The other day I discovered a mistake that I had made. It was a bit of miscommunication that put me in a position of begging for an exception to the rules so that I could do what I was supposed to be doing. This was a mistake, that if not rectified, would cost us money. Money we don’t have.
Everything worked out. I got my exception and my task was completed successfully. But my anxiety was through the roof. And I couldn’t bring it down. Because I was worried about what MIL and hubby were thinking.
I live for making other people’s lives easier. I have spent most of my life trying to make sure that other people were comfortable. And that they liked me.
I am constantly worried about what other people think of me. Not so much here on WP, because we all live on the same sinking ship, but I worry about hubby, MIL, my family, my friends. (well, friend) They all (except hubby) minimize my anxiety and depression with stories of how everyone gets depressed sometimes. Everyone gets anxious sometimes. But, I live in anxiety. 24/7. It’s my baseline. And it takes very little to shoot it up to the point that I can no longer deal. I wake up pissed at least a couple times a week. But I don’t want anyone to know because I don’t want to see the disappointment and the confusion. So I pretend. I spend my precious bits of energy trying to make everyone around me comfortable.
This was diagnosed as co-dependency after my first nervous breakdown. Severe co-dependency. This is something that is often found in the homes of alcoholics. There is often someone in the home that tries to make sure that everything is perfect to avoid an outburst from the addict.
I don’t live with addiction. But, my youth was a study in not angering my mother. It was so damn easy to set her off. I learned to try to make sure that everyone was happy.
But, I also rebelled. And I lied my ass off about it. I made up girl friends because my mother didn’t want me hanging out with too many boys. I wasn’t promiscuous. My mother just thought it was wrong that so many of my friends were boys. So I made up people. Easier. Kept her happy which kept her from going batshit.
My punishments when I was younger were always severe. Missing curfew could get me grounded for a month. And God forbid I talked back. Or tried to explain myself. Now, I’m grounded for 2 months. I was grounded my entire senior year of high school. I don’t know why.
I was never physically abused, but emotionally was another story. I have grown into an adult that is perpetually afraid of “being in trouble”. I don’t know what I think is going to happen to me but since I don’t want to find out, I spend my time trying to appease everyone. And I’m always afraid someone will think I’m stupid or mean or lazy.
I hear about people with terrible physical illnesses who “push through the pain” and do incredible things. I hear about people with mental illness who push through and do amazing things. So I beat myself up for not being able to do the same. I spend time every single week, thinking that if I just try hard enough, I could go back to work. But, I can’t. I can’t even make a semi-difficult phone call without needing to take a valium. How am I supposed to deal with traffic and mean people? Some days I can’t make myself get up and shower. How am I supposed to get to work on time?
All of my doctors insist that I can’t work. But I feel like a disappointment. I bring no money to the house. I applied for disability, but that process is so long that I feel certain it will never end. I feel like I am disappointing my hubby. This is not the woman he married. He married a worker, a doer. Hell, I made more money than he did.
Now I make no money. I rarely leave the house. If he is angry, I automatically assume that it is because of something I did. It rarely is, but it is always my first thought.
The meds have destroyed my sex drive. My appreciation of sex used to be….robust. Now, I seriously couldn’t give a shit. Thanks for that side effect pharma.
I feel like I am rambling. I probably am. If you’re still reading, then thank you. If you aren’t than I’m sorry, not that you are here to see it. I’m forever telling others not to be sorry that they are rambling because their blog is their space. Now I’m doing it, too. But I can’t seem to afford myself the same leniency.
I don’t know.
Fuck it. I’m just gonna hit “publish” and try not to stress about it.