Since I have an anxiety disorder, I worry about little things.
Really little things. I worry about the water dripping down the side of
the tub when I'm getting ready to take a shower. I worry about blowing
my nose. I worry about picking my ear. One time I was freaking out for
the better part of an afternoon over a stain on my corduroys. I don't know why I worry about these things. But it takes over my life. I wash my hands a lot. I wash my hands so much I have eczema.
Worry is a constant in my life. It's how I define my time as the hours go by: what am I worrying about right now as opposed to what I was worrying about forty minutes ago? It's not a question of whether or not I'm worrying, because I always am. And I've always been like this. As Lady Gaga would say, I was born this way. As a teenager and a small child, I remember chastising myself endlessly, for weeks, over having made a stupid comment, or over not having won a debate. Sometimes the comment wasn't even that stupid to begin with, looking back on it.
I guess if you want to know what it's like to be in my head, here goes: it's hell. It's like walking everywhere barefoot on shards of glass, or at least like walking everywhere on eggshells. I know those are two very different analogies, so I'll explain the second one first. Being in my head is like walking everywhere on eggshells because I never know what small thing, like dropping a pill on the floor or spilling some water, might make me freak the fuck out. On really bad days, being inside my head is like walking barefoot on shards of glass because everything just hurts. I can't win. When I wash my hands after having gone to the bathroom, I didn't wash them right, or enough. So I go and wash them again. Hence the endless hand-washing.
And the thing is, I know all this is crazy. But I do it anyway. And I berate myself for not being able to snap out of it, which just makes everything worse.
I'm trying to find a way to neatly wrap this up, to tie all the loose ends together. But there are so many little things to worry about. So, so many little things, just begging to be worried about. So please excuse me while I drift out of this conversation and slip into what Tori Amos called "some secret prison behind [my] eyes." Just fade away, slip into it. Because, like an old, faded, ratty, stained t-shirt, in the end, this hell has become... comfortable.
Worry is a constant in my life. It's how I define my time as the hours go by: what am I worrying about right now as opposed to what I was worrying about forty minutes ago? It's not a question of whether or not I'm worrying, because I always am. And I've always been like this. As Lady Gaga would say, I was born this way. As a teenager and a small child, I remember chastising myself endlessly, for weeks, over having made a stupid comment, or over not having won a debate. Sometimes the comment wasn't even that stupid to begin with, looking back on it.
I guess if you want to know what it's like to be in my head, here goes: it's hell. It's like walking everywhere barefoot on shards of glass, or at least like walking everywhere on eggshells. I know those are two very different analogies, so I'll explain the second one first. Being in my head is like walking everywhere on eggshells because I never know what small thing, like dropping a pill on the floor or spilling some water, might make me freak the fuck out. On really bad days, being inside my head is like walking barefoot on shards of glass because everything just hurts. I can't win. When I wash my hands after having gone to the bathroom, I didn't wash them right, or enough. So I go and wash them again. Hence the endless hand-washing.
And the thing is, I know all this is crazy. But I do it anyway. And I berate myself for not being able to snap out of it, which just makes everything worse.
I'm trying to find a way to neatly wrap this up, to tie all the loose ends together. But there are so many little things to worry about. So, so many little things, just begging to be worried about. So please excuse me while I drift out of this conversation and slip into what Tori Amos called "some secret prison behind [my] eyes." Just fade away, slip into it. Because, like an old, faded, ratty, stained t-shirt, in the end, this hell has become... comfortable.
1 comment:
This is really a very good article, I was looking for this from long time.Thanks again for the article.
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