And today it all came to a head when I finally had a ‘bad’ day again, after about a week of fairly OK ones.

I’m finding increasingly that I have some bad childhood memories circulating around my mind. And I think it’s because I’ve stopped moving forward in life, that finally my mind is having a chance to process what I’m feeling from my past.

The memories are all to do with humiliation, force, and fear.

They all involve males, too, unsurprisingly. My mother told me that when I was younger, I suffered from an uncontrollable fear of people in white coats. This is evidence that my earliest bad memory is not just a conjuring of my mind. It is real. Without going into too much detail, it involves a man in a white coat crossing the boundary of my consent as a toddler, invading my space and bodily autonomy, and; needlessly undressing me.

As I grapple with these memories, some involving groups of boys as a pupil at a school, I find they cross into my most recent experiences involving bad relationships with men.

But my problems do not end there. They interweave with all sorts of issues, the main one being a lack of self-esteem and confidence.

Most of my anxiety and depression comes from these factors. And when I’m triggered, they all come flooding to the surface.

All of this means that hopefully I am processing what is inside my mind during my time off from work, responsibility and commitment. I am trying not to do anything stressful, like go out at busy times to shopping centres etc. But it is hard, especially when I feel like such a failure for quitting life. But I am only doing it to process all of the grief I carry with me, so that I can look to my future with minimal hindrance.

Who knows if this is going to work? I’ll keep you posted. Thank you for reading this. It means a lot to me that there are people who like my posts and resonate with what I am going through.

 

 

Failure is not an option when it comes to anxiety

I started off a few days ago talking about how my crippling anxiety never ceases to destroy my life; yet through the struggle there is always hope.

Although the dark clouds of fear and worthlessness and doubt are constantly with me, and none more so than Mr Anxiety himself; the old, frail man who in his stubbornness fails to leave my side, I am always trying.

And to me, trying is not failing.

I have been through some experiences, good and bad, and there isn’t a day when you don’t feel a bit lost and ashamed of who you are. But failure is not an option when it comes to anxiety. Because if you let it win, you cannot live. And when you stop living that is when true failure sets in.

Everytime you try something; though it may not end well, at least you have tried. That effort, that strength it takes to do something is huge success.

I promised I would impart some more information of how I trained myself out of anxiety in a previous blog.

The willpower it took to dress up, leave the house and hand in CV’s when looking for a job was difficult, but I took advantage of my presence at University to study at undergraduate level. The very fact that I had pushed myself to continue my A-levels, took me to a platform where I felt safe and involved: pretty much like school, except there were no teachers constantly trying to stifle your creativity.

Dont get me wrong, I spent the two years studying my A-levels mostly alone. I would finish class and then go to the library to study. It was there that I read Wuthering Heights for the first time. It gave me life’s simple pleasures, sat in the quiet of a library, surrounded by books full of words that made you dance inside.

In short, it is the little steps you take that are the difference between beating your anxiety and letting it win. And still to do this day I take every step purposefully. Because though we battle with these giants, we have a war to win. And I cannot let myself give up. Because I don’t want to go to that dark place where failure lives.

You are not a failure if you try. So whatever you were thinking of doing: Try. Do.

 

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In my next few few blogs I will explain the physical techniques I used to train myself out of anxiety, and the fear, and work through the sweat and blushing, and shaking, to face the world.

I’m angry – Living with anxiety

I am furious.

I’m angry that my anxiety has been so debilitating, that I’ve not been able to live my life.

I’m angry that the older I get, the more regrets I have. And with every passing year, Mr Anxiety triumphs over me. He, who celebrates a private victory with every hour that he steals.

I’m angry that the world doesn’t owe me anything. That it would chew me up and spit me out and not give me a second glance. I’m angry that that is the way it is.

I’m angry that I’m sad all of the time. I’m angry for being a sensitive child, to this day, she lives inside of me, fearful and pathetic.

I’m angry that my confidence and self esteem is so rock bottom that it almost drills into the earths core.

Today I screamed. I shouted out loud because I could not contain my despair. My utter torture at being the one left behind. Because this anxiety is killing me. And while my peers, and those who are much younger than me seem to be living. I am dying.

The white cloud of Worthlessness has all but enveloped me completely. I’m suffocating.

Yet I persist.

In a way, I am two people, living side by side. One resentfully bitter. The other drags me through life, albeit screaming.

Yea, I am angry. Angry that life has been so cruel to my loved ones.

Yet I persist. I’m tired. But I’d drag myself through hell if I had to.

Because I am not dead yet. Therefore I must live.

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My anxiety makes me fear irrationally

I’ve lost.

Tonight, Mr Anxiety comes close to me. Leans down and places his pale blue lips against my ear.

”You’ve lost.” He whispers. His face is twisted into the widest smile.

Bad memories begin wading in.

I’m riding a horse. I have become afraid of horses for some reason, though I’ve been riding them since childhood. I lost my nerve. The horse bolted.

I’ve already lost. I repeat.

My anxiety is ruthless. It is has no boundary. It makes no sense.

I have developed a fear of almost anything and everything. Irrational fear. There is nothing to fight because… I’ve already lost the battle. The Grey Cloud of Fear covers me in its dense fray today.

But the war is not yet over.

I feel a sharp stabbing pain inside my brain as I wonder if I could get through the night without waking up in a damn sweat.

Earlier I was wondering whether it would be prudent to move country… perhaps live elsewhere. Maybe then I might see the wood for the trees.

But running away won’t solve anything. I stand and fight, but my how I’m tired.

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