Tag Archives: anxiety

Memory Loss

My memory is going.

I already have gaps from my childhood; years and years where I can’t remember a damn thing. I’ve been told what happened, and as the brain is a fantastic thing, I’ve pieced together memories based on vague ideas. Other people have such great tales of mischief from their formative years. I have memories of crying in toilets, feeling hurt, and being rejected and ousted by my peers. Of course good things happened. The events surrounding my first crush taught me about friendship, relationships and teenage boys. The moments of painful self-awareness contrasted with extreme arrogance taught me how to control my inner (and not-so-inner!) idiot and gave me a way to avoid being a victim of those traits in others. I don’t have any moments of daring or extreme excitement. All of my happiest memories, or what’s left of them, are tinged with anxiety and tension as I recall the lies, the bullying and the intensity of the feelings behind them.

That scares me. It scares me that I’ve forgotten growing up. Even the things that I thought would stay with me forever have faded into mere flashes.

The memory loss is getting worse. I put things down and can’t remember where I put them (my glasses, keys and the kids’ sippy cups often falling foul of this). I can’t remember events, both upcoming and already passed. I can’t remember whether something happened this morning, last night, last week or last year. My perception of the passage of time has become both minutely compressed and impossibly stretched.

I’m not sure whether this is another symptom of the anxiety and depression or whatever it is, or a side-effect of packing my days full of nappies and kids and breastfeeding and cuddling and playing and shouting and chatting and working to the point where my mind feels it’s an inefficient waste of time to switch off to sleep. 

Cliquey cliquey

I have been subjected to the horror that is the playground far too many times for my delicate nerves to take recently.

L finished preschool today. And I could not be happier.

We walked in and she immediately ran off to be with all her friends – all the girls she has invited to her birthday party (only one has responded so far).

Only my child could choose to be friends with the group of girls who have probably all known each other from birth.

So I was forced to sit with a clique.

This clique blanked me, talked over L’s head and were generally very clear about their exclusivity, which has left me feeling very raw.  Not only for myself and my accentuated “poor parenting” (I was the only parent to get up and dance and sing with L though.  I might be shy and anxious but I don’t mind making a complete dick of myself if it means L gets what she needs.  And I quite like dancing.) but also for L.

I wanted desperately to be the cool kid at school, and I could see so much of myself in her. The thing is, now I’m wondering how much of a part the other parents in my exclusion.  I’m thinking in my case not much – I’m still repeating the same cycles now I’m older – but L is so lively and confident.  The other girls wanted to sit with her and hold her hand.  She does get invited to parties.

She’s not any more sensitive than the other girls and she is certainly a bright spark. It was so hard to watch the mothers talk over her head, hold their children close, ignore her, while she tried to play with her friends.  Maybe I exaggerated it because my childhood (my own doing!) was so bitter and ended with me crying in a corner a lot.

I’m terrified she is going to get cut out of situations because of who I am which has already happened in the past.

Chalk up another parenting fail.

 

Health Visitor

Today a health visitor came to see me after concerns were raised about my mental health at a routine appointment.

I’m sure I feel fine.

I’m exhausted as last night was a bad night for Ru and talking about certain subjects always makes me upset but is my mood that low?

She pulled out the questionnaire I know so well and I did it while she took Ru out in the sun because he was crying uncontrollably (again, thanks boy.)

Twelve. I scored twelve. So yes, I’m in the not good place, apparently. Weird thing is, I don’t really feel any different. I’ve felt pretty consistently like this for years so I’m not sure that there is anything that can be done to “fix” me.

More terrifyingly though, I disclosed my pain about not feeling like a proper parent and the torture I put myself through every time I’m out with my older children. Then followed that with the wallop of guilt I get when I’m not looking after them but not doing much else (like now).

The only way to “fix” that is to go out more with them and take time to get to know them.

Is this more pressure I need to put on myself to try and be the parent I want to be?

*Ticks yes to having ALL OF THE ANXIETY*

Worse than I thought

Last night, I had an anxiety attack. My first, real, proper, self-preserving anxiety event. And it was absolutely horrible.

As soon as I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, it started. I felt very odd, as if nothing were real. I was smelling odd things, like wood chips, and the plastic from toys I had when I was young. Nothing generated by the real world.

I was convinced the vomit was coming and wouldn’t stop, then I wouldn’t be able to feed Ru, or make it through the day.

I thought writing a full, meandering, but distant account of the events from the beginning – the very beginning – would be therapeutic. I even went as far as to think I would enjoy the process, fictionalising aspects as I saw fit.

I did enjoy bashing out two thousand words of absolute drivel, letting my brain follow its thought processes and writing it all down.

What I was actually doing, without realising, was triggering myself, over and over again until I came to bed where I lie down, the last few bars of the psytrance going round and round in my head. Then the horror came.
I detached. But not in the way I used to during my teens while I self-harmed. That was controlled. This, this was far more scary.

I felt like my brain was going on some kind of journey without me and that everything felt odd. Even the skin on my body was odd. I had waves of nausea as I panicked about feeling so strange and thought that maybe I would never feel normal again.

I’ve had broken sleep plagued by dreams of drowning.

Is this what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does? There were no flashbacks from the birth, or the few hours before and these were the images which kept jumping into my mind which had raised the concerns of a very gentle and loving health visitor. Feeling odd after writing about finding out I was pregnant and letting my mind explore a calm and factual way of storytelling wasn’t part of the deal.

Now I just feel jumpy and exhausted and a little frightened.

I need to write this, but as I become more ingrained in the story, I’m worried I might trigger myself into oblivion.

Selotape, blu-tac and cake

I’m pretty sure that’s how I’m holding it together.

It helps that I spend hours every evening watching shit TV and mindlessly knitting while chomping 15 pieces of Dairy Milk and washing it all down with highly sweetened coffee.

The house is not falling apart but I am.

OH is having to do everything.  He’s working a full time job, cooking, cleaning, washing up, shopping, putting petrol in my car, getting us out of bed.

I’m cheering if I manage to get up, shower, and do a full morning without shouting. 

So far there has been no cheering.

I’m not desperately depressed but the size 8 trousers hanging from my prominent hips point to the fact that I am actually managing to burn off calories just by being worried.  I’m eating.  I’m possibly eating more than I normally would but still I’m getting thinner. 

For now, I just hope the selotape doesn’t begin to peel at the edges and that the blu-tac stays moist.

And that there is an endless supply of cake.

I’m hurting

Today I’m going to interrupt the theme and darken the mood because today, quite frankly, I feel like shit.  Awful stinky curry shit. Kebab shit.

Once again, for those of you who do not like negativity or feel you may be triggered by someone whinging, please look away now.

Ok…

You.

Yes you. The only one left reading.  Get a cuppa and then lend me your eyes and some sympathy while I feel sorry for myself.

I’m hurting because I’m exhausted.

I’m hurting because of the injustice I have been served in a pathetic situation which is not even my fucking problem.

I’m hurting because I’m reminded every time one of my kids misbehaves and I tell them off how close I am to having Social Services on my case FOR A CRIME I DID NOT COMMIT!

I’m hurting because my organisation has failed and the house is once again looking like we have been burgled.

I’m hurting because once again work gave me renewed hope and havent even bothered to inform me I haven’t been successful so I am left in limbo.

I’m hurting because my coccyx injury is twinging and it makes me feel sick.

I’m hurting because I pretty much constantly feel sick anyway.

I’m hurting because playgroup didn’t hold the door open for me so I had to struggle out with L clinging to one hand and a car seat, bookbag and artwork in the other.

I’m hurting because every driving error is my fault.

I’m hurting because an idiotic man swore at me as he almost ran over my kids (we were walking back to the car in the carpark and he was going forwards!!)

I’m hurting because the fucking roadworks are a headache and chore every single day.

I’m hurting because every car journey has a screaming sound track.  Every night has the same tune. Someone change the record already.

I’m hurting because she starfished in the carseat in the carpark and I screamed.  I’m fully waiting a telling off.

I’m hurting because even though they are both asleep I know I won’t be able to sleep.

I’m hurting because I can’t do more.

I’m hurting because I want to be likeable and pleasant and positive but I mostly feel anti-social, bitchy, and negative.

I’m just hurting.

Ideas and dreams

This morning, after Os 5am feed, I went back to sleep.  I know – lazy right?  I could have started some washing or done the washing up or cleaned out shithole of a bedroom in that time.

Alas, I didn’t.  I drifted back into the safe haven of dreams.

I quite like it there.  It is yielding some good results, probably as a side-effect of the mess my head is during the day.

At night I have ideas.  I find storylines buried deep in my mind.  I’m allowed to be magical and beautiful and ride around on a unicorn. Or whatever.  

Yesterday I asked for help. Not with stories or fantasies but with life.  I reached breaking point with the sick anxiety.  I went to the Drs.  I told him tearfully about my shitty week.

“Counselling or pills?” He asked.

“Pills.”  Fuck it.  I get a free massage every week, I know what things I need to do to make myself feel better, but I am absolutely shite at following my own advice. I’ve never opted for pills before. They’ve always been thrust upon me. This time is different.  This time I can’t cease to function.  This time I cannot end up with threats of hospitalisation.

So now I have a prescription for Sertraline.  A new one on me. 

Apparently it will stop my premature ejaculation.

I have yet to acquire the pills.  Just knowing they are there seems to be enough. 

I don’t want them to take away the dreams.