The first day of the first month of the new year. Time to get honest.

Call me cynical but I purposely refrained from any sort of ‘Have a happy new year’ post on Facebook this year. My refraining from any sort of post on Facebook is rare but I couldn’t face pretending to be optimistic about how fantastic this new year will be. That’s not so say I think it will be awful, but every year I get lured into the looking back over the year and planning on making the next one brilliant. It’s almost as if I’m setting myself up to feel like I’ve failed somehow when once again I don’t lose that excess weight, or stick to an exercise plan or remember to put money aside to pay my car tax…

When Big Ben chimed midnight, Will was tucked up in bed, I  had a glass of wine in my hand, shared a kiss with hubs and felt content.

Content.

That has not been an easy feeling for me recently. I’ve not discussed the reason for my extended absence from writing because quite simply, I felt ashamed. Last year (I can say that now) my anxiety returned. Slowly at first, the odd fleeting feeling that something terrible was about to happen. An occasional night of broken sleep. I ignored it. Pushed it back, telling myself ‘I’ve dealt with this, I’m just being paranoid.’ But it got worse. If you’re curious as to what it’s like, I can only offer you my experience of it. Imagine believing that every day when you go into work, you’re going to get fired. How that would make you feel and behave. I am convinced that every day I am at work, my boss is going to pop into my office, tell me I’m terrible at my job and ask me to leave. I think I am terrible at my job, and I’ve told myself I’m terrible at my job so many times that often, I am actually terrible at my job. I’ve hidden under my desk several times, called my husband ‘just talk to me please babe’, he knows the drill, talk about anything and keep talking, until I say ‘Thank you I’m okay now’, then creep out from under my desk hoping no one is walking past, but ready with an excuse of ‘Dropped my sodding pen, it rolled under the desk, what am I like ay?’ Deception seems to be a big part of it.

I am nervous around family, because I feel they have meetings to discuss what an awful mother I am. How my husband would be so much better off without me and how they would do a much better job at raising my son. I’ve wanted to leave my house but found the prospect of getting myself and the boy in a fit state to go out so utterly daunting that I’ve sat and cried. And when my little boy stops in his tracks and gives me a worried look, furrowing his tiny brow unsure of what  to do next, I stop the tears and smile. Make my voice as jolly as I can and try to distract him with a game or a book. He knows my joviality is a lie, and I wonder if that’s why he’s changed towards me. I’ve pushed him away with my lies.

Now I have seen a doctor, I am seeking the appropriate help. I’ve overcome this once before and I will do it again. My social media accounts will still portray the version of me I want everyone to see and I will not mention this again after this post. But if you’re struggling;

Get help.

You’re not weak. We all know someone who doesn’t believe anxiety is a thing, who will air quote ‘anxiety’ when they say and make you shift uncomfortably, but not correct them because god forbid anyone discover you’re having mental health issues.

Fuck ’em. Do right by you, fragile, imperfect, wonderful you.

Will 2018 be ‘my year’? Probably not, due in no small part to the fact that I have no clue what has to happen to make it ‘my year’.  On the plus side, with a estimated world population of 7.6 billion* people, it’s bound to ‘the year’ for someone.

In other news:

Hubs and I thought a nice family walk would be a lovely new year activity. Turns out William did not share this opinion and every time he was put down to walk he wailed and refused to move an inch (unless it involved throwing himself on the floor).

Captain has decided his new favourite place to sleep is my pillow. Even if I’m using it. Unperturbed he just curls up on my face.

At 31 years and 11 months and two weeks old, (and after one large glass of wine and three cocktails)  I finally got my nosed pierced.

 

*Thanks Google!

 

Advertisements