Acceptance

How do you begin to accept the things which are done to us that turn us into the people we become? How do you formulate emotions that go against everything your mind and body are making you feel? I think perhaps I'm waiting for the punchline to some joke I never found funny to begin with. A joke that everyone else can see the funny side to. I never used to feel uneasy in a crowd, and now when too many faces gather too closely I begin to panic. Because until now I haven't been able to accept the things which were done to me, or the person I've become.

When we're born we're given a book with blank pages. Where the story goes is unwritten, but as the years go by the chapters begin to weave out tales of betrayal and love and sadness and all those timid moments of monotony in between. Sometimes we repeat chapters, rewriting the same scenarios until we learn to let them be. Or rip the page out in desperation. Sometimes we don't get to write our own chapters, they are taken from us and penned by those who take control of our lives. My book is on the shelf at the back of the library, its old and worn from being open and closed. It has pages missing, and chapters reminiscent of each other. There are villains and heroes, and lion tamers. It has beauty hidden deep within, moments of utter clarity that would be the envy of any who could stand on the outside and look within. And moments of loneliness and despair. Why did this happen to me? Why does this keep happening to me? Take the damn pen away from me, I am done writing.

The reason I am riddled with anxiety is perhaps a mix-up in my make-up. There are those who would argue that mental illness is all chemically induced. That the wires in our brains are tremendously wired up wrong. There are others who would say that mental illness is the disposition of those who do not deal well with the dark chapters of life. I happen to believe in both. It is the things which were done to me, things within my chapters that I could not fathom which broke me. And it is those chemical imbalances which remain within that keep the anxiety clock ticking. Perhaps our story is different, but that is the beauty of mental illness. It does not discriminate. And it does not wear the same face each time. Perhaps this is why I can not accept the things which were done to me, and the person I have become.

Before anxiety I loved nothing more than making plans with a big group of friends. After anxiety I no longer have a big group of friends to make plans with. Before anxiety I did not care what people thought of me. After anxiety I question every word which slips from my lips in case it can be used against me later. Before anxiety I walked through life thinking everything would be ok, being noncholant about the things I should have cared more about. After anxiety I fear the outcome of every small decision, and the various repercussions if I've made the wrong decision. Before anxiety I walked through crowds, after anxiety I avoid the masses as if the many faces will somehow consume me. Before anxiety I was so certain in my relationships I thought they were unbreakable. After anxiety I am more aware than ever that nobody will walk this life with us from the start of our book until the end. No one.

As desolate a thought that might seem, I like to think that with acceptance there comes an enlightenment which anxiety can not touch. I just want to exist without questioning my relationships, without the worrysome thoughts of I must spend more time with my friends, because if I don't we will drift apart and I will lose them. I must not be anything other than agreeable at work, even at the cost of my own peace of mind. I must make sure my boyfriend and my kids have everything they need, even if I am exhausted. I must exercise more and lose weight, but what if I can't find the motivation? I must ensure we have enough money, even though I'm paying off debts that were none of my doing. 

These are fundamental worries. Things that follow us through life, whether we suffer from anxiety or not. But there is a stark difference. Those without anxiety have accepted these things, perhaps even on a subconscious level, enough to function each day and sleep each night. I do not, and can not accept that I am no longer the sort of person who could bury their woes. I look back on who I once was and I see another life, another book entirely. Perhaps one day I will tell it, but until then I keep old dirty pages with damaged edges in my back pocket as a reminder that I walk the earth in different shoes now.

We are all a little damaged. We are all that old hardback sitting irrepressibly on the shelf gathering dust. I do not want the rest of my chapters to be desolate and anguished. I do not want them to repeat in sentences already written in doleful strings of words that begin to make little sense after a while. I want my book to land in the hands of someone who rejoices in reading it when my time on this earth is done. I can not change the things which are already written, but with acceptance I can turn them into beautifully constructed lessons that were learned bittersweetly. Every day is a battle to achieve this. Every day I tell myself the crookedness of my teeth wont taint my smile. Every day I tell myself of all the people I have lost in this world, all of them no longer deserved their place in my book. Every day I try to accept these things, and some day I convince myself that I have. I heard somewhere that if you fake a smile one day it will turn into a real one. Perhaps if I fake my acceptance one day it will turn into something real.

Stay with me.

Good days and Bad days

I can't say with any certainty that I am ever going to be rid of this disease. It courses through my veins now and pumps fiercely into my heart. But there is a short reprieve, and they come in the form of  "Good Days". They might not be particularly good by some standards. They might not be picnics in the park or day trips to the beach. They might not be birthday parties or winning the jackpot at Bingo. They might be sitting in front of the tv or driving to the supermarket. What sets them apart from all the other days is that on "Good Days" these trivial things are easily achieved without having to mentally prepare yourself to do them. They slip into your consciousness like sunshine through blossom trees and suddenly the world is not as bad as it had once seemed. The demons hide behind their tombstones and play dead. On "Good days" there is a rare opportunity to appreciate all that you have and give yourself fully to the beauty of it. Because there is so much beauty in the world. And it is tarnished by the fear that comes with the "Bad days".

The thing about Anxiety is that it never truly leaves you. It lingers on the peripherary both day and night. It seeps into the subconscious in the form of nightmares, and stays with us in the day as we try to put our finger on that niggle in the back of our minds that just wont quit. The thing about "Good days" and "Bad days" is that they grab a hold of that lingering and send it hurtling in either direction. I once read somewhere the most perfect description of Anxiety. "When your chair tips back and you almost fall but catch yourself - that sensation - but for no reason for hours." Some days the chair is constantly tipping back, and others the chair has all four feet placed firmly on the ground. I cherish these days. The people who love me cherish these days. My personality finds its way to the surface and I am able to be myself for those precious hours or days in the sun. I bask in the warmth of it, the release from constant panic. And I tell myself it's ok to tell the joke, it's ok to voice the opinion, it's ok to say whatever is on your mind. And I do, and suddenly there I am. And I am reminded that I am still this person, even if I retreat inward once more on the "Bad days."

Have you ever felt sad for no reason? Have you ever known you were worried about something but couldn't remember exactly what it was? Have you ever overreacted about something that was never going to be as bad as you feared it might be? These are the fundamental things which people who suffer with Anxiety deal with day in and day out. This is basic everyday anxiety. And then the demons crawl out from behind their tombstones. Every word you say is a weapon which can be used against you. Every thought is twisted into a deafening rhythm of doubt. Everyone who has ever loved you is lying. How can they ever love someone like you? You're a failure. You're ugly. You're replaceable. Don't tell the joke, they'll think you're stupid. Don't voice your opinion, they wont agree and they'll hate you for it. Don't say whats on your mind, they'll call you crazy and pitiful. I used to watch Alice in Wonderland and marvel at her spectacular fall down the rabbit hole. How perfect a way to describe the descent into madness. Every sensation is heightened, every voice heard. Every look noted. During "Bad days" there is a constant battle within. Rationality tells us that nobody is talking behind your back but experience of betrayal tells us they are and inevitably will stick that knife in. During "Good days" you enjoy the company of these same people. During "Bad days" there will be physical manifestations of panic if nothing goes to plan, or the future seems uncertain. During "Good days" you're able to see these things for what they are. Accept that the future is unwritten.

Life will always be a tide. When its far out and you can't see the waves crashing on the shore I always tell myself it doesn't matter if I can't see them. I know that they are still there and if I am patient they will come into view. I write this on a "Good day" when I can put all of this in perspective. Yesterday was a day for sadness and torment. And when I was asked what was wrong all I could say was "nothing". Because thats what the "Bad days" are made up of. Tiny fragments of nothing. All stitched together to make a blanket of...nothing.

I like to think that I am a functioning person, despite my mental health issues. I go to work four days a week, where I work with autistic people. And then I come home to be a Mother to my children who I have tirelessly tried to shield from the darker moments of my depression. I think perhaps they have had a glimpse during the times when the "Bad days" were a constant cycle which continued for an entire year. But during moments of clarity I see that its perhaps not such a bad thing that they are aware of heightened emotion. We cannot hide ourselves entirely. And I try to be a good partner to the man I love. His arms have sheltered me on many a "Bad day" and I owe him the best of my "Good days". Some of you might look at my life and think I have little to worry about, but that story will have to wait. For now I live on the balance between the bad and the good. Light and dark. It's a thin wire and it sits above the entire world. Which, no matter what, will always continue to turn.

Stay with me.

The Circle of Friendship

Friendship is a developed need. There is only one person we require when young to keep us alive and that is our Mothers. But as we grow there becomes this all consuming need to pick people around us, and integrate ourselves into social groups. I could talk about society and its many faces regarding this issue. But there is only one which is close to my heart. There is nothing more meaningful on this earth outside the love we share with those who have the same blood running through their veins than a deep and meaningful friendship. But how do you implement that when anxiety sits on your shoulder whispering words of doubt into your ear? So quiet is that little demon that only you can hear. I have been there before, in the throes of a deep and meaningful friendship. I spent half of my life with this person, sharing nights of laughter and days of un-tethered memories that would come up in conversaton many years after it happened. To have a best friend who you walk through life with is a precious thing. They are the family of choice, and it feels as if nothing in the world will ever break this bond of sisterhood.

Until the bond is broken. And you lose your person. And all the other persons along with them. And suddenly humanity takes off its mask, and you see the true face of it underneath. The path laid out ahead becomes distorted and disillusioned. Betrayal is always waiting for its moment in the sun, and when the clouds part ways it will always shine down. You continue to walk this new path, only you're alone save for the eyes staring out at you from where you can't quite reach. The loss of something so great, so profound is just a little nudge towards mental illness. And those demons, those eyes... they are always watching.

For whatever reason, and there are many, I have lost a lot of people in my life. People who I have trusted, who took that trust and threw it into the fire to burn to ashes that just drift away on a breeze. People who I have helped, who I have loved and cared for in equal measure. And in their place I am left with wounds that have names and faces I dare not speak of. Friendship has become a circle, and I am trapped within the realms of it.

Does this person want to be my friend? Does this person care about me? Does this person tolerate me, and nothing more? Does this person want us to grow closer? Does this person think I'm weird? I can't text them again, I already texted them the other day. I can't invite them out, they'll be busy. I shouldn't bother them. Don't tell them anything personal, they'll use it against you one day like the others did. Don't talk about them to anyone else, in case you get accused of talking behind their back, Why didn't they text me back? Why are they nice to my face but never check on me? Why don't they invite me out? I'm being needy. I'm being pathetic. I'm an asshole. And this is why nobody likes me...

That is the reality of the circle. An unquenchable thirst that requires constant self-doubt and incredibly low self-esteem. Which I have in abundance. It would be easy to close the door and stay behind it. Where I am safe and nobody can touch me. But theres an element of loneliness that drives people to acquire friendships. Friendship is who we are. Our friends reflect in us, and we reflect in them. And when it is real it is beautiful and vividly warm to the touch. However real though, forever is something completely unobtainable. Forever is not something the cosmos can provide. Losing a friend hurts just as much, if not more so, than losing a lover. And these losses are what make us fear the next one. Just as with a lover.

Anxiety within friendships is a minefield. In a self-centred world how do we compensate for our inner feelings whilst trying to remain "happy and breezy"? If I am not the funny one, the happy one or whatever the other ones are, then what am I? Am I officially the Anxiety friend? The one who replies quickest, the one who never says no, the one who is so afraid to lose the friendships they have scraped together from the broken pieces that they have become a mockery of what a friend actually is?

My mind is broken, and so is my heart. From past experiences and consequent anxiety. I remember how I used to be solid and I didn't worry what people thought of me. And I was never backwards at coming forward. And I remember that girl with fond memories and I miss her. I think I'd like to be her friend. She was awesome to have around. If I can make my way back to her, by some tiny miracle, I'll be the funny one. The happy one. The whatever the other ones are. But going back is in direct conflict with moving forward. And perhaps I'll never be that girl again. But I hope one day I will come to terms with the girl I've become. And my friends will too.

Stay with me.

The Anxiety Puzzle

Research suggests that mental illness is on the rise. Our lives are bound tightly in the clutches of stress and recognition of having the most well presented life. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, we must have each round corner smoothly fitted into the next. There must be no pieces missing, no frayed edges. And if there is, we have to gloss over it and make whatever we have left create the final picture. It has to make sense to whoever is looking at it, it has to reflect the picture on the box. Because the box is never going to change. Even if the pieces inside do.

I don't think I've ever achieved the picture on the box. I think it stares at me and mocks me no matter how I try to ascertain it. I've seen people who open theirs, their pieces shiny and new and pre-assembled to always fit perfectly and have the sort of life that is so rarely given. They find love in their youth and keep a hold on it, growing over the years so that no other can compete to their solid history. They have enough wealth to provide a home with beautiful interiors, because they have job security in air conditioned buildings with colleagues they invite to Barbecues. There is no world for them which does not open doors, one open door after another. Their jigsaw remains complete, so it does not diminish over time. 

I may be forgiven for the bitterness in my tone. For any who has fought for just a tiny fragment to fit into place, or forced a piece that was not meant to be there into the wrong place just to try to feel normal for one moment, I do not speak to the pre-assemblers. I know you exist. I know there is a world where mortgages are attainable, and slim figures are maintained. And your children play with toys that have not been tarnished. I stand at your picket fences and clutch my puzzle pieces with glorious envy. Your story is not mine. 

Perhaps I have always read the instructions wrong. For as long as I can remember a piece of me has been missing. A piece of me has frayed edges. A piece of me tries to fit where it does not belong. A piece of me does not match the picture on the box. I'm gathering dust on a shelf, I'm too complicated, I'm not worth starting with because you'll never finish. Put me down. Walk away. Try something much simpler to bring you joy and contentment. 

Anxiety is the box. It's the one thing telling you the way things should be, and somehow they inexplicably aren't. The box says you must not be in debt. But you are, and your bank account reflects that. The box says you must be married and have children, but you've tried that and somehow ended up marrying the wrong man and having two children to different fathers. The box says you must own your own house, but rising house prices are making bricks as valuable as diamonds. The box says you must have friends who share your interests who you socialise with on regular occasions, but they've betrayed you and now you don't know who to trust. The box says you must have a good job, but once you find one you love they close it down. I wish my box was empty. I wish there was no way of knowing how things are supposed to be. I'm exhausted, I want to stop playing. 

Drop the box. Let it fall by the wayside. And all the pieces with it. If this life is nothing but a selection of well crafted curves and edges, I do not want them. Let me dwell outside the box. Let me be imperfect in this world that strives so hard for pefection. Let me worry about money, or lack thereof. Let me be lonely even when I am surounded by faces. Let me be judged for what I did not achieve when I was younger. Let me be a failure, even as I hate to defy the order of things. My anxiety does not reflect yours, our boxes will never match. Your edges and my edges, perhaps while they may be parallel, never the two will meet. One can not define the other. But there is a no mans land, where all the missing pieces come together. Some of them fear the unknown. Some of them fear what others may think of them. Some of them fear a catastrophe that may not come to pass. Some fear betrayal. Some fear the loss of something dear to them. But there is one thing we all share, no matter the contents of our boxes, we are all afraid. And dropping the box is the biggest fear of all. 

Me personally? I wake up each morning and for a few blissful seconds all that exists is the sound of my alarm and that adjustment to the light. And then I remember that I must wake up. I must perform basic functions. I must feed my children, I must make myself presentable and get into my car and go to work. I must speak to people, maintain conversation and smile. I must keep all my tasks in mind, and make sure the tank is full. I go to sleep each night exhausted from keeping the boat on course. Perhaps the picture on my box is a vessell in stormy waters, and yet the crew on board seem oblivious to the dangers and continue to navigate with effortless ease. Sometimes the waves are high, and they crash over me and threaten to drown me. Sometimes they are like ripples on still water, and quite beautiful in moments of reflection. All that I am, all that I have ever been is in that box. The finished article will never resemble what it was meant to. But nothing in life that is easy will ever make for good advice or nostalgic stories. For the pre-assemblers who have their pieces intact, the way they should be. The way they were meant to be, I hope the sky remains blue above you. Because nobody can complete a puzzle in the darkness. 

Stay with me.