I used to believe that most people experienced the same level of anxiety that I do. We all carry some fear or unease about the things we must face in life. I’m not trying to compare my situation with anyone else’s. But honestly, my anxiety runs much higher. I struggle to take on even the simplest tasks because of it. Whenever I have something scheduled, no matter how minor, my anxiety spikes until I need medication to cope. For instance, I signed up for Coles home delivery thinking that having groceries brought to my door would spare me the stress of going into the store. I have since learned that even this supposed shortcut triggers my anxiety. I watch the clock, and as soon as the delivery window arrives I become an anxious mess.
Today I missed out on my awesome nephew’s birthday party because I simply couldn’t make it. It would have meant a lengthy car trip and me plastering on a fake smile throughout the celebration, and I just didn’t have the energy for that. What’s wrong with me? This bloody condition limits me in so many ways — things that ought to be easy feel impossible. I’m watching parts of life pass me by. I see the doctors about once a month, my GP at least, but I stopped seeing my psychiatrist around eight months ago because he didn’t have anything useful to offer for managing this debilitating problem. More medication and referrals to psychologists are the standard response from the medical system, and it feels like the best I can get. Benzodiazepines don’t help me — the more you take, the more you seem to need, and their very short half-life makes them ineffective for lasting relief. I could empty the whole monthly box and still feel no different. The irony is I would sometimes take a dose before seeing the doctor who prescribed them, simply because any kind of appointment triggers my anxiety.
If I had it my way, I wouldn’t leave the house. A day when I have nothing scheduled is a good day. There is nothing better than waking up knowing there are no plans to keep. I live like a hermit: I pull the blinds down, get myself comfy, and spend the hours watching YouTube documentaries, listening to music and catching a few hours of Netflix. That routine is mixed with medication and quiet moments of doing very little. My housemates have learned to leave me alone, so I carry very few responsibilities, and I prefer it that way. I am content to live like this and don’t feel like I’m missing out on what’s happening in the outside world.
There is one clear thing I could do for myself, and that’s stop immersing myself so deeply in the consumption of American politics. I follow it like a hawk, tracking developments obsessively and keeping up to date with everything except the narratives coming from Fox News. All of this can easily become overwhelming and depressing. I’m also something of a conspiracy nut at times… but I’m veering off topic. Something has to be done about this condition. Maybe I should consider seeing a psychologist — even for just a few sessions to learn practical tools for managing it. I’ve always been opposed to psychoanalysis, but I’m running out of options. I can’t keep living like this indefinitely.
On top of this, I have other psychological issues that I rarely discuss, only sharing them on a strict need-to-know basis. These diagnoses also cause me a great deal of grief. Depression and the S-word can tear my world apart and feed my anxiety. I’m medicated for these conditions and currently stable, but episodes are sporadic and still pop up from time to time. I’d like to talk about some of the symptoms, but once again… these remain secrets.
Insomnia is the other killer. The time is 5:24 a.m., and I still haven’t slept. My only plans for today are to drop by the dog wash and grab some Maccas.
Once again I have given too much of myself in this blog, and I suspect I’ll regret posting it later. Who really cares, after all? I hardly get any views on this site anyway, and what I’ve just shared isn’t likely to shock the few people who happen to come across it.