We all fear something. Maybe you fear spiders, heights, being alone, enclosed spaces or even clowns. Whatever it is that you fear, it's real to you. It's simply terrifying.
Some people have multiple fears that reverberate through their psyche every so often keeping them constantly on edge. Not that I would know about that kind of ruminating fear *looks around innocently*
I think fears evolve and grow as we grow. For instance my fears when I was a child are different to my fears as an adult.
As a child my fears revolved around placating my mother. I spent so much time worrying I wasn't good enough that when she inevitably came storming into my room to beat me, all I could think was "I wasn't good enough. I need to be better."
My other fear as a child were migraines. They were another affirmation of my "I'm not good enough" outlook, because I couldn't understand why someone would give me migraines. It never occurred to me that my body would conspire against me and cause a sequence of events that would ultimately lead to a migraine.
As I got older, in my teens, I feared someone finding out about what my "secret life" at home. I felt inferior because I couldn't conceive of any other families being as Wrong as mine. I knew, mainly from movies of all things, that parents beating children isn't normal. Again, this confirmed to me that I was bad and a terrible child because my mum was forced to discipline me.
I harboured this particular fear until I was 23.
More recently my fears have changed shape yet again. Now my fears revolve around my ability to "recover" from my mental illness.
As an adult my fears also dabble in my appalling management of my money; what is this "saving" thing anyway?
Between these two main fears, never underestimate how many things one can fear at any given time, I am forever going around in circles.
In my case my fear has caused me to have a rather intimate relationship with anxiety, among the other labels I'm lucky enough to have trailing after my name.
Fear can grip us at, seemingly, any time. It usually starts in the stomach where our internal butterflies are let loose resulting in our heart trying to beat in time with those wispy wings. Not to be left out, our lungs start us inhaling and exhaling faster and our skin leaks salty sweat, especially over our palms, just to make things even more "fun".
Strangely enough my body doesn't listen to me when I explain that the situation isn't really that scary and continues on it's merry, terrified way.
What are your fears? Have they changed over time?
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Unfit for Children
So I'm sitting here watching Dr Phil. There is a surrogate mother who has reclaimed the twins she handed over because the "adoptive" mother has a mental illness. According to the surrogate mother a mental illness means the adoptive mother is unfit for parenthood.
Unsurprisingly this makes my blood boil.
The surrogate mother has spent 40 minutes of the show saying how horrible, wrong and unfit someone is if they have a mental illness. In the next breath she says "it's not about the mental illness" and proceeds to claim she is tolerant and that the babies weren't safe with the adoptive mother because of her "undisclosed psychotic illness."
I'm sure it's not just me who can see the obvious contradiction.
I'll state now that the adoptive mother does not have an "undisclosed psychotic illness" and it was shown conclusively with her psychiatrists reference for the adoption.
In the 8 to 9 years prior to the adoption the adopting mother had not spent any time in an institution, regularly takes her medication, has been employed at the same company for 21 years and is so highly recommend in her job she is able to work from home.
Wow, this woman is doing better than most "normal" women!!
So, anyway, this whole story has made my blood boil so fiercely that I think I can feel steam escaping from my ears.
What this story is creating is nothing more than hysteria over mental illness by a selfish, judgemental and callous woman.
To Dr Phil's credit he spat the dummy about this hysteria and unfair, unjust and judgemental view regarding mental illness. He explained the varying degrees of psychosis and how many millions of Americans live highly functional lives even with mental illness. Yeah! Suck on that bigoted bitch!
Dr Phil also, correctly, stated that this whole issue has set back mental illness acceptance and awareness in America by 20 odd years.
Basically what this means to me is that some people would deny me the right to have children based solely on my mental state. How dare anyone, anyone, tell me what I can and can not do.
I have to state clearly I do not want children and I do not think I would be a good mother and not because of my mental illness.
My decision that I'm not the mothering type is based on my lack of ability to nurture. Some people are made to be mothers and some, like me, are not.
This story raises my hackles because I have had someone say I am not a safe person for my friends 3 year old boy to be around. This was said by someone whom I dated; a mutual friend. I realise he said this because he was hurt that I had broken up with him. However, he had no basis for this blatantly judgmental comment. All he did was hurt me (most likely intentional) and make me doubt myself. He reinforced my "bad person" image I have endured all my life. But that's another blog.
So here I am, raging because people, both on my life and in the world, are so horrible. They have absolutely no right to say who is fit and who is not fit to be a parent. As far as I am aware there are only two people who have the right to say that; yourself and your psychiatrist. (Seriously, if your shrink says it's not a good idea to do something they aren't saying it for kicks.)
So here we are, one person reading this, another person raging while writing this.
Would you ever tell someone they are not fit to be a parent based solely on their mental state?
Unsurprisingly this makes my blood boil.
The surrogate mother has spent 40 minutes of the show saying how horrible, wrong and unfit someone is if they have a mental illness. In the next breath she says "it's not about the mental illness" and proceeds to claim she is tolerant and that the babies weren't safe with the adoptive mother because of her "undisclosed psychotic illness."
I'm sure it's not just me who can see the obvious contradiction.
I'll state now that the adoptive mother does not have an "undisclosed psychotic illness" and it was shown conclusively with her psychiatrists reference for the adoption.
In the 8 to 9 years prior to the adoption the adopting mother had not spent any time in an institution, regularly takes her medication, has been employed at the same company for 21 years and is so highly recommend in her job she is able to work from home.
Wow, this woman is doing better than most "normal" women!!
So, anyway, this whole story has made my blood boil so fiercely that I think I can feel steam escaping from my ears.
What this story is creating is nothing more than hysteria over mental illness by a selfish, judgemental and callous woman.
To Dr Phil's credit he spat the dummy about this hysteria and unfair, unjust and judgemental view regarding mental illness. He explained the varying degrees of psychosis and how many millions of Americans live highly functional lives even with mental illness. Yeah! Suck on that bigoted bitch!
Dr Phil also, correctly, stated that this whole issue has set back mental illness acceptance and awareness in America by 20 odd years.
Basically what this means to me is that some people would deny me the right to have children based solely on my mental state. How dare anyone, anyone, tell me what I can and can not do.
I have to state clearly I do not want children and I do not think I would be a good mother and not because of my mental illness.
My decision that I'm not the mothering type is based on my lack of ability to nurture. Some people are made to be mothers and some, like me, are not.
This story raises my hackles because I have had someone say I am not a safe person for my friends 3 year old boy to be around. This was said by someone whom I dated; a mutual friend. I realise he said this because he was hurt that I had broken up with him. However, he had no basis for this blatantly judgmental comment. All he did was hurt me (most likely intentional) and make me doubt myself. He reinforced my "bad person" image I have endured all my life. But that's another blog.
So here I am, raging because people, both on my life and in the world, are so horrible. They have absolutely no right to say who is fit and who is not fit to be a parent. As far as I am aware there are only two people who have the right to say that; yourself and your psychiatrist. (Seriously, if your shrink says it's not a good idea to do something they aren't saying it for kicks.)
So here we are, one person reading this, another person raging while writing this.
Would you ever tell someone they are not fit to be a parent based solely on their mental state?
Dissociative
Lately I have blank spots in my memory. Time has elapsed and I am completely unaware of it, until later when I realise there are hours unaccounted for.
If I were writing a story I would start hinting at multiple personalities and delving into the personalities. However, this isn't a story, this is my life. For the record, I don't have multiple personalities. Multiple moods which may appear as different personalities maybe, but I am always conscious of myself during these mood changes.
It's Monday, which means I've seen my shrink. It's also the 22nd of November, which is two day shy of the day I'll kill myself. Of course the year of my death is still undetermined. Technically, it should have been last year. I never wanted to live past 25 so being 26 is something strange and unnatural. But that's a whole different kettle of fish.
I've been having these blank periods for most of my life. Usually during the most harrowing times. This is apparently very natural for someone who has experienced a lot of severe trauma in their life.
Like all new developments in my diagnosis/condition/mental illness this new awareness of noticeable dissociative episodes is daunting. It's scary.
My current worry is what I am doing during these times. I don't mean driving or things like that. The dissociative periods only happen when I am at home and when my mood is low. What I do mean is when I'm sitting on the couch and an hour or two later I'm in my room and I have no memory of getting up and walking there or what I did.
In my current state of fretting about the negative forces at work in my brain that want me to kill myself in two days, I fear I might have, or do, something to help bring this about.
Short of being thrown in hospital (which in Canberra it's not possible as there are currently no beds in any of the three mental facilities) or strapped to my bed, I have no way of assuring my own safety. Especially in light of the dissociative episodes.
To "normal" people this would sound like a sci-fi story or a severely active imagination. I wish that were the case.
Instead I get to spend Wednesday drugged out of my brain. For the first time in my life I will have Valium and I will willingly sleep an entire 24 hour period away. This won't make the suicidal urge go away. All this will do is get me through the day that I am most likely to act on those urges.
It is times like this when I pinch myself and hope like hell I wake up from this nightmare.
If I were writing a story I would start hinting at multiple personalities and delving into the personalities. However, this isn't a story, this is my life. For the record, I don't have multiple personalities. Multiple moods which may appear as different personalities maybe, but I am always conscious of myself during these mood changes.
It's Monday, which means I've seen my shrink. It's also the 22nd of November, which is two day shy of the day I'll kill myself. Of course the year of my death is still undetermined. Technically, it should have been last year. I never wanted to live past 25 so being 26 is something strange and unnatural. But that's a whole different kettle of fish.
I've been having these blank periods for most of my life. Usually during the most harrowing times. This is apparently very natural for someone who has experienced a lot of severe trauma in their life.
Like all new developments in my diagnosis/condition/mental illness this new awareness of noticeable dissociative episodes is daunting. It's scary.
My current worry is what I am doing during these times. I don't mean driving or things like that. The dissociative periods only happen when I am at home and when my mood is low. What I do mean is when I'm sitting on the couch and an hour or two later I'm in my room and I have no memory of getting up and walking there or what I did.
In my current state of fretting about the negative forces at work in my brain that want me to kill myself in two days, I fear I might have, or do, something to help bring this about.
Short of being thrown in hospital (which in Canberra it's not possible as there are currently no beds in any of the three mental facilities) or strapped to my bed, I have no way of assuring my own safety. Especially in light of the dissociative episodes.
To "normal" people this would sound like a sci-fi story or a severely active imagination. I wish that were the case.
Instead I get to spend Wednesday drugged out of my brain. For the first time in my life I will have Valium and I will willingly sleep an entire 24 hour period away. This won't make the suicidal urge go away. All this will do is get me through the day that I am most likely to act on those urges.
It is times like this when I pinch myself and hope like hell I wake up from this nightmare.
A Little Secret
I have anxiety so I can safely say I feel scared about 80% of the time. Being scared of “life” is interesting in a funny, crazy way.
Today, however, I am scared about something quite real. It’s not a fear as the result of a what if. It’s the genuine article.
Six and a half months ago I had surgery to remove my gallbladder. Nothing horrendous there. It was keyhole surgery and I healed quickly, on the outside. Inside, since then, I have been very, very sick. For many months my GP didn’t believe me and, of course, neither did my mum. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I spoke about how sick I’ve been feeling to my psychiatrist and HE made the suggestion I see a specialist, that anyone listened.
I realised then everyone else thought it was in my head.
Today is my first consult with the specialist. The first consult lasts a matter of minutes before being shuffled back out to the waiting room to make the “actual” appointment.
The fear takes hold of me when I know someone will be looking to see what the problem is and will ultimately figure out why I’ve been so sick. Of course, I have no idea what it could be.
I only know that whatever it is has been affecting my brain. That is what scares me.
Ever since my surgery I’ve been unable to think clearly and coherently like I used to. I can’t process new words nor remember their meanings. I forget words, simple words, and have trouble trying to prompt myself or others with hints or similes. It’s like the word has been erased from my mind completely. And no, as yet none of the words I’ve “lost” have come back.
Most people wouldn’t care about these things. I wish I were one of them. However, I’m not and I do care.
Writing is the only thing I have. It is the only satisfactory creative outlet I have. My words are what stand by me when no one else will. If I can’t write, I can’t think and if I can’t think I may as well be institutionalised.
My fear is real and no one knows, other than my psychiatrist, how painful the last six and a half months have been.
Today, however, I am scared about something quite real. It’s not a fear as the result of a what if. It’s the genuine article.
Six and a half months ago I had surgery to remove my gallbladder. Nothing horrendous there. It was keyhole surgery and I healed quickly, on the outside. Inside, since then, I have been very, very sick. For many months my GP didn’t believe me and, of course, neither did my mum. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when I spoke about how sick I’ve been feeling to my psychiatrist and HE made the suggestion I see a specialist, that anyone listened.
I realised then everyone else thought it was in my head.
Today is my first consult with the specialist. The first consult lasts a matter of minutes before being shuffled back out to the waiting room to make the “actual” appointment.
The fear takes hold of me when I know someone will be looking to see what the problem is and will ultimately figure out why I’ve been so sick. Of course, I have no idea what it could be.
I only know that whatever it is has been affecting my brain. That is what scares me.
Ever since my surgery I’ve been unable to think clearly and coherently like I used to. I can’t process new words nor remember their meanings. I forget words, simple words, and have trouble trying to prompt myself or others with hints or similes. It’s like the word has been erased from my mind completely. And no, as yet none of the words I’ve “lost” have come back.
Most people wouldn’t care about these things. I wish I were one of them. However, I’m not and I do care.
Writing is the only thing I have. It is the only satisfactory creative outlet I have. My words are what stand by me when no one else will. If I can’t write, I can’t think and if I can’t think I may as well be institutionalised.
My fear is real and no one knows, other than my psychiatrist, how painful the last six and a half months have been.
Failure.
I failed.
There I said it. The two words that have chased me throughout my life have, again, caught up with me.
I failed.
For the sake of coherence I'll go back a little bit and explain. I applied to write some online articles for a website. It was a rather harrowing two hours as I had to write two example articles. Upon finishing the articles I clicked on send. Then the waiting game began.
I got an email not even two hours later telling me, clinically, that my application was declined.
A few tears were shed.
Then, perhaps miraculously or perhaps not, I realised that I'd been had. Those nice comments about my writing, suggestions to do more, write more, were really just people being polite. Isn't that what you say when someone does something in the way of an achievement? We utter polite phrases and niceties because that's what we're conditioned to do.
These niceties aren't really a problem unless someone as gullible as me comes along and starts to believe them.
It was at that moment, that very moment when I started to believe it might be possible, I began to set myself up for failure. I actually began to believe the niceties. The sweet, kind niceties that are like candy for the soul. Truly, I have no one to blame but myself for blindly munching on those soul-sweets.
That brings me back to where I began. I failed. Of course I was going to fail. I'm a small followed blog writer who started to believe she was better than she was. Molotov cocktail anyone?
Perhaps my biggest mistake was mentioning it on twitter. As always my words were misunderstood, as I know these will be too, and I was questioned as to why I would give up after only one knock back.
My hackles raised I wanted to scream "don't you know anything about me?" then abruptly realised that no one "knows" me. That's the security of twitter. Being "unknown" was my favourite part of it. Now, when I need to be known, that part of twitter isn't quite so much fun.
I know my place now. I am fully aware now that niceties are lovely and soft and cosy when you need to inflate an ego. But they're definitely not the basis of true strength of character.
Watch this space. This heartbreaking turn of events will lead to my return to hospital and, more importantly, a return to the mind fogging medication I felt sure I was rid of.
I failed.
P.S. I'd strongly advise a lot of thought before replying to this post. I'm extremely sensitive right now and while I try to joke and undermine the severity of the situation, the reality is quite serious. Yes, I agree there's a certain amount of self pity in this blog. I'll come to roll my eyes at it one day. For now though be aware that it was a positively MONSTROUS effort for me to apply to this website.
Keep that in mind when you're shredding what's left of my self esteem, ego and myself in general.
There I said it. The two words that have chased me throughout my life have, again, caught up with me.
I failed.
For the sake of coherence I'll go back a little bit and explain. I applied to write some online articles for a website. It was a rather harrowing two hours as I had to write two example articles. Upon finishing the articles I clicked on send. Then the waiting game began.
I got an email not even two hours later telling me, clinically, that my application was declined.
A few tears were shed.
Then, perhaps miraculously or perhaps not, I realised that I'd been had. Those nice comments about my writing, suggestions to do more, write more, were really just people being polite. Isn't that what you say when someone does something in the way of an achievement? We utter polite phrases and niceties because that's what we're conditioned to do.
These niceties aren't really a problem unless someone as gullible as me comes along and starts to believe them.
It was at that moment, that very moment when I started to believe it might be possible, I began to set myself up for failure. I actually began to believe the niceties. The sweet, kind niceties that are like candy for the soul. Truly, I have no one to blame but myself for blindly munching on those soul-sweets.
That brings me back to where I began. I failed. Of course I was going to fail. I'm a small followed blog writer who started to believe she was better than she was. Molotov cocktail anyone?
Perhaps my biggest mistake was mentioning it on twitter. As always my words were misunderstood, as I know these will be too, and I was questioned as to why I would give up after only one knock back.
My hackles raised I wanted to scream "don't you know anything about me?" then abruptly realised that no one "knows" me. That's the security of twitter. Being "unknown" was my favourite part of it. Now, when I need to be known, that part of twitter isn't quite so much fun.
I know my place now. I am fully aware now that niceties are lovely and soft and cosy when you need to inflate an ego. But they're definitely not the basis of true strength of character.
Watch this space. This heartbreaking turn of events will lead to my return to hospital and, more importantly, a return to the mind fogging medication I felt sure I was rid of.
I failed.
P.S. I'd strongly advise a lot of thought before replying to this post. I'm extremely sensitive right now and while I try to joke and undermine the severity of the situation, the reality is quite serious. Yes, I agree there's a certain amount of self pity in this blog. I'll come to roll my eyes at it one day. For now though be aware that it was a positively MONSTROUS effort for me to apply to this website.
Keep that in mind when you're shredding what's left of my self esteem, ego and myself in general.