Am I Missing a Necessary Component?

So far I have been quietly getting on with getting on, but I have noticed that there is a feeling which I have neglected: excitement. For the past few days I have been constantly confronted with the questions ‘Are you excited?’ or, worse, ‘You must be excited!?’ said like that, with the enthusiasm. I usually respond, shunning social etiquette, with ‘more afraid really’, ‘not letting myself think about it’ or a straightforward ‘No.’

Don’t get me wrong, I would like to be excited. I would like to feel some kind of hopeful anticipation; I would even take the nervous, yet overall positive, butterflies feeling. But no. It is just not there.

Occasionally, if I let my mind stop frantically pacing, I am quickly engulfed by a wave of fear and panic. I desperately flail and try to get some air in my lungs. I get out of that water pretty damn quick! Most of the time, I just do not feel anything. I feel like I am witnessing a stranger’s life, a bad actor, one of those ghosts.

This feeling of emptiness is all too familiar to many people with depression or who are isolated, socially and from themselves. I just cannot connect. I cannot feel the necessary emotions. I don’t react to the world as others do. I don’t live in the same world.

I realise some of this sensation has developed because I have been a recluse. I have forgotten how, or am less willing than I once was, to pretend or force myself to feel a certain way. That thought leads me to question if some of these outward and even inner states – excitement, anticipation, expectation – are accessible to me at all. Am I missing something? Have I lost something? Is this part of who I am?

I feel strongly or not at all.

Since I have arrived here the closest I have gotten to excitement was when buying a book. When I picked up ‘The Waves’ by Virginia Woolf I was aware of a gentle twang of feelings. The beautiful cover, smooth, soft, the lighting, the print, I thought ‘yes, today is the day.’ I do not know if this counts, but it is the most like the self I sometimes think is still here, that I have felt for a long time.

This is what I want from this experience. I do not care if I am not ‘making the most of it’ by losing hours to drunken blindness and empty small talk and excitement for excitements sake. I have lost that boost of adrenaline or whatever it is that comes from or before such things, if it was ever there.

I don’t know. I am just wandering, lost.

Psychotherapy Session Three

‘A waste is a waste.’

Foals

Yesterday I had another appointment with the psychologist. To say it did not go well would be an understatement.

This week I actually wanted to talk to someone. In fact, I felt desperate. My anxiety yesterday was crippling. For days I have been fearfully trying to keep my depression at bay. I needed to relieve or at least release some of what I was feeling. This did not happen.

The session began by talking about decision making again. I felt as if we were just going over what was said last week. I realise that the therapist cannot remember every client and conversation, but some of the things he was suggesting as some kind of revelation, were point I had made the previous week. Our time continued in much the same way, as I tried desperately to move onto the issues that were most pressing for me right now. At one point I actually got to the stage of coming across as pretty rude and said: ‘These are things it would be good to discuss in a few months, but I have more important things to talk about right now.’ This statement had no effect, he continued on the same topic as if I had not said anything.

He asked why it had been difficult to come there, finally picking up on something I had said. When I explained that it scared me to leave the flat, to walk down the stairs, to do anything, he interrupted me. ‘No, I mean why was it difficult to come here? I think it was because you are worried about talking to someone.’

If I could have brought myself to shout at him, I would have. Instead I cried quietly and tried to explain that I wanted to talk to someone, that was not what the fear was about. He moved on after this, not hearing what I was saying and, I think, presuming he was right.

By the end of the session I had become an emotional wreck. I tried to keep my sobbing sounds and jerking body at bay, but it was no use. As he took out his diary to indicate my time was up he said: ‘This session has been pointless for you. I see you have things you want to talk about, but we haven’t had a chance today.’ I wanted to make a sarcastic comment about how I had been frantically trying to talk about what I wanted, but I couldn’t speak. He ended the session by telling me that I had brought up the topic of decisions. He failed to mention that it had been in response to the first question he asked me. I left with a wave goodbye, biting my tongue and trying to hold in the wailing that urgently wanted to escape. I spent a few moments in the corridor trying to compose myself, failing, then quickly escaped.

Overall I am so disappointed by this experience. I know it sounds extreme, but I feel betrayed; not specifically by him, but by the whole system. I thought this was the place where I had some say. Where I could talk about what was bothering me. When he ignored my cues and refused to listen to what I was saying I felt awful. I felt as if I was absolutely nothing. I am not a real person, with real rights and authentic feelings. I am just a thing he has to pretend to listen to. I have experienced other people brushing over things I have said, but I understand it is because they do not want to talk about it and do not know what to say. They are allowed to be like that. I understand. This is, however, his job.

I do not think he is even aware of my anxiety issues. When I first tried to talk about my depression, in a previous session, he dismissed it, saying, ‘yes, yes, you don’t enjoy anything.’ I do not understand. If this is only meant to be an assessment then I do not know why he is not trying to grasp the overall issues. Perhaps he thinks that a few sessions on decision making will be enough to make me decide not to go back.

I phoned my mum afterwards and was on the phone for three hours crying. I was still crying this morning. He just made me feel so pathetic and worthless. I am accomplished enough in that art already. I do not need someone to help me with that.

He may not be a bad therapist, but I do not think he is the right one for me. A part of me wants to go back next week, to give it another chance. I’m angry that this session went the way it did and I do not want it to end like this. However, I also never want to go back there again. I do not think I could handle another session like that. In addition, I was rude. I have come across as a very negative, depreciative version of myself. I am embarrassed and ashamed to go back.

Where do I go from here? I think I will try and see my GP on Monday, although he is rarely in the practice and I’m not sure if I can deal with the disappointment if he is not there. Whether I go to therapy next week or not I have to endure at least another week of anxiety and trying to fight off the depression alone. I do not know how I’m going to do that.

I Feel Nothing

For the last few days, I have been staying at my parent’s house. I had hoped that coming here would allow me to feel something, anything. I had hoped to release some of my buried emotion in a safe and supportive environment. I have hoped for too much.

I have spent my time here just going through the motions. I have had more means of distraction and chances for avoidance than usual. I have really been trying to enjoy activities and spending time with people, but I worry that my capacity to enjoy life is gone forever. I have gone out for dinner with my family and family friends. I really did not care, I would have rather been at home, if I could have guaranteed I would have been able to hold myself together when unobserved. I have visited friends and family members. These occasions have not been awful; I have just felt so empty. I know that I should want to see these people. I should leave their company, having been glad of it. I should not be wandering when I can go back home, how long counts as long enough and wandering if I have been able to maintain the façade effectively. I have felt no positive emotions. I feel like an outsider, watching the life a stranger has created, a stranger who now expects me to live that life.

I was going to write this post yesterday, when I really had felt no emotions at all. Today, the negative ones are back with a vengeance. However, even now they do not seem like true emotions or feelings. I am not sad because of or about anything. I just feel a numb sadness throughout my body and soul. An aching of my heart, that causes smarting of my eyes. An ache without purpose, reason or resolve. The emptiness itself hurts; to feel void of any true or positive emotions. Will I ever appreciate beauty again? Will I ever care? Will I ever love? I’ve become estranged from myself and my feelings. Sometimes the pain is so strong that I think I can’t stand to live anymore. But I do. I keep on living as if to spite myself. To put myself through another day of misery.

I came to see my parents because I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to discuss psychotherapy and the pressure they put me under. I wanted to tell them how I felt. I needed a place to let the feelings breathe, if they are still there, locked inside. I have waited, patiently, anxiously waited. Conversations have been fleetingly begun, then abandoned, as the other has fled the room. Questions have been asked, but only in order for the traditional ‘fine’ response to be voiced, assigning the blame for lack of communication to me. But I have refused to play the ‘fine’ game, which has only made things worse. I wanted some support and understanding. This weekend has been a waste.

What is the point of living if nothing can awaken a sense of joy in you? When I announced that I did not enjoy anything anymore, I was accused of lying. There is no reason I would make that up. Oh yes, I get kicks from pretending to be miserable, only to secretly enjoy things on the sly. What is the point if nothing gives you a sense of achievement? What is the point if no one understands and everything is so difficult? I have to carry on, but I don’t know why anymore. Not for myself. I don’t know how long I can continue for others. I will try, but since I do not try hard enough that might not be for long.

Independence: A Mixed Blessing

Even now, when my anxiety and depression sometimes make life barely liveable, I consider myself quite independent. I highly value my independence.

I have always been an ‘I can do it myself’ kind of person. I remember when I was six years old, I was once running late for school so my mum helped me get dressed. I was embarrassed and annoyed by this. I felt almost ashamed that I was unable to do it myself in the required time. I accepted the help because I was in no position to argue, but I felt like it knocked me off course for the rest of the day. Something had been taken away from me and I somehow felt weak because of it.

I have felt like this towards assistance all of my life. I will not accept help or support lightly or easily. Because I am afraid of so many things, I will sometimes allow others to do basic things for me, such as phoning to book appointments, etc., if they offer. These little problems sometimes cause me so much anxiety in relation to what is actually required, I have managed to let others take over. However, I feel I must tackle larger problems by myself. There is a part of me, even now that I am starting to accept help, that still feels weak when I do it. I know that asking and accepting help is not a weakness. It takes courage and strength. Nevertheless, I cannot ease the feelings of being small and pathetic and a failure when I do it.

For me, the desire to be independent, conflicts with the ability to ask for and accept help.

Two months ago I spent a few weeks living with my parents. I thought this was going to be permanent, but I was able to negotiate my flat back from my ex-boyfriend (it’s a long story). Living at home, with people there to support me, could have been very useful for me. When I was there I had emotional support and isolation was not a problem in the way it is now. I had people there to help me with some of the things I struggle with now, on my own. I could have gone out more often. I could have driven my car, instead of it sitting on the street outside my flat growing rust.

However, my parent’s house was not a good place for me. I could not accept some of my basic independence getting taken away. I was already in such a vulnerable place that things like not being able to eat when I wanted to, not being able to buy food that was not instantly consumed by my sibling and not being able to just go out without specifying where I was going or when I would be back, were really a strain on me. I felt as if the only strength I had left was getting drained away. Tasks such as cleaning the kitchen or cooking a meal had become the only minor achievements in my day and I had lost them. I stayed in bed and cried.

I think moving back out to live on my own was definitely the right choice for me. At my parent’s house I was not able to make myself do anything on my own. Now, I have no choice. I have to go to the shop to buy food, otherwise I will not be able to eat. I need to go to the doctor by myself, because there is no one who can take me. I can tackle high anxiety inducing commitments on my own, such as going to therapy for the first time, because I have to do these things on my own. There is no one here to make sure I go or to come with me. I know that if I can do these things now, then technically I should have been able to do them by myself at my parent’s, but this is not the case. I did not have the strength to do it. I made myself strong enough to here, because I had to.

At my parent’s I became so weak. I was a crying wreck who could barely leave my bed. Here, alone, I am conscious every time when I’m feeling particularly low or anxiously afraid that I CANNOT ALLOW MYSELF TO LOSE IT. There will be no one here to calm, help and stop me if things get really bad.

A consequence of this is that since I have been living on my own I have become even less of a person and less like myself. My numbness has increased to the point where I sometimes think I could not be more unfeeling. I thought I was a shell of my former self before, but I still had a slight ability to feel, which is gone now. Perhaps not gone, but consciously shut off.

If I start crying I must instantly try and cut off my heart and my mind before I feel too overwhelmed. Now, it is only once or twice a week that I will breakdown and sob until I cannot breathe and feel truly broken. When that happens I use every fibre in my body to try and hold myself together. These spells only last half an hour now, whereas they once lasted the whole day. I know that this means that I have always had the ability to stop myself becoming overwhelmed, although it seemed inaccessible to me. The problem is, I don’t think this is very healthy.

I think I should be aiming for the middle ground between overwhelming emotional wreck and unfeeling automaton. I do not know when I will become strong enough to let myself feel these emotions and overcome them; to live through them rather than cut myself off from them, to build up for another day.

I know that most people value their independence, but I think this strong desire for autonomy and control can cause a lot of problems for someone who could do with some help. I don’t think I have ever straight out asked someone for help in relation to my anxiety and depression. Once I was desperately pleading in my head to someone: ‘Please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Help me. Please I need your help.’ But did I say it? No. Why is it so difficult to ask for help? I am long past the stage of thinking I know best, but I’m not sure I actually accept the advice and support I have available to me.

Has retaining my independence been good for me? It feels like it, but I fear I will be stuck in this state for some time. I am unable to progress and am holding on with all my might to stop me falling backwards. Some days are good; I can go out and get things done or meet people. Other days I get up, then after a few hours crawl back to bed.

How do I reach that middle ground? When do I reach the point that I must hand over some control and ask for and accept help? I have already begun the process; I’ve started therapy. Do I lose a part of myself when I give up some of my independence? Right now I’m doing what I can to get myself back.

A Problem Shared…

An old friend and I used to have the phrase ‘A problem shared is a problem doubled.’ I really believed that was true.

This evening I was supposed to be going out to see some friends who I had not seen since my depression and anxiety really kicked in and I went underground. Since last night, I had really had the fear. What would I say to them? How would I explain my past absence? I feared the drinking; I cannot stand to be drunk now and the next day is physical and mental misery. I feared the loud music, the nudging elbows at the bar, the uneasy nodding when the conversation is drowned out. I feared the social interaction.

A friend, whose friendship I have recently re-established (although it never disappeared, I had just disappeared as a person) was also meant to be going. It was because I did not want to let her down, that I was trying to force myself to go. She texted this morning to say she wasn’t feeling good. I asked what was wrong and she described herself as ‘panicky’. This was how I was feeling about it all. I was planning on going to the park and invited her to come too.

We walked through the park, feeding duck and squirrels and petting dogs. I was feeling better, for once, just in someone’s company. I wanted to talk to her and felt the tension of this hanging over us. I didn’t know if she wanted to share. I didn’t want to scare her away.  Anyway, the walk and the company alone were, surprisingly, helping. We were alone together, with our own worries, but the together felt a little more of a togetherness than usual. We could feel our problems were, perhaps, the same.

I went back to her flat for a while. I could still feel that pressure. I had an almost overwhelming desire to speak to her openly about my anxiety and fear. But I could not do it. I left, although I didn’t want to. I actually wanted to stay with someone instead of being alone, but I still made myself leave. I was scared of opening up to someone. I was worried I had outstayed my welcome. I felt the fear return as the door closed behind me. As I walked home it intensified.

I was shocked that spending time with someone had lifted the burden of fear and worry, if only for a short while. Being with somebody – who perhaps was not in the exact same boat, but was at least in a similar vessel trying to survive the same unforgiving, choppy sea – had helped me. It was not about talking and listening, but the actual understanding between us; the sharing and relating, even if we did not say it out loud.

This evening she texted to say she also was not going out. I opened up. We actually began to share our feelings and experience with anxiety. Ok, so we had the conversation we could have and probably should have had earlier, but, as you know, sometimes it’s easier to write. It was the first time I have spoken to someone I know, who has felt the same as me. I did not feel that guilt or embarrassment that I normally do when I’m trying to explain my fear to someone. When you try to explain without completely exposing yourself and they look at you like you are crazy, thinking to themselves ‘why would you be scared of that?’.

Today, I felt a little less alone.

I am finally starting to see what this problem shared thing is all about. It doesn’t halve it, but sometimes it actually…helps.

A Million Little Pieces – The Search for an Authentic Self

I ventured into town today and survived. I sat in the sun, amongst the bustle and was overwhelmed by life. There was a man singing, I didn’t like his songs or even his voice, but he was so alive. I couldn’t stop myself from feeling; the people going past, the music, his voice ringing out. I almost cried. At what, I couldn’t tell you; all these people living their lives, the life I was watching day by day drift past, empty and meaningless.

I began thinking about all the people I am, have been and could be. All the different selves that these people passing by me are or could be. I feel like a million tiny fragments of myself, fragilely and desperately held together. I need to discover my real self and fuse me together from the scattered fragments and dust.

I have spent my life moulding into whatever person fits best into the environment around me. I adapt to play whatever role is required of me; in friendships, other relationships, at work. There have been times when I have ended up in a situation where I am trying to be two different people at the same time: the drunken, fun friend and the caring, sensible friend. It is difficult and confuses others as much as it confuses me. It usually leads to some kind of internal combustion and then I have to hide for a while. Try and get a little bit of isolation and sense of self back. Sometimes there seems to be so many roles to fulfil there is not enough of me, or enough sides of me, to go around.

In the past, far back in the past, it was not so bad. I had the best sense of self-identity in childhood. I knew who I was, what I stood for, what I wanted to fight for and how I wanted to change the world. I thought I could change the world. Simpler than that, I had likes and dislikes, opinions and views, I had enjoyment.

But I could see I was different. I moulded and adapted. A self-willed enculturation took place, on the outside. Inside I still knew who I was and resisted when I had to resist. But I began to step away from myself to make things easier. A coward’s way out. I appeared to care too much about things outside of myself, in a way that others didn’t  I felt like I was always campaigning and fighting against the grain, even if it was only an inner battle. I was very passionate about inequality and animal rights. I tried to fight huge injustices alone and failed. Eventually, I began to close myself off.

That is how I have survived in life so far, by closing off my heart. Learning not to feel or at least not showing that I feel. For me, outward displays of emotions, feeling and a moral code had to be hidden, pushed deep down and locked away, kept at bay. I had to appear to be like everybody else, although I often wondered how many other people were doing the same. No one could really be this empty. Then I worried in case most people truly were.

Are most people conscious of who they are? I often hate myself and the way I am, but I must feel better about myself than some people do. I have no problem with being alone and, as I’ve often said, I am better alone and definitely more like my true self. I do not need or want others to define myself, but I cannot help adjusting to fit the required mould when I am not alone.

To be my true self I must hold what I think is important and right, over that of the crowd. I must stand strong.

I used to be strong, although I thought of myself as weak. I know now that feeling deeply and having compassion and empathy are not weaknesses. I need to find the courage to embrace that.

Isolation

‘I am in truth the Steppenwolf; that beast astray who finds neither home nor joy nor nourishment in a world that is strange and incomprehensible to him.’

Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf

I am looking out of the window, watching the world outside. I am disconnected from the people, the streets, the sun in the sky. I am separate and alone, an objective observer of a life I am not part of.

It is not just loneliness. I have always been alone. I have managed to spend a large amount of my life surrounded by people. This does not mean that I have not always been alone. Isolation is different. It is being detached from society. I felt lonely when I had people around me who cared, now I am severed from that; cut off and separate from others.

Besides, I do not mind being lonely. I am more myself when I am not with people. When I am with others I adapt myself, forever the chameleon, letting them see what they want to see; relieving their loneliness.

There are times, glimmers of connectedness, but these days, they are rare. It is not just talking to someone, with them talking back. It is having someone relate, connect, understand, share.

I do not feel or need the way I am informed that I should feel and I should need. I do not understand society and the mentality behind it. I have no desire to achieve for achievement’s sake. I do not need or want status, riches or fame. I do not fit with or understand the simple day to day things either. I do not want to watch mindless TV. I get no joy from empty chatter.

It has become worse. I go to the park and feel nothing, and realise the only reason I have gone outside is because I have been told to go outside is good, to walk is good, to go out in the sun is good. At this stage, stepping outside counts as an achievement; but I feel nothing. To be in the park you must have a pet, a child or an other. To be there alone, amplifies the isolation. To not feel connected to nature even, worries me.

Last time I looked out at the sea I did not hear the waves or feel the spray on my face. I felt nothing. It did not call to me as it once did. I am an empty shell.

I am isolated from myself; an observer, outside, watching myself for a reaction to see if I can still feel. But I don’t. I feel nothing at all. Emptiness and isolation.