Sorry

I've decided to give the blog thing another chance. I did have one in the past but even imagining one person was reading it eventually sent me into meltdown. I had a huge panic attack, I felt so exposed and couldn't help but undermine myself and what I'd written. In my eyes, I'm nothing but a sorry excuse for a human being. And sorry is a word I use a lot. Whether it be empathizing with others or just spending time talking to people. I constantly apologise for my perceived shortcomings. And I question my sincerity every time I use the word when supporting friends.

Its that little voice in my head that can't help but call me a bullshitter and a loser. Deep down I worry I'm two-faced. I feel like I tell people what they want to or need to hear without any sense of authenticity. There's such a disconnect within me sometimes. A mewling ball of rage and resentment and usually those closest, particularly my best friend bear the brunt. I can be extremely passive aggressive when the mood strikes. She'll say something entirely innocent and it will trigger such an unwarranted torrent of abuse, it's disgraceful. The worst part is she takes it all and never complains or calls me out. She really is the best person I've ever known. She rarely grumbles no matter how hard things get for her and takes on far too much all at once.

And it makes me sick that there's a part of me inside that's so twisted it can't bear for other people to be happy or achieve around it. It lays dormant most days but comes in waves when it's active and looking to be fed. I remember once wandering around Morrisons with Mum perfectly pleasantly and then turning on her in the blink of an eye, over something ridiculous like frozen pizza. And there I was screaming like a toddler in the middle of a supermarket and I didn't care. In fact when I'm in it I think I rather enjoy it. It's like I'm crying out for attention almost. "Look at me I'm screaming, do you see how much I'm hurting now? Do you care now?"

For whatever reason the idea that I'm alone & no one cares took root inside of me a long time ago and I believe it wholeheartedly. If people talk to me or seem to enjoy my company I can't accept that. it's just not possible. They're obviously pitying me, tolerating my presence and my inane witterings because there's no better option at the time. I'm not important or special enough for someone to take seriously and to genuinely care about. I've always just felt disposable to people, at first I'm useful to have around but they eventually get bored and move on.

So you can imagine as bad as the panic attacks are when I think about going outside alone, nothing scares me more than meeting new people. The insecurity and uncertainty is overwhelming. My heart is usually pounding and my mouth is drier than the Atacama as I try to stutter out the occassional coherent sentence. After which I analyse every syllable uttered and berate myself for being so stupid or dull. And that will go on for days after the initial meeting, no matter whether they were pleasant or not my head will be on repeat. Every word, every look will run again over and over in my head and I'll feel the shivers of disgust and embarrassment at my performance. I'll find myself physically flinching as the memories leap out of nowhere and smack me in the gut. I'll shake my head at their presence to try and oust them from where they sit. But like a snow globe the flakes of self loathing and negativity fly up only to settle and embed them self once again.

Although I am trying to work on this deep seeded self loathing with my psychologist and support workers help. I just can't seem to get my head around the idea of acceptance. Which was brought up in a film I watched this evening called Mary & Max. The idea of looking at yourself hard in the mirror and embracing what's reflected, warts and all. How do you do that when you have so many warts? How do you reconcile that this is it, this is all you are, all you'll ever be? I don't know if I'll ever be able to do it, to look at myself and say it's okay. I can be someone with mental health problems and I don't need to feel ashamed or apologise. To say its not my fault. And that its fine if I slip up and get angry once in a while because I try. Even typing that my head is screaming that its all filthy lies. I'm not ill, I'm just pathetic, a failure, a no hoper from the get go. I'm evil and heartless and I've been headed for the pit since birth.

Which goes to show how long a war it's going to be and I know I'm rarely going to win any battles at first.
Even now hearing my psychologist talk over my accomplishments sends me quietly reeling. Big deal I got a bus by myself, met someone new & went to a concert. So what if that's all new for me. Who cares if its been years since I last went to a concert & never without a trusted escort. Is it really amazing that I didn't run screaming from the venue no matter how uncomfortable and wretched I felt? How are these truly accomplishments? I just can't help but shake my head and think, I'm 30 years old and my biggest achievement is an hour long bus ride on a Thursday night? What hope is there for me to ever live any semblance of a "normal" existence when I can't even go to a supermarket without my Mum.

In the end I guess the best I'm hoping for is to be able to turn the volume down on the voices inside that lash away at me 24/7. Maybe then I'll have the confidence to do things that my mind actually rates. And I won't feel the need to keep apologising.