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.