the anxious me//at work & more

A few months ago I returned to work part-time and it's been good for my anxiety and depression and it's also been really bloody bad.

I don't know if it'd be any easier if I "only" had anxiety. As it is, and as I've mentioned previously, I have a whole host of other things to go along with it and I've spent long enough, now, living with them that when I speak or think about it it's referred to as: ADPO {anxiety. depression. ptsd. ocd}. It's not much fun being in this body most of the time. Every day is a struggle to not give in to all the negative thoughts but eventually it got easier. And now, well now it's gotten harder...

I guess new situations will do that to you. Applying. Interviewing. Training. Starting. All the new firsts I encounter every single day. No safety of my bed and blanket. It feels good to be out there and most days I'm fine but some days I find myself sneaking away to the bathroom to cry. Yep, I cry at work.

I get anxious. The depression sneaks in. I try to mask it all. I try not to let the critiques get to me. After all, I'm being paid to do this job and do it right and when I don't I need to be told. Yet, there are days when it feels like a constant barrage of "you suck" dressed up in a pretty bow and, of course, when you have a head like mine the "you suck" quickly turns into "you're worthless, die". And when that happens {even if it's less than 50% of the time} I find myself in floods of tears, calling my Husband in a whisper in {not on} the toilet and begging him to sing me The Lumberjack Song so the head spins can stop and I can stop crying and smile again because you can't not smile when your Husband is singing it to you.

I hang up the phone and dust myself off as best I can. I dab my eyes with a paper towel and try not to let the fact that the end just stabbed me in the eye break me. I go back, red-eyed, to my desk and hope that I don't stuff up again but in what feels like minutes there's another critique and I'm willing myself to not cry and just get on with it. But when the comments are all about the same things you were criticised and ridiculed about by your parents it's kind of really bloody hard to stay seated and not just get up and leave.

You're too quiet.

You don't smile enough.

You sound rude.

Why aren't you ever happy?

Why are you so grumpy?

These childhood comments rush through, stabbing at the parts where my anxiety, depression and ptsd lurk. Even if the workplace comments are worded nicely they still hit the same places and I'm still led to the inevitable conclusion: I am not good enough. Nothing I do will ever be good enough. I am worthless. Die. Die. Die.

Mental illness is destructive isn't it? It sucks. I hate it. But I win. I might still be sick but I don't get up. I don't leave. I stay at my desk and I don't cry as much as I crave to and I don't even consider pressing something sharp against my flesh to ease the pain. I try my best to get on with it.  To be better. To be someone else. To be the me before all of this stuff got the best of me. 

What I've learnt through therapy is that it's always been there, since I was young, but it's never been this bad. It's come and gone over the years but now it's just here to stay. I get that. I accept this is a part of me and now I'm not giving into the temptation of walking out on important things, or icy cold showers or sharp objects and flesh. 

Being at work makes it harder but it also makes it easier.

One day I'll find my groove and feel like I belong. One day I'll feel worthy. One day I won't have an anxiety attack in the car park of a Westfield after having an amazing lunch with my family. I won't have to focus on a puddle of water next to a dark stain while my Husband and kid rush to get me mints to calm the nausea. The anxiety wont hit me like a ton of bricks as my body struggles to cope with a crappy time at work the day before. One day...

Until then I always have The Lumberjack Song

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