Since I write better than I speak, here’s hoping I can resolve something.
I’m not unsure anymore. I have some form of anxiety.
But yeah, it’s mostly self-diagnosed, and my imagination, if you couldn’t already tell, tends to stretch itself quite a bit. I also have been known to do quite a lot of overthinking.
Let me start with how I’m currently feeling,
in a nice, quiet office with rather good internet connection, soft white light, cool air conditioning, a tupperware of home-fried nuggets waiting for me for lunch, and my lovely toy dog plush in the chair next to me as a form of encouragement. And some work I’m rather proud of on the new iMac desktop ready to show me how good I am. A lovely grey and white striped jumper, soft fluffy socks with adorable pigs on them; both of which my saints of parents surprised me with on ordinary days.
My heart feels like its not beating properly, I have trouble breathing and I feel generally like a liar, and a nut job for literally no reason whatsoever. Chalk it up to my previous faults? My general uselessness as a person? I feel like shit and its been quite a while.
I have been hanging out with friends, gone on an adventurous hike, did some productive tidying up around the house, but these have become somewhat temporary means.
And it sucks because that shows me that I can’t be alone anymore. I’m getting that feeling of when I’m not engaging with someone; I practically become a nervous wreck. And that sucks because I refuse to impose on other people. They have lives too. They have their own problems as well. I’m not stubborn, at least I don’t think I am, but I really don’t want to be an inconvenience. No matter if you tell me I’m not, the voice in my head’s the strongest.
I was thinking of going to a counselor, but how do I explain something I only feel when I’m alone? Every time someone comes into the room, I literally light up, engage and be generally pleasant enough to be around with. I can’t explain how I’m feeling because I myself feel like I’m lying about it. It’s automatic.
Like I’m making it up for empathetic reasons, or over exaggeration.
I feel like crying, but there’s nothing to cry over about and that’s weird. And that’s not going to solve anything.
This sucks and I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to anyone because I feel like a liar. Like a conscious attention seeker. I myself don’t believe me, what more you friends?
Again and again. It’s not your fault, mom, God knows you’ve done an unbelievably amazing job in shaping who I am today.
My strongest memory of having a panic attack was when I was 15. Sitting for a major national exam, I lost my head when I saw the timetable for all the tuition classes I had to take for certain subjects.Some classes where four hours long. I got all 7 A’s, good to know, but the experience of coming home with that blue piece of A4 sized paper and just immediately bawling my eyes out on my family sofa while my mom tried to calm me down without knowing what I was going through is haunting me badly.
The same year, I can’t remember before or after, I tried cutting my wrists with my house keys at school during an extra-curricular activity. I was a member of the Red Cross/Crescent leader board. While instructing some marching activity, I became frazzled and literally ran away to cry, leaving my group confused and alone. Of course, my senior was equally bewildered when he found me in tears at the meeting gazebo, but I don’t remember ever telling him why I was like that. Back then I should have thought about that incident more, knowing people don’t just do that. But I guess I was too frazzled for it to linger in my processing thoughts back then. I guess this was another panic attack.
The keys were too blunt to tear my skin.
I remember not wanting to feel like that again. I can’t remember how I felt like back then. I just remember feeling horrified at myself for even trying to cut my own wrists.
But I have realised for some time now, admitted, that I have cut myself in other ways.
The scars and scabs some friends have noticed on my legs? Those aren’t mosquito bites, or allergy rashes. I scratch myself. I tear my skin with my bare fingernails. It has become a habit to pull the hairs there, absentmindedly even sometimes. But please know that I have been seriously curbing this habit, and can almost comfortably now wear shorts out in public. There was a time I refused, if anyone remembers, seeing me out always in long jeans. If you hadn’t realised, don’t worry about it.
I’m sitting in my temporary office, typing this, trying not to cry because my table is facing a door with a clear window and it’s gonna look awkward if someone sees me.
Even to the person reading this, I don’t know to what extent you’ll believe me. I don’t even know if you’ll care. How presumptuous of me. Of course some of you will, but how can you help me? When you ask, I will say nothing because that’s the truth. That’s my truth. When you engage with me, these feelings will go away, and I will enjoy your presence too much to even remember I feel this way. But I’m not asking you, I’m not pleading for you to constantly check up on me. I’m not your responsibility. I don’t want to be. I refuse you to spend time consciously trying to make me talk about this.
I feel better now. Believe me. Putting this out through my fingertips, typing here, editing pieces here and there. I’m gonna spend the rest of the day looking at my work, and planning out Christmas. It’s gonna be good.
I’m going to fill my day with good songs and sing-alongs until I go home to my loving parents.
Thanks for everything.
I still feel like shit for posting this, but I need a reminder. I will feel better about myself. I love me. And I understand that depression is on the emotion spectrum, without it, we’d be weird. There’s still a lot I left out, but there’s still a lot I’m trying to figure out. Don’t dwell on this. I don’t want to.