The loneliest place in the world is inside my head when anxiety takes hold.
When I try to speak up for myself, but the voice which comes out only sounds sad and pathetic.
Or, even worse, like I’m trying to cause a drama or make something “all about me” because I take everything personally.
And I’m told “grow some balls” or “get over it and move on – like a NORMAL person would”.
That’s when I feel isolated and voiceless. Like anything I say to try to explain sounds so ‘me, me, me’ and only proves the other person’s point.
Because anxiety does make everything all about me. It’s my fault. I’m worthless.
And I can’t get over it quickly. I need to take some time to reassure myself. I need to talk things through, after an argument or an incident, and learn to feel better about myself, so I know how to avoid anxiety taking me to the worst case scenario should that situation happen again.
I don’t want to make everything all about me. I’m kind. I’m generous. I put others first in almost everything I do.
The loneliest place in the world is knowing that even those closest to me will put up with my anxiety for so long – before they start feeling resentful that they’re walking on eggshells, trying not to upset me, feeling pressured to constantly reassure me, feeling frustrated that I’m not coping better.
The truth is that some days I do. And on others, I don’t.
The loneliest place in the world is looking at someone who is saying “I’m here for you” and knowing that they won’t always be.
I can only tackle this myself. They are only human. Life will mean they can’t possibly be around whenever anxiety strikes.
And they won’t always recognise that the things I do are because of my anxiety.
Or sometimes they’ll feel like I’m anxious when I’m not – and the eggshell-walking starts when there’s really no need.
That’s when they lose patience with me. And I have to say I don’t blame them one little bit.
Anxiety is one complicated motherfucker and I hate it. Mostly it makes me feel sick and like I’m on a paranoia-inducing drug that I have to endure until it wears off.
I didn’t become anxious for attention, or to make myself special.
I became anxious because, just by being myself, some awful things happened. And I’m in a constant state of panic they might happen again.
I wrote this after a particularly sleepless night, spent rattling around inside my own head, and after reading this article. (Numbers 1 and 9 don’t apply to me – but the others all ring true)