Neurosis, my old friend.


So far everything with New Boyfriend has been going great, and I’ve been skipping through the fields of life tucking flowers in my hair and laughing gaily. Well, until last week when Sargent Major Insecurity popped up and began marching through my mind, fucking shit up.

It all started when I was invited to an event at which Boyfriend’s Ex-Girlfriend would be present. My anxiety went through the roof just at the thought of even being in the same room as her with New BF, and I began to think…

What if we turn up and she looks really pretty and BF might fancy her? She’s bound to be wearing an awesome outfit and have a sexy rockin’ body, all my clothes are shit – I’m like the fucking Michelin man squeezed into an AC/DC t-shirt. She’ll be on stage being all cool and confident and funny and witty – I’m just an awkward wierdo who makes robot noises if she is forced to change course when walking. He’ll see her up on stage, ditch me, and get back with her. Why did I even bother? I knew he was too smart and cute and funny for me. I should have known this would happen. MY HEART WILL BE BROKEN WHY DO I FUCKING BOTHER?! I’M A FUCKING IDOT, A STUPID UGLY IDIOT.


This is what my anxiety does. It takes an innocuous thought or a scenario and I fixate on it, taking it step by step from a fleeting comment and over processing until it becomes: OH DEAR GOD THIS IS AWFUL, I AM AWFUL, THERE IS NO ESCAPING IT, I AM THE WORST PERSON IN THE WORLD I SHOULD JUST GO CRAWL UNDER A ROCK AND DIE.

anxietyby artist Natalie Dee

When the roller-coaster of insanity had slowed down I spoke to Boyfriend and politely declined the invitation. I made mention of my anxiety but omitted the batshit insane detail that my mind goes into (I didn’t want to scare him off, then I write a whole freakin’ blog about it, nice one Mangers. Ha!). Thankfully he was lovely and understanding. Sigh of relief.

Temporary relief.

Until the next day when I was driving my car with wet toenails post-pedicure (bear with me it’s relevant). I was wearing flip-flops and was worried my foot would slip on the pedals and smudge the polish. Then my brain thought:

Hold on… What if my foot slips off the brake and my car careens onto the pavement and I hit someone? What if that someone is his Ex-Girlfriend, and a mow her down??! No one will believe it’s an accident!! Everyone will think I did it on purpose! Boyfriend will hate me! He’ll think I’m a MURDERING BUNNYBOILER PSYCHOPATH! Our mutual friend will too!! She’ll HATE ME FOREVER!!! If I do hit Ex-Girlfriend, should I just drive off? That way no-one will know it was me who did it… And they won’t hate me…

I was seriously considering hit and run as the best course of action at that point. You can see how utterly fucked up and ridiculous anxiety gets when these were serious thoughts that came into my head. Even though she lives on the complete opposite side of the city an I had perfect control of my vehicle at all times (You’re safe Totterdown).

This is what used to happen in my mind every day when I was with Ex-Boyfriend. Every god-damned day I would get stuck in these thought spirals because of a comment or joke he made about me, his refusal to give physical affection, his attempts to mold me into his perfect woman, comparing myself to every other girl walking down the street… I would take any small instance and build these stories, working them over and over inside my head, putting myself down, riding the helter-skelter of anxiety until I was at the bottom wanting to fucking kill myself.

And I would enjoy doing it.

I knew this thought pattern was destructive to me. I knew it would not help the situation, but I would not stop myself because I wanted to revel in the misery all these horrible thoughts brought me; and derived perverse pleasure from the horrible gnawing feeling that ate away at my internal organs when my anxiety took over.

I had been made to believe I was a worthless piece of shit, so I believed that I deserved to feel awful which then led me to indulge in the behaviors that kept me miserable. It was safe to be miserable. I liked being miserable, because it was fucking horrible. I ignored all the positive things resigned myself safe in the knowledge that I was fat, ugly, stupid and weak.

Although ExBoyfriend can’t take ALL the credit for my issues – It began, as it always does, with my Father. From when I was about 7 years old I remember him telling me I was fat and ugly (GO PARENTING!) which set me up for feeling REALLY fucking great about myself from a young age. So my self-esteem was not great from the get go, and then there was Ex-Boyfriend #2 who I was with for two years. He would, amongst other things, tell me what to wear, shout obscenities at me centimeters from my face, and leave me locked in our house whilst he went out on 36 hour Ketamine binges with his friends. Needless to say after that relationship I was a fucking wreck. Three years of singledom after that and I started to feel happy, buuuuuuuut then there was the most recent Ex-Boyfriend who took a fucking baseball bat to my soul and utterly destroyed me again.

After a lifetime of hating myself I’ve spent the last six years in therapy, seen five different counselors, taken 3 different medications, and worked my god damned arse off to get where I am now. Where is that I hear you cry? Why, to be myself of course! Which is total fucking bullshit. Why should I have to go through so much pain and put in so much effort just to be myself? They took out their fucking issues on ME and fucked me up in the process. Why the fuck did I deserve that?

It really fucks me off that the actions of those insecure nasty little pricks still affect me. Even though I am free of them, their legacy is the tendrils of blackness that are wrapped around my brain which occasionally squeeze and turn me into an irrational insecure and very sad person. It’s not fair.

No, it’s not fucking fair.

But boo-hoo motherfucker, that shit happened. And you know what you have to do? Get up, grab a fucking bat, and beat it. So I am, and I will.