Anxiety, mental health, Uncategorized

My heart might be healing, but my head isn’t.

I’ve had a wild one today. I did a lot of hoovering (always found it very therapeutic). Unfortunately as I hoovered, I wasn’t channeling Freddy Mercury in the ‘I want to break free’ video. Think more dishevelled toddler.

My mood has been quite settled today. Flat really. But I’m recognising that I’m getting into a bad habit. Slightly agoraphobic. I went two doors down to my grandma’s, and being out sent ripples of nerves through me. What do I really have to fear at my grandma’s?! I mean, she could stab me with a knitting needle, but I think I’d have the upper hand in running away fast.

This has happened each time I’ve been out over the last week, after ten minutes, POW, there it is, my heart pounding, my stomach dropping, the beads of sweat wherever it is possible to sweat.

Explaining such fear to others when you’re clearly in a safe environment can completely go over their head. And guess what world? Saying “Calm down” is as much use as a one legged man in an arse kicking competition. It’s not happening.

The fear is going to be there if I’m feeling calm or not. I only expect something bad to happen. The butterflies throwing themselves around are telling me to expect the worst, always.

So, I’ve become to see my Mum’s house as my ‘safe place’. My new comfort blanket, if you will. The pesky parrot on my shoulder chirping up “You don’t know what could happen out there, most likely hurt and pain. Like, look at you, you’re a mess anyway who wants to see that. Stay here it’s warm and there’s more TV choices.”

With each day that goes by, my heart heals ever so slightly, and I mean slightly. My trust is on its arse, hate is starting to build. But utter disbelief and grief is still there. Holding hands with the anxiety and depression which is always going to be my toxic under-current.

I’m still in that well, and it’s been snowing so it’s freezing down here. But my friend sent me down a blanket.

With every minuscule piece of strength I can muster, tomorrow I am going to go out. I’m going to see my Dad. I am.

I don’t want to push myself too far and end up freaking out Britney 2007 style – but I’m actually going to try and go back to my flat. Pick up post, see how I feel, bin some stuff.

But the butterflies are raging. The associations with my own home hurt me too deeply.

Wish me luck. Or send meds.

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Anxiety, mental health

Let’s talk about abandonment. Strap yourself in… it’s a wild ride. Part 1.

8B8EF22B-3452-470E-B0F0-5ED425259A54Today hasn’t been a good one really. Them pesky butterflies have been speeding round like no ones business, and I’ve just managed to work myself down from the dizzying heights of a panic attack (with the help of some beta-blockers and knowing my sister is with me).

Taking my mum and Aunty to the airport this morning triggered me – I recognised the trigger, why I was panicking. That the last time I was there was a really happy time. And now I’m there in the depths of my well after another male figure has gone.

I panic every time I’m in the airport anyway, a lot of people around and I’m the sort of person that loses their passport and sense of direction very easily.

This came up when I was first diagnosed. In a few of my therapy sessions, we explored my fear of being left. Especially by men.

Now don’t get me wrong, my family is a family of strong independent women, we’re all a version of Queen B. But I’d like to add I’m the only one with the moves 💁‍♀️. And I absolutely love them, they’re all an inspiration to me. No one NEEDS a man to be successful, happy and powerful. They make me see that everyday.

But I have a little niggle (by niggle I mean massive issue) with constantly feeling whatever man I trust, and love, in either a romantic or family way, will leave me. Even if it’s not out of their choice, they’ve gone.

I was 7 years old when I lost my best friend. My Grandad. He was an intelligent man, a genealogist (he did what ancestry.com do for you.) He was even an author, but most of all he was my favourite guy. I called him ‘Grandad Glasses’ can you guess why? What an observant child I was. Anyway as usual I’m digressing, let’s get to the point.

We went to the park every other Saturday. We would get an ice cream with raspberry sauce, and he would tell me that the sauce was “Sampson’s blood”.

Now in the shittest of situations, my grandad suffered a cardiac arrest due to a hefty MI (heart attack, sorry I just can’t help call it an MI. I never knew if it may have been an NSTEMI OR A STEMI. (I really do need to stop I’m such a nerd)) on his 60th birthday. And I was there. I saw it. I watched my family attempt CPR – and like 82% of out of hospital cardiac arrests, my grandad died.

That day he wouldn’t let me play cricket with him and the boys, I was his ‘princess’ and i think he just didn’t want me hurting myself. (But I’m cracking at rounders so I bet I would of been the next Freddy Flintoff) But promised he would play a game I wanted to play later. He didn’t.

Yes I KNOW, that isn’t my fault, he died, I didn’t make that happen. I KNOW, he meant what he said. But the promise wasn’t fulfilled. And my first sense of abandonment occurred. And it’s sat with me in my little well, even when I’m sat on the edge of the well, every day since (maybe that’s what that fungi is – it’s DEFINITELY NOT edible.)

(This is so jolly to read isn’t it? Got your bag of popcorn with you?)

After that I don’t know about you, but I fancy a pint of wine! Happy Saturday.

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