I have anxiety issues.
Which is not much in itself, but after Nan died, my anxiety spiralled to the point where I’m anxious or stressed for most of the day. I have panic attacks and they’re getting worse. If Nathan goes out to get milk, I watch the clock and panic if he takes longer than he should. Worst case scenarios run through my brain most of the time.
And really, I’ve always been a little obsessed with the macabre and the broken, but this is ridiculous you know?
I don’t talk about these things, with anyone really, except to mention them in an understated way. Who wants to hear about how the inside of my head is all fucked up? Plus, my body is so fucked up that talking about any of it threatens to drown me with just how shit it all is. Not letting anyone pity me is my lifeline to not pitying myself and falling apart.
Since Nan died I’ve stopped talking. I used to be able to talk about whatever was bothering me, but now, I’m repressing everything. Every.Thing. Which is annoying in itself, because the sensible part of my head tells me that talking about the issues would make them only half as annoying, but it seems to stick in my throat. I talk to myself inside my head, but I can’t make my mouth form the words. I have panic attacks and breathe through them, not letting anyone see that they’re happening. Or I hide, in the toilet, in my bedroom, in front of the computer. They pass and I resurface.
It could be part of grieving, or, I suspect, the grieving has made it easier to repress everything. I don’t have time to fall apart. I pull myself together and go on coping and inside, something is curling up and dying because I can’t acknowledge just how badly I’m doing.
Fake it until you make it, isn’t that what they say?
Case in point:
There is an abandoned house at the end of my street, about 400m away that I want to photograph (again). I live in a tiny country town, on a large highway. I can see the fucking house from my lounge room window, but do you think I can make myself leave the house with my camera and walk up there?
No. I can’t.
I can’t bring myself to leave the house alone and walk, 400 fucking metres away to take a photo. If Nathan stood outside he’d be able to see me the whole time and I cannot do it.
When Amy was a baby, I used to walk into Hobart regularly. I lived about 40 minutes walk from the city and I would just walk. To the supermarket, to the Reserve, to my mothers group. I would walk, everywhere.
Now, I struggle to leave the house and I absolutely can’t go anywhere by myself.
And it’s stupid, it’s really stupid. It’s the little things like having a panic attack because I’m outside alone at 8pm in the dark photographing the sky. ON MY OWN PROPERTY. It’s not like I live anywhere dangerous.
It feels like I’m at the bottom of a well, with the walls closing in on me, telling myself how fucking stupid I was to get in here in the first place and why don’t I just climb out? But I can’t.
I went to a rheumatologist yesterday and left feeling good about the appointment. She’s worked out a new pain management regime for me, including something to help me sleep. Something that in a larger dose, works as an anti-depressant. And all I felt was relieved because now, maybe the anxiety induced insomnia will ease and at the very least, I might be able to sleep.
Last night, I fell apart. Everything culminated and I sobbed for hours. Nathan didn’t know what was wrong because I couldn’t tell him and honestly, after 12 months, it feels stupid to be falling apart because I miss my grandmother. I know it isn’t stupid, but it feels it you know? Like there is a set time for grieving and then we’re meant to be okay. Nathan ended up falling asleep and I sobbed more because dammit, can’t you read my mind?
And funny, I don’t feel any better today. I just feel heavy and tired and sad.
As I sat in the dark silently screaming and letting myself feel the pain that the grief brings, I contemplated running a bath, or going for a walk. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because I’m fairly sure if I’d laid in a bath, I would have slipped under the water and not been able to surface and the thought of walking, even around my property in the dark triggered another panic attack. The dark parts of the night are funny like that.
Instead, I kicked Nathan because he was snoring too loudly and went and snuggled my sleeping daughter for a while.
So this is me, writing about it.
I’m not coping.
I’m sad and heavy and broken.
I’m stressed and snappy and probably damn unpleasant to live with.
My panic attacks are getting crippling.
I can’t talk about it at all, out loud, but I’m hoping that I can write about it – and the people who matter most all read my blog anyway, so I won’t have to talk about it.
And at the very least, the new pain management regime will help with the peripheral issues and make me feel less like I’m only holding onto my sanity by my fingertips.
It’s been 52 weeks since Nan died, exactly 12 months tomorrow and I think I’m falling apart. I think I’m going insane.
Note: I’m going to give the new painkillers and stuff a go for a month. If I’m still not sleeping/falling apart/having panic attacks, I’ll go and see my GP to talk about it. So please, don’t worry about me too much!
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