The truth about my marriage

I've made some pretty god awful decisions in my life. Not just eating chocolate cake when I shouldn't, or getting up late because I want to sleep more. But life altering decisions that had negative repercussions that I felt years after the fact. I married a man I didn't love when I was too young to know better and I excused his behaviour for almost a decade before I got out. Loneliness can turn a person slightly insane, perhaps this is why we accept less than we deserve because we think its better than being alone. I don't talk about my marriage. I don't think many people whose marriages fail often do. But we should. And not because its cathartic or a way of moving on but because failed marriages are not "failures" and there is always something to be taken from them.

I met my husband when I was 18 and he was still just a boy. Fast forward five years and he came back into my life after a period of darkness. Back then a verbal declaration of love was all it took to have me. I'd have to go into my entire relationship history to explain why this ridiculous notion was a thing. But it was and I distinctly remember it was only a couple of weeks before the reality of the person I had let into my life became obvious. I tried to be laid back and cool about it, but the more I had to walk on eggshells the more I began to respond to his anger with my own. Everything that came out of my mouth was a criticism to be responded to with great wrath. The first time we argued he took a knife from the kitchen and ran out of the house threatening to use it on himself. I don't recall what I had said to incur such a reaction, all I remember is sitting on the stairs and crying wondering what the hell was going on. As I type it I am dumbfounded at the girl who did not run away from the madness that night. I often want to speak with my 23 year old self and tell her one day life wont be so lonely. Ten years ago the concept that I'd be truly content was an alien one.

I want to say that my marriage wasn't all bad. That we experienced good times, and on some level I like to think that we did. We had holidays and day trips and moments at home that weren't littered with bitterness and resentment but for the most part they weren't filled with love either. Perhaps a unity of indifference. Of familiarity. I didn't realise at the time that I was floating on a breeze. On the fact he hadn't called me a fat bitch for six months. He hadn't hit me for almost a year. I thought because we were married and lived in the same house that we were a family. But I was wrong. I had my son, who he had supposedly taken on as his own but never really treated him as such as the years went by, and our daughter who was somehow this tiny little thing that was too huge for him to ever take real responsibility of.

We seperated twice. Both on account of his wanting the life of a man who was neither married nor a father. And both those seperations came to an end because apparently that life wasn't sustainable after a while. And I was lonely again. He would tell me he loved me, and again that verbal declaration was all it took.We were these things which existed in the same house but were a seperate entity. He could maintain some sort of love and devotion for a while. And I found him most supportive during the first six months after a seperation. But it never lasted. And deep down I knew it wouldn't because I knew it did not come naturally to him. I had to include him in my social circle, but I also had to put up with him sending sexual messages to women at work. Women who did not respond to his advances, and therefore women I was never allowed to meet. I was not included in his social circle, and the reasons were always lies.I was not allowed to join him for work social occasions. But I was expected to be in the crowd at his "gigs". Because that was the real issue in the end. It wasn't the fact that he said I was a control freak, it was the fact I had no control over my marriage and in my vain attempts to grasp some I was becoming the sort of person I didn't want to be. And I wasn't the sort of person he wanted me to be either. He wanted me to stay at home and do the housewife thing and keep my mouth shut when he wanted drunken nights on a wednesday coming in at 4am stinking of booze and waking me up before having the get the kids up at 7. He wanted me to say yes every time he had a hairbrained idea that it would be ok to go off for an entire weekend to a different city under the pretense that it was for another "gig"when in reality it was just another piss up. He wanted me to stay quiet and accept these things and support them without question while I drowned under the weight of my own body and mind.

I do not mean to sound bitter or paint a one sided picture in black and white. Perhaps there is another version of events, his version, where a suffocated man had to live in misery with a woman who did nothing but beg him to spend time with his children and put "the music" second. But that is not my story. And I can't carve any understanding for this other version. I did not live it. But I acknowledge that there are 2 sides to a marriage, whether it is a happy or a sad one. And I can only do that now that I know what it is to be loved, and supported and be a priority to someone. And perhaps this entire blog post reads as a whining testament from someone who hasn't found the strength to move on. I write this not as an epitaph but as a witness statement, entirely removed from the events as if I watched them unfold upon someone else. I thought I was happy and content. Because I had made my marriage "work" despite the seperations and violent outbursts and verbal abuse. We still lived under the same roof didn't we?

But the truth was my marriage was over long before I found the strength to walk away. My mental health has never been what it could have been. Even as a child I was melancholy and lonely and would sit at my window trying to piece together my emotions. It followed me into adulthood and manifested itself in one bad decision after another. But it also became my anchor, tethering me to something that wanted to be free. Did I ever really have a marriage? We had nothing to show for it save for our daughter and I had already proved being a good mother did not mean I had to participate in a partnership. I'd been doing this shit on my own all along. I remember being pregnant and my excitement each time she had kicked inside me. I hadn't shared that with the father of my son, but now I had a husband to share my joy. But he had been indifferent and put his hand on my belly because I'd asked him to not because he cared to feel our child move. In the end I had stopped asking him to feel it. And I had buried that memory until this very moment of writing it down. When you tell yourself that you're part of something it numbs the loneliness. But not forever. And when it catches up to you, its hard to reconcile. I'd been alone the entire time.

And it wasn't until I left him that I truly fell apart. It was a day like any other when I finally broke. He walked into the living room and announced that he was going away for the weekend to do another gig/weekend of drunkenness with his friends. He didn't ask me, he didn't care. I needed a break from the kids and I don't know what changed inside me. He'd heard me say it so many times before but when I said it was over this time I somehow knew that I meant it. He did his thing of agreeing it was for the best and therefore being able to make out it was a mutual decision. I heard he told people it was his decision but I was the one who packed up and left. By the end of the week I was gone. Previously it had always been him to move out, but this time by me going and taking the kids I hoped it would prove how final it was. My son wanted nothing more to do with him. Their relationship was non existant by the time we left. He'd witnessed the abuse over the years, even when I'd been pregnant it hadn't stopped. My daughter was too young to know the truth. And it hurts because I have to allow this man in her life. This man who does the bare minimum and acts like father of the year. This man who entered into another abusive relationship and allowed her to witness it as my son had witnessed it before. This man who threatened to take me to court if I didn't let him see her. This man who still continues to get drunk at weekends and is too hungover to do anything of value with her. But I digress...

I fell apart when I left him. Our marriage had been exhausting, and I hadn't known how much until I let go. I had a nervous breakdown and so began the spiral into the sort of anxiety I suffer from today. I entered into a relationship with another toxic man, who lied to me and manipulated me. But it kept me from going back. That christmas I allowed my husband to spend it with us because I pitied him being alone. But I thought I was going into something with someone else, so when he began the pattern of wanting us to get back together I had already invested in someone else. And even though this person had no intention of having a proper relationship with me it kept me from saying yes to my husband. I was, for all intents and purposes, a complete mess. But my marriage was over, and the resulting spiral of self worth and promiscuity did nothing to save me. I couldn't be saved. Years and years of loneliness crushed me. Years of being told I was nothing and being treated like I was less weighed heavily on me. There is no way to come out of that without scars. I lost weight and couldn't sleep and never wanted to be in the house. The house was not even mine, it was my mothers and I felt like a child again.

I don't know if I hate him or not. Hate is reserved for bitterness and all consuming resentment. The only time I think of him now is when my daughter has to go with him and the mother within me is constantly screaming to not let her go. I reason with myself that a part of him does love her, but theres this chaos he will never lose. And she has already been caught up in it. She is not willing to go with him on occasion, and I can't deny that I rejoice in that. Does that make me a bad person? She has always been my weakness. She is not like her brother, she is vulnerable. A vulnerability that I have never been able to relinquish the care of to him. But its not just that. Theres a feminist inside me that does not want a man who was able to strike his wife on more than one occasion near the most precious  thing to me. I do not like the company he keeps, now more than ever. And dare I say it... I wish to keep her from the man who drove me to the edge of sanity.

There is another reason I want him erased from our future. And he is the one who saved me. I've heard it said before that there is only one person who can save you and its yourself. But thats not true. A person can be saved by another, in every sense of the word. He was the sort of person I never thought I'd find. People like him were for other people, not me. The sort of person who came in the middle of the night when I couldn't breathe. Who doubted himself when he met my children, who loved him anyway. He couldn't believe I loved him, and he didn't take it for granted. Every decision he made was for "us" and he didn't isolate me from his friends. I was welcomed into the circle, and I rose from the ashes. I want my daughter, and my son, to grow up watching how a man should love a woman. And they see it every single day now. Naturally, I wondered when he was going to realise I wasn't worth the trouble. When my children were loud and annoying. When my anxiety was making me unbearable. When I had something on my mind that I feared he may not agree with. In the past it had been met with vitriol and a sense that I was not allowed to have these thoughts and feelings but not now. I was allowed to have a differing opinion and it did not effect our relationship. And if I had something to say I could speak freely without the fear of anger or being told to shut up. Now I know the truth. The truth about love and sacrifice and compromise and devotion and understanding and what it means to love...I mean REALLY love someone. I've waited my entire life for this. From the girl that used to stand at her bedroom window to the woman who made bad decision after bad decision in the pursuit of it.

I keep asking myself why am I writing this? Why am I opening that door and letting people walk inside? I recently came across a comment my soon to be ex-husband made on facebook regarding the fact he was glad that our daughter had decided not to see him that weekend because he was suffering from a hangover. It was a throwaway comment that might not mean much, perhaps ruffle a few feathers of those who know that the part time parent must appear to be devoted at all times. But I knew what it meant. It meant that no matter how many times I asked him to be there for her, he never was because I was always there to do everything leaving him free to do as he pleased. It meant that no matter how many chances I've given him to be the best father he can be since I left there is still that side of him that would rather go out and get drunk. And I knew then that he simply was not good enough for her and never would be. And I am writing this because I am sick of seeing his love pour out on social media, those verbal declarations in such stark contrast to his actions. I was ready to tell my story. And this is simply it. Nothing more and nothing less.

Stay with me.

Funny Girl

I used to be a crack-a-joke-a-minute. It was my thing, what I was known for. My sense of humour carried me through situations like a life jacket that floated me to safety time and time again. It came naturally to me, to be quick witted and funny. I was never sure when I stopped caring. And I was never certain if I had stopped being funny, or if I no longer cared to make other people laugh. Upon meeting people for the first time, I was polite and engaging. But not magentic, not humourous. Not the sort of person to light up a room or be remembered. I was tired, I was drained of my energy just thinking of being that person. And it did not matter to me anymore. I would say the funny things to myself, but never outloud. And never for anyone elses entertainment. Anxiety had stripped me of the bravery to make that cutting remark, or sarcastic quip. But it did not bother me that I wasn't funny anymore. I felt at peace with it, I did not miss her. Which begs the question...which was the "real" me? Perhaps they are both me. Sometimes I find her again, usually in text form, as formidable as face to face jokes might be sometimes its easier to hide behind a screen. If my comedy timing is all wrong at least I can blame technology. The main thing I've noticed is that I simply do not care anymore. That is not to say I don't care what others think of me, its their judgement which slays my ability to be more outgoing. I just stopped caring about being the life and soul.

I was recently given the opportunity to formulate a new friendship. This person was outgoing, hilarious, energetic and magnetic. I found myself wanting to gain an accord, and it was usually found in mutual hilariousness. But I couldn't do it. And surprisingly it didn't seem to matter. I let them take the lead. Aspects of myself began to reveal themselves and as I suspected... we became friends. And I learned that I don't have to reveal all of me to be instantly accepted. Instant gratification is widely thought of as the best thing in the world. I remember gift wrapping all the best parts of me and handing them over to people without a receipt. And there would always be a fear that they would want a refund. I am grateful that I stopped caring, grateful that I was able to keep those pieces of myself back until they were requested or deserved.

It's not just about caging up the Funny Girl. It's not just about reserving her for people I can be myself with. It's about not caring. And not caring can be incredibly cathartic. Not caring is the most difficult thing to acquire within when you are wired up to care, wired up to engage in making others feel loved and accepted. I try hard to never ever make others feel the things I myself fear in the hope that they in return will never ever make me feel left out, judged or abandoned. But we're human and life is not written in ink that is ever bone dry. I used to feel like I was nothing if I was let down. Its probably a normal reaction. Its not normal to me to not care if a friend cancels, or forgets, or unknowingly makes me feel as if I don't matter. Not caring does not mean that you are a bad person. You are no worse than them. And they aren't bad people either. When you stop caring it means you've accepted life is a breeze and it'll change whatever it wants to without a thought for those caught in the wind. For every single one of us. For those who cancel, for those who are cancelled on. For those who are let down, and those who have to let down. If people make a decision that makes you feel worthless, it isn't always because they set out with that in mind. Prioritising is a difficult thing to do. And you aren't always going to be one. Even if you're the life and soul. Even if you're everybody's "go to" person. Learning how not to be is brave. I'm not convinced I have fully given myself over to this ideal, but I want to. I need to take a step back. I am a funny girl. But it'll just take a while to get the joke.

Stay with me.

Cutting Ties

Change is something I have always strived to avoid. Change signalled a turn of events which required new, often negative, connotations. I have perhaps craved stability more than I would like to admit. And in the course of that craving I have come to view change and loss as one and the same. What I did not realise is that without it we are stagnant and remain forever floating in the arrid waters of the same pond. On the outset it appears idyllic, but take a closer look and there is always room for improvement. I have remained in failing relationships because the thought of rearranging my every day life is beyond my comprehension. I have clung to friendships which have served me no purpose and brought me nothing but stress and disturbances of my peace because I have feared the social stigma it would bring if I let it go, despite the fact the knife was already between my shoulder blades. I've kept my mouth shut when I should have spoken, and spoken when I should have kept my mouth shut in varying situations where I've tried to avoid anything from changing. But there is no book without flowing chapters, as I have said before. There is no story if we remain stuck on the same page. Change is as vital as each breath we take. And as negative as they may appear, I have started to embrace the negativity. Perhaps it will serve me well, in the end, when I am content with what has come to pass. I have covered the positive changes in my previous blog post here. What I've failed to mention is the catharsis which comes from cutting ties. And that it's ok to not only embrace changes which come your way, but create a few of them yourself.

I used to think longevity was the key to success. If a friendship had lasted 16 years then what a triumph it was and a testament to us as individuals. Forget the times there had been betrayals, let downs, and cross words exchanged. If a marriage lasted 5 years, then we could last another 5. Forget the lies, disrespect and blatant lack of love. Longevity does not tick a box that is required for something good. And it does not matter how many years have gone by, or how much someone or something shapes your history, if you must cut them out in order to move forward, then that is a change you must make. And sometimes it comes as a great relief, as if a dark cloud has shifted to make way for the sun. And sometimes it hurts, even though it was necessary it can make for a bittersweet memory. I have discovered a sense of peace of late which has come from removing my heart from a situation in order to be able to make relevant changes if necessary without my soul fatally wounding itself in the process. Perhaps this is the result of a heart which has been burned in too many fires, or a heart which is of a certain age and has gained wisdom in truth. I used to fear cutting ties. As a person I do not enjoy inciting hurt in others, nor do I take joy from the failed relationship or endeavour. But some people do. Some people do not care if they hurt you, nor do they think of the implications of cutting you out of their lives. Why would doing that to someone, knowing how it feels to be on the receiving end, be something you could do in all good conscience?

Humanity is a spectrum so far and wide there is no beginning and no end. And to question it too deeply always seems to leave me empty and bleak. How could I cut someone out of my life knowing how desolate it feels to be cut out myself? Because I have learned the art of self preservation. That joyous thing we seldom give ourselves over to. Self preservation sits in a very awkward corner that sometimes wears the mask of being self absorbed and noncholant. If I have to force it, then it does not belong with me. If I have to watch it walk away from me, then it is not mine to keep. If I feel like it has a grip on me that I do not want or need, then I must cut the tie. And its ok. Because we are none of us immortal. We all have a deathbed waiting for us, as grim as the thought may be. But in truth, I have reached a point in my life where being aware of this small matter brings about a serenity regarding letting go. I will not mourn my best friend that hurt me, nor the marriage that failed, nor the people who used me and betrayed me when my time is done. They wont matter, the situations will be buried, and then so will I. And just like that all my choices will have no meaning, save for the fact that if they were the best I could make, then I will have gone to my deathbed with a sense of contentment rarely found if I had kept things which were not meant for me. I embrace the strength of not knowing where my choices will take me, only the feeling of knowing they are right. And if that is the only thing I know, then I have lived a life well indeed. I mourn that it has taken me over 30 years to reach this conclusion but some of us are better off late than never.

My anxiety has always been tamed by organisation and familiarity. Knowing when things will happen and being in full control of them has always been a comfort to me. Making decisions which might bring about significant changes in my life has always kept me awake at night. The replaying of scenarios like movie scenes, hoping and praying it goes as I expect it will and yet hoping it doesn't. It does not matter the manner of how you take the knife, all that matters is that you cut...and cut deeply and completely. Leaving tiny strands connected only serves to bridge the heartache. I think sometimes this is the hardest part of all. Collateral damage. Connections are not genuine if you have not touched the other people around you...and them. But self preservation is not possible without it, in my opinion. Anxiety loves to wonder what is being said behind your back, and the collateral damage will discuss.

Breathe. Keep going. Breathe again. Keep going. Another breath. People will talk. People will hurt. They will hurt you, and you will hurt them. In all our connected processes we are just peaking and troughing and sometimes you meet people who are peaking at the same time. Sometimes you meet people who are troughing at the same time. And sometimes you have to let them go when your directions begin to shift. And its always ALWAYS ok to do that.

Stay with me.

Positive Changes

I try to be an advocate for the "life is a book with many chapters" ethos. I know that my life is a constantly turning wheel that will never be stationary. And it'll never stay the same. But that's not to say I don't mourn the things which alter over time, and wish that they would remain just a little longer. I fear the unknown and I cherish the present. And I mourn the past. Perhaps this is why I mourn change, because it brings about something which will belong in the past. It is strange to me that I mourn the past, when it is full of uncertaintly and heartache and loss. Perhaps I miss it as I experienced it when it was the present and not the thing which it inevitably became? I don't want to relive my past, but I don't want to step into the future either. At the very least, not until I am readily prepared to. The interesting thing about anxiety is that it exists in all aspects. It lingers in the present and brings forth a new face for the future. And it was there in the past, in the scars we still bear. I need to start accepting change. I need to start seeing it as something positive, and celebrate it. Change does not have to be negative, nor do the things which change require mourning. 

Overthinking is the catalyst to fearing change. What if nothing will ever be the same again? What if you lose something dear to you? What if things become worse? What if you don't like it? Every what if, every line of thought a dark one. Because anxiety understands darkness. Anxiety doesn't understand things such as... What if things will be better? What if I gain something dear to me? What if I love it? What if everything is going to be ok? Running the risk of being mentally competent is a reality when telling yourself these things in place of the other. 

I once read an article about training your brain. Teaching it to bend to your will, and always ensuring your will is a positive one. I do not know if this has any scientific basis. But if you can train a dog to fetch a stick, you can train your brain to stop fearing change... can't you? 

Stay with me

The fear of Loss

Lately, there's been a lot of negativity. I often find myself in holes that respond only to darkness. I do not look around and forward. Only back and behind. It's quite easy to look back. It's already written, there's a clear picture of events. Looking forward is always like dipping your toe into murky waters. The picture is only a projection of what you desire. And you can't guarantee things will always go the way you want them to. There is no hiding from the past. It is what makes us who we are. It is why we are cautious around new people. Why we keep parts of ourselves hidden. Why we don't go to certain places because they invoke feelings we don't want to revisit. Why we remain quiet when others speak up. I don't want to be a slave to my past anymore. I don't want to hurt when I think about it. I don't want my future poisoned with the bitterness of the things which have happened. I've spent most of my life looking back. Being in a constant state of allowing the worst parts of my history seep into my future.

I have abandonment issues. There. I said it. My fear of loss is profound. And it shapes my environment more than I should allow. It started as a child, perhaps some would call them typical "Daddy issues" but I think perhaps my anxiety does not come from having a sub-par parent. I could recall my life story and all its losses and it would not read much different from anyone elses crosses to bear. I've known betrayal and heartbreak. I've known the loss of a child before its been born. I've lost friends after 16 years of solidarity. I can't quite say if there was a defining moment that I knew I was afraid of loss or if the years went by and I adapted my emotions to accommodate the fear. I was never really aware of what it was exactly, only that I used to panic if I exchanged cross words with friends. I avoided confrontation, and in the process allowed myself to become the sort of person who allowed people to disrespect me and walk all over me. I did not begin things, because I feared the end. I did not see that losing certain things, certain people were a natural part of progression. We do not end our lives with exactly the same people we begin it with. If we are lucky we forge long lasting relationships that stand the test of time and circumstance. But I have come to learn that not every character survives to the next chapter of the book. A massive part of learning to be happy has been learning to accept loss in all its forms. Which, invariably, is easier said than done.

Loneliness is real. It is why we stay when we should go. Why we put up with things we don't deserve. Why we crave what we don't have. There's this picture of the way things should be. Its different for each of us. And we strive to have the picture complete. Popularity is a myth, and crowds are where we all gather to be lonely together. There is no escape if loneliness is within, It eats away, bite by bite. I always greet people with the idea that they wont like me until they get to know me. And even then, it may be a push. And no matter how often I'm told I am liked or accepted I wont believe it. I have memories of people who would make excuses to not spend time with me on occasion, but they would happily welcome me into their company on others. People who would talk about things they had done, with a cautionary "you should have been there" thrown in at the end of the story. It's strange the things which remain with you. The more my adult self thinks about these things, the more I realise I have never really been able to fit myself into any one group, and remain there comfortably. I was not wanted, not needed. Not welcome. But if I said the right thing, did the right thing, then I was welcomed with open arms. Monsters don't live under the bed. They live within us, each time we tell someone "you should have been there" when an invitation was never offered. Each time we take offence at something which was said, and walk away without a backward glance. The older I get, the more I avoid people.

And that's ok. It's ok to not be part of a massive group of people. It's ok to be whoever you are and not be accepted. It's ok to be lonely. It's all ok, every stinking last part of it. Every night you spend going over the things which came out of your mouth which might have been taken the wrong way. Every time you've been made to feel as if you're not wanted, not required. Because if people are going to leave, there's a door that they walk out of. That's theirs to open, and theirs to close and whatever is on the other side of it is theirs and theirs alone. You have no right to that door. Your door is on the other side of the room, the opposite direction. And nobody else has access to it. Sometimes you have to keep going through open doors, and don't worry about who might leave you. Be the one to leave them behind. Be a candle that snuffs out the light. Burn for a while, and then take on the breeze.

Stay with me.

Resurfacing

When one "Bad day" turns into another, there is a process of resurfacing when the tide goes back out. There is very little to it, save for tiny moments of clarity that come unbound in the darkness. Perhaps you crawl out of bed and stay out of it for a few minutes longer than you did the day before. Perhaps you answer a phone call, even if only for a moment. Resurfacing is like a temporary re-birth. All the quotes make sense again and fresh air has some meaning. I am currently resurfacing after a weekend in bed, traumatised by the events of the week before. Which, I am aware, were quite trivial. But I am also aware that anxiety feeds off trivial matter. My emotions are amplified, whether they are good or bad. Perhaps it may seem as if I am overreacting. But in reality, I feel everything too intensely and react accordingly. Which is probably why I quite enjoy the resurfacing process. I am positive, I am proactive, I am motivated. I am able to arrange my thoughts in neat little lines that make absolute sense and I can cope with each one beautifully. There's a vast difference between resurfacing and having a "Good day". You can only resurface if you have been drowning.

There are various physical manifestations of drowning. Of course, I use the term metaphorically. Chest pain and difficulty breathing. Light headedness and fatigue. I awoke in the early hours of sunday with an intense pain that threatened to crush my chest and ribs. I took some strong pain killers and drifted off into the abyss and when I woke up I was still under water. By monday it took every ounce I had to drag myself back into the world that had inevitably continued spinning whilst I hid under my rock. I was still drowning, I was still shrouded in darkness. Its strange how easy it is to function on autopilot. I now feel ready to begin resurfacing. It's wednesday.

The first thing I do is text my friends. The worry that they will forget about me is a very real thing. I enquire as to how they are, and remind myself that there are others swimming in the same ocean. Even if its just few random insignificant messages, I have made contact. And I am not forgotten, and neither are they. The next thing I do is make social arrangements. Having something to focus on is paramount, and even if I don't feel like going at the time of the event I will endeavour to go regardless. I watch my children, and remember that I am the most important person in the world to a small few. Even if I don't feel like there's a place for me anywhere. I sit down to write a new blog post, more poignantly. The ability to put this disease of the mind into words I find is almost an utterly baffling thing. And then I go to the man I love, and I thank him for being in the water with me and drowning by my side. Resurfacing is good for the soul, but its also good for the souls around you. They love to see you smile and laugh and eat. And even though you will always panic in a situation which requires bravery, or shy away from making bona fide decisions, the fact you got out of bed is a massive achievement.

I am aware of my weaknesses. My triggers. I know what it takes to reduce me to a breathless wreck, tearful and afraid and in need of a place to hide. Perhaps I am lucky in the respect that I also know what I need to do to regain my strength. Literature is a healing tool. Music is a two sided coin, but when it is used to bring the self back it is magic. Even holding a conversation is theraputic if you haven't spoken much lately.

Which leads me to the part of resurfacing that isn't always positive. Resurfacing can appear incredulous. How can someone so happy, so outgoing, so "ok" have been unable to get out of bed a few days ago? How can they have been in physical pain from mental illness? How is it possible to be one way and another in the blink of an eye? People might be sceptical, especially if you are open about your mental health issues. There will always be stigma, and judgement. And it will never be reconciled. How we portray ourselves to others will never truly be how our inner selves appear. And this is true for every single human being on the planet, not just those with mental health issues. We find ourselves being able to be more free with who we truly are with a choice few who we keep close. But do we ever wear our true faces? We're all facets of one truth, and we alter each part for the people around us. For family and friends, for work and formal obligations. Life is a spectrum of outlets, and they all require different things from us. I would love to know what it feels like to succesfully navigate all these outlets. But I never will. I accept that.

For now, I brace myself for the things I cannot control. Sometimes I have to let it go if my text is read and not replied to. If a brown envelope from the tax office comes through my letterbox. If I have a job interview because the job I feel safe at is closing. When these things occur during resurfacing then they are dealt with, I presume, as if by someone who did not have anxiety. Or at the very least, a functioning human being. I catch myself in moments of solitude and I wonder why I cried over certain things that did not require tears. My tears did not change the outcome and yet, I cried regardless. And maybe I always will. Maybe I will always be drowning, and for a few sweet moments find some respite on the surface.

Stay with me.

Was it something I said?

The mind is a wonderful thing. It is capable of great things. Such as colourful dreams and spectacular new ideas. It processes the world around us into contexts which we understand. Sight, sound, touch, smell. The mind curves our view of things into categories we can taste. This finely tuned attribute to what makes us essentially human is truly something mankind will never fully get to grips with. It is far beyond my capabilities to comprehend. But, then again, comprehension does not need to extend that far in every day life. You don't have to question how the mind works, you just know that it does. But what if it doesn't? What if you can't process things? What if sight, sound, touch and every other sense we are capable of gets lost along the way? Mental Illness curves our view the wrong direction. And every word that slips from our mouths is a carefully calculated one. Every touch is a predetermined move. Every time I think I have these things figured out, I am always cautiously reminded that sometimes I don't.

Today I was reprimanded for having an "attitude". Today I was told that I had spoken badly. Today I offered an apology for my perceived attitude and was met with complete and total indifference. Perhaps this is something that most people would chalk down to experience and move on, but for someone with anxiety these are fundamental triggers of complete and total oblivion. First there comes the dread, that you are about to reprimanded for something you have done. People with high functioning anxiety tend to live their lives in a constant cycle of apologising for their perceived behaviour and living in fear that they will trip up and do something wrong. Second comes the realisation that you have done something wrong, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. You feel the crush in your chest, your heart thump wildly as if it wants to escape from between your vibrating rib cage. Third comes the wave of tears, which are completely unwanted and yet threaten to spill over your eyelids as you stand there being told you are basically a failure. Fourth is the one that hurts the most. When you've been reprimanded for your tone of voice how do you respond in one that wont incur more wrath? Your mouth is dry, you want to run but your legs wont allow you to move. Because you're standing in front of someone you should respect. Someone who you would never dream of speaking badly to. Someone who you know deep down does not like you, but you try to remain friendly because the environment craves positivity. Anxiety does not like to court positivity, so when the reality of a situation is laid bare the mind does strange things. Of course, my fears of responding incorrectly were completely founded as I poured my heart into an apology I truly meant for something I knew deep within I had not intended to do. There was eye contact. There was acknowledgement in a silent noncholant shrug as they walked away, and my apology crumbled to the ground like a thousand words I had ever spoken that had ever been taken the wrong way.

This person confirmed that it did not matter what I said, or how I said it. I was going to be punished. I was mercilessly blanked for the rest of the day and subject to excrutiating looks of disparagement. Perhaps I should have fought my corner. Perhaps I should have been angry. But there was only a hole inside and it panged and ached as I sobbed at the utter injustice. I sound like a child who has received a ticking off, sulking in the corner at being told that I had done something wrong. I am well aware of the configurations people will take on this. But I had witnesses to my tone who reassured me thereafter that I had not spoken with an attitude. And I'm not too proud to admit that I am an easy target. I wont fight back, I wont blame you for reprimanding me. My self esteem is that which will tell me I need to question myself, which is why my heart breaks every time I open my mouth to speak. It's textbook anxiety. And today it served to remind me that I am not cured, I am not perfect. Today has been a "Bad Day". Today has been mired in a feeling that no matter what I do, there will always be a consequence.

I read somewhere that what I am feeling is because I am becoming spiritually awakened. The world is ugly and people are ugly to each other. It does not end with the great injustices in this life, and it does not begin with the small ones. There is a circle and it is never ending and each time a child is bullied, or a war is begun, or your tone of voice is misconstrued, or a terrorist hijacks a plane they wear the same ugly face. But I feel as if this is for another time.

It's funny how one person can change the course of your mood. I wonder if I ruined their day with my attitude? I wonder if their perspective was coming from a genuine place of perception, as mine was, and the two were never destined to meet? I wonder if they were just looking for an excuse to hurt my feelings? When the mind is hurt, the body will follow. And both of them need to heal. But, as the nature of anxiety dictates, there is no known cure.

Stay with me.

A message from the past

There was a vibration in my pocket. I knew the rhythm of it, that one was a facebook message. I opened my phone and was immediately intrigued by the content. "Please tell me, did Kat cheat on me?" I knew which Kat he was referring to, he had two children with her and had been her on/off partner for around 12 years. But she wasn't anything to me anymore. She wasn't my best friend, she wasn't my most favourite person in the world anymore. She was just another name in the list of people who had decided to abandon our friendship because the shepherd had moved the flock. I knew the answer to his question. But I still felt an old stab of misplaced loyalty and refused to give it to him. Perhaps it wasn't misplaced loyalty, perhaps it was fear that old bullshit would land on my shiny new doorstep if I did say anything. I had a brief conversation with Kat, somehow I still had her number stored in my phone. She was as affluent with words as ever, using the same sayings that made her acutely likeable and popular. We spoke as if nothing had ever happened for a few brief moments. Damning all men to hell, and bantering like she hadn't tried to avoid me the last time I randomly bumped into her whilst doing some christmas shopping. And then I decided to point out the elephant in the room. "I hope you get everything sorted." I said, and I meant it. "Sorry I've not said much lately but still trying to understand why I was phased out by everyone and its been tough to see all your pics together. Anyway take care." I knew I wasn't going to get a response after that. That was far too deep, but talking about the father of her children discovering she'd had an affair apparently wasn't. I disclose too much, allegedly had an affair. I remembered her saying at the time I fell into my pit of despair how she didn't understand how things had got like this. How our other friends had taken the "new me" so badly. None of them hung around for the afterparty. By the time I had put all my broken pieces back together I was completely ostracised. Part of me felt like perhaps she hadn't wanted this outcome, but the choice was simple. Stick with me as I made one bad decision after another. As I fell into a pattern of casual sex and depression. As I lied to the faces of those who I perceived as judging me. I didn't realise at the time but that was the anxiety clawing its way under my skin. Or stick with the group who could all see me for what I was. A liar, a thief, a mess. Why pass up the chance to bond over such a mutually exclusive target? Of course I was many things, but never a thief, but once you're on a roll with being a failure people tend to add their own content for dramatic purpose.

I spent the rest of the day wrestling with my thoughts over it. The only reason I had received that message was because this alleged affair took place during the time Kat and I had been inseperable. I had only informed her of it because part of me wanted the opportunity to say those words I had parted with. Those words I knew would not inspire a heartfelt response. And yet I felt I needed to say regardless. And the more I fought with myself over it, the more I realised how much I had changed and grown since my days within that group that had once been mine but now belonged to her. They pose for selfies and talk trash behind each others backs. They have group chats on whatsapp just for the sole purpose of talking more trash. They think that they have a bond which is certifiably close but it is based on mutual dislike, a need to convey solidarity amongst popular women and looking good with the right people. I used to be like them. And I know why, because I wanted to belong. I wanted to be accepted. I wanted the selfies and the holidays and nights out. Problem was, I genuinely loved these people and it broke me when they decided I was trash. Perhaps I genuinely betrayed them, perhaps I was trash. I felt like trash, I felt worthless and no damn good. It was during this time I had left my marriage and the home I'd shared with my husband and kids for 5 years. I was living at my Mothers house in a 2 bedroom end terrace, using the living room as my sleeping space. I'd lost my job, and I had no money and the debts of my marriage were piling up. The urge to run away was all consuming. I wasn't myself, which is a term all too frequently used. But it was abundantly clear that I wasn't,infact, myself. As individuals, these people were good kind people. But there was a mob mentality forming and I found myself at the mercy of their judgement. So yes, I lied about where I was going and what I was doing. And the consequence was losing my place within the friendships I had built. I have lost people before, in more horrific ways than this. But I speak of this occasion because it marked the beginning of the person I am today.

I am flawed. I am broken. I am damaged. I am ferociously untethered to the sides of me that used to think and feel in certain ways. I do not believe that the way I was ostracised was done with complete and unfaultering malice. We are taught so early on to value our loved ones, to treat them with love and respect. And now more than ever there is this world on show where you must have all the pretty little things. The best of the best. When there is a crack in the mug, do you glue it back on or throw away the mug and buy a new one? Society is disposable, as are people if they do not fit the criteria. This damaged, broken and flawed version of myself no longer fot the criteria and my own behaviour was used as the catalyst. And I do not blame them. We all want the cogs of our lives to keep turning in accordance to how they should, and if there is one kink in the cogs it must be removed. I have amassed a life of broken cogs, and all our faults and imperfections keep turning and turning and turning and sometimes we turn so much we make the bumps smooth again. These days I only allow broken cogs around me. They are beautiful and accepting and irrepressibly a joy to be around. They remind me that I was never alone, I was never abandoned. I was given up by something which wasn't meant for me and pushed towards the path I was meant to be on. I had to lose all those people. I had to leave my marriage. I had to know how it felt to literally have nothing. So that when the man I love came along I would know that he was the person I'm meant to be with for good. And I would appreciate his kindness and his sacrifices and his love without question. And the friends I had seldomly gathered along the way would be as equally broken and unsure of their worth so that when I began to wonder if they would abandon me too I knew that it didn't matter because we're not here to create a picture perfect group of people we are all capable of lies, of debauchery, and falling apart. I practice the art of attachment quite loosely these days. I try to love people without the dependance love can bring. Its quite spectacular. And whilst I see Kat and the others still in this circle of things which possibly do make them happy, it is no longer my truth. Designer handbags do not excite me. Nor do drunken fights outside pubs or whose relationship is falling apart. Conversations about green grass on a wednesday morning with a cigarette in my hand, and laughing  because I said the wrong word in a sentence. Even if the anxiety is telling me I'm stupid, at least anxiety is speaking to them too and we're all pulling oars in the same boat.

Stay with me.

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.