Sometimes, I can’t write.
I want to and I fiddle and I fidget, I’ll doodle and scribble while the anxiety builds.
But I will be the first person to tell you that writing will help you with how you feel; I can give you all the tips. I can tell you how it will benefit you in more ways than one. In fact I have given two friends this advice recently about how to start writing and I told them; “No matter the content, no matter, the word count, the grammar or the spelling, just write”
One of my goals is to be less of a hypocrite, so here I am.
I write best when I know something, be it within myself, or in something else. And at the moment I “know” that I feel as though don’t know anything. So I’ll write about that.
I feel as though I am struggling to breathe sometimes, usually when its just me and my thoughts, my anxiety has taken an interesting turn with the new things I learn about myself or past self.
But don’t get me wrong, my life is wonderful in so many ways, I am the most content I have ever been. However, the anxiety doesn’t feel the way it used to, its intensity is less than it ever was, but when I remember certain things; memories that I previously had unconsciously hidden away, small things; like what I thought about the time I fell off the bike and hit my chin, or the times I observed the adults around me behaving strangely.
It is the ideas and thoughts I once had on life that are slowly coming back to me. And while not all of them are traumatic, some of them can shake me a little from time to time. And I guess with the resurfacing of these memories, and having previously overcome C-PTSD, I have a fear that I could fall back in that hole, despite my new ability to pick myself back up over and over again.
I am causing myself agony over the fear of fear.
The fear quietly sits on my shoulders, stroking my hair like a creep in times of stress threatening me that at any time “I am coming for you bitch, and its gonna be dark”.
I return with “I am good, I am safe”, but it doesn’t always penetrate when I am feeling weak.
I have to live in this, I still have to make dinner, still do school pick ups, still do the washing, read stories and I have to human outside of this.
And I am not alone in this. Not even close.
I know; that I am trying my hardest to take care of myself in all of this, I am eating moderately well, I am getting up at the same time every day, working out, and meditating. I even booked myself back into therapy.
And so I think about myself in all of this and when I look outside myself I feel sad because what gets me about this is that I know not everyone who struggles with the content I am is taking care of themselves as best they can, meaning their suffering and their climb back up is even harder.
So here is my message to you: Please just take care of yourself, even just trying is enough.
Because this ride, this ride called life is fucking hard almost every step of the way and you need to do everything you can to make it as easy for yourself as possible, and the best way to do that is to look after you.
First and foremost; eat well; research nutrition.
Second; look after your mind; exercise, meditate or practice mindfulness.
Third; talk, talk to anyone who will listen to your agony and if you can’t talk, write to them or to me if you have to.
These three things, that’s it.
Do that for you, each day.
Day by day.
Don’t do it for your partner, or for the kids, do it for you because no matter what you have done, no matter what your thoughts tell you about yourself, you deserve it as much as I do.
Do it so that when those difficult days come as they do for me, you are already on top of your game, don’t wait till you’re ready to give up to start taking care of yourself.
Sometimes, I can’t write, but then I do. And I feel a little better.
I’m off to eat a banana.