Anxious
I'm in the middle of a bad anxiety spike, so I figured I should write here to see if unmasking here as I'm doing will help. I should be sleeping this off. It's a very physical thing, this anxiety. My veins run cold and my heart feels tight. My stomach hurts and I feel like my soul is very drained. I mean, it makes me physically tired. My instinct in these times is to run away. To go through a big pain but to leave my pain behind and hide somewhere safe. Spoiler alert, I can't truly run away because I'm the problem.
I'm 42 years old as I write this, but in many ways I am a young person. A stunted child who slams doors and cries for attention in maladaptive ways. A child who huddles in the corner, not knowing how to handle herself with others. I always wanted to be better but mask too much for my own good. I masked when I was being evaluated for Autism. I masked with my therapist. To many people around me, I am so perky and so happy that I am self-sufficient. A robot almost. I was guilted into doing people's homework growing up. By my own mother. I remember being sick and in bed, and her smacking me for not doing the neighbor's homework. I've always been called upon to accept and help others but I really did trick the people around me into thinking I was wise and have myself together. I don't at all. I think all the times my mother told me not to cry and when people's eyes glazed over when I was sad made me give up on hope a long time ago that I can be wholly myself, flaws and all and still be reassured that my relationships will be intact.
I run away. And I perpetuate this cycle of pain on myself and others. In my most secret of hearts, I wanted someone to see my eyes and realize that there is more to me than my unwavering acceptance of others and my desire to please. That many seconds of my day I'm just surviving for my daughter. I learned early on that no one would love me unless I made up reasons to be sad that adhered to their mental model of why I should be unhappy. The problem is that the mask has a price always. It will always fall and it will always be ugly. I have theories on how to mitigate it. I'm not sure if it would work, though. I don't seem to operate in a way that is quite normal. Some things I don't care about bother other people and then something that other people are ok with ends up being devastating to me. So I think to myself. I am sick in my heart and should be quarantined from harming others.
My longest-lasting interpersonal relationships have been with those who forget what I say. Survival means making myself small or inherently being small. I mean, I have enough self-awareness to understand the utter helpless toxicity this entails. I hate being a "poor me" person but that's what I am right? What is it they say? Beware who you choose as your enemy. A "poor me" isn't a person in my mind, but an archetype I dislike. The problem is, that not being a "poor me" involves work, and working with other people. I feel safer in a corner alone. Not happier. But safer.
The sun stopped shining for me is all. The whole story is: I am sad. I am sad all the time and the sadness is so heavy that I can’t get away from it. Not ever.
– Nina LaCour (Hold Still)