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 fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
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.