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.

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.

My memories plague me

It’s 5am, and my mind is racing.

It’s taken me back to a distinct memory, from which I visibly cringe, and the heat is emenanating from my face as I remember.

Several other bad memories seem to be jostling for space, each as mortifying and embarrassing as the other.

I have a pathological fear of humiliation. To be shown up in public, to be caused to appear weak, and having done something which exposed me in some way sears onto my brain like an imprint from a hot poker.

My memories plague me. I don’t want to remember. I wish I could erase them. I wish I didn’t care about that pathetic time I spoke too loudly, or I choked back the lump in my throat when arguing with someone who knew better than me. Insisting I was right.

Shouting that I’m not going to be quiet anymore. And thinking that I really ought to control myself.

Why do these memories stay with me? The other people who were present at such events have probably completely forgotten about them.

They don’t remember the small, weak girl, with the distinctive face making a fool out of herself.

Just a stupid fool. Like the one sat in the small, plastic chair, feeling empty because the teacher has shown everyone else how stupid she is. Over and over and over. They might as well have pointed and laughed at me.

It’s apparent how anxiety has a way of making me mourn the past as well as the present.

There are several clouds with me today. And the sun hasn’t even risen yet.

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