I’m not known to post incredibly personal things on here, or anywhere for that matter, but here’s this ramble that I wrote a couple of weeks ago.
This is hard for me to even write, because I usually don’t totally understand what I’m feeling. And sometimes trying to explain it just makes me feel worse. I push on.
It’s kind of funny to be in a program at school that involves doing a lot of things that scare me. On one hand, it’s forcing me to do things that I wouldn’t have done – or things that make me uncomfortable, like using my voice. But I signed up for this, and if I skip assignments, it’s my own money that I’m wasting. On the other hand, I’m almost always dreading something. There’s no break between the different tasks that test how far I can step out of my comfort zone. I know my comfort zone is very small, but after a while, it’s exhausting to be scared all the time. I’m left questioning whether or not I belong in this program almost daily. I should be getting used to it all by now, right? I have to record my voice in a semi-soundproofed room at least once a week, so why am I not getting more comfortable? I want to be here. I don’t think I belong.
Even at my job in the summer, I went with nearly everything they told me to do, even if I felt physically sick leading up to and during the thing. I went door-to-door trying to sell things. I stood at a festival booth for days on end. But I refused to answer the phones, or call anyone. When the pressure is there, I can usually force myself to suck it up for the most part. Unless I can’t.
Lately everything has seemed just a bit more difficult. I’ve been finding it harder to breathe when thinking of upcoming projects, or applying for a new job, or getting on the subway alone. I’d like to think I’m a big advocate of getting help if you need it, but I never take my own advice. I think a lot of people do that. It’s hard to decide that you’ve reached a point where you just cannot continue on your own. Honestly, I’m not even the one that decided to reach out. My dad took notice that I’d been having a difficult time. The best part is, he only saw me afraid to ask a store clerk for advice on picking headphones. I wouldn’t have even considered that memorable, because that’s just how I am. That’s just the least of it.
He doesn’t really understand anxiety, or anything that I’m feeling. He’s being a dad. He asked me what we could do to make me feel better, and suggested I go to the doctor. No fuss. It’s not even a big deal to him, even though as he was confronting me I felt like my entire world was imploding.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this, honestly. I’m scared. I’m scared that a doctor will either tell me to chill, or go for the worst. I’ve done a lot of shit to myself in the past few years and I don’t want to hear some snowball of things that are wrong with me. I don’t want to be told that what I’m feeling is justified with a clinical diagnosis, but I also don’t want it to be written off as normal. I don’t want to talk to anyone, but I want someone to know. I don’t want this to be my life, sometimes.
I’m scared of changing. I’ve been this way so long, I can’t imagine not being afraid of most things. I have a problem of cataloguing all of my worst days, and if you asked I could tell you at least my top 3. As long as it’s not gonna reach the top 3, I consider it a mediocre panic. I’m used to it. And I guess I shouldn’t have to be? I don’t know.
I’m OK posting this now as I feel disconnected from it – since I wrote it like 2 weeks ago. Maybe that’s why I always queue serious posts on Tumblr – because when it actually gets posted, I won’t be feeling that way anymore. Does any of this make any sense?