It should come as no surprise that my mental health isn’t doing great. I have no idea if it’s a combination of the Main Purpose of the drugs I’m on or if it’s simply a long-lasting side effect of simply being in pain All The Time, but I’ve never been this type of anxious for this long in my life before.
Well, maybe during football season. I was anxious all the time then too. I hated football. It was hard, everyone else was so effortlessly good at it, and I struggled. Everything I was doing somehow revolved around football practice.
Spanish class was boring and the room too hot, but I couldn’t get sleepy because I had to be wide awake for football practice.
It was meatloaf and cornbread day at the cafeteria, with apple crumble for dessert, but I couldn’t get seconds because then I’d be too full for football practice.
I couldn’t run around having Adventures on a Sunday because then I’d be tired or sore the next day at football practice.
The only time I felt free, when I was truly unencumbered by the thoughts, was immediately after a game on Friday night. The energy, the lights, the crowd, all I could hope for would be to not embarrass myself. To be a good teammate, a good cheer squad from the sidelines, be a good player when I was allowed on the field. We’d win, of course, and we’d all be… happy. Friends. It was the only time I felt good.
Saturday would be fine, but I’d stress the entire time about having The Most Fun I could during the only time I was free. If I didn’t pack everything I could in during that time, then I’d wasted the weekend, and I had an even more horrible week waiting for me. That I’d have to suffer through it after not living My Best Life and that would be even harder.
The only respite, the only rest, the only time it ever let up, was when the season was over and my responsibilities waned. Then I was just bored. Not as anxious. Until I thought about next season anyway.
When I look back at it now, I can see that’s no way to live. I can see that I had many issues beyond just my feelings toward football practice. It was just the only time I was visibly pushed to failure, worked so hard that I dropped, and I was terrified I’d never Be Enough in this life.
That, more than anything, is likely the prevailing fear that I have always possessed. Deep in my chest, hiding somewhere between my heart and my lungs, making my pulse louder and breathing harder. It’s always been there.
And it’s here now. It’s here pretty much all the time. Unless I’m completely losing myself in something like a wonderful game on the Playstation (or even my phone) then I’m feeling anxious. The garbage stacks up, the floor gets dirtier, the rabbit’s cage needs changed, I need to shower, the dishes stack up, the kids need taken places and then brought back and everyone needs fed almost all the damn time.
It’s making it hard to fall asleep in the mornings, when I feel like I need it most. I lay there and feel the tightness in my chest. Wondering what will go wrong, what will wake Jo up, what will break that day, what will bring The Authorities to our door for some new violation, some fresh way to punish us and keep us flattened on the pavement with their knee on our neck.
I don’t know what to do about all this, but I know that I need to do something. Instead, I eat. And escape into things. And sit around getting fatter and be in pain.
Oof. I really need to work on fantasising about when this is over, I know that. But now that there’s been some mix-up with the referral, I still don’t have a date yet. Fucking shitfuck, I’m not even on the waitlist.
I suppose if I put my Psychology Hat on, I’d see that I’ve started to decline mentally since I found out that they fucked my referral and I’m not even waitlisted at either hospital. Fuck.