Anxiety Over Everything That Others Find Miniscule #sb4mh #sexbloggerformentalhealth #mentalawareness

I get leery when others are close to my personal space; which to me means if I can hear you breathing or smell your breath and or body odor (be-it your perfume or sweat) it makes me hyperventilate. I get irritable and start spazzing by indignantly telling them that we aren’t married and didn’t realize we were on a honeymoon.

I’ve always felt a sense of claustrophobia when others are next to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of being sexually assaulted when I was younger, but I don’t like others that I didn’t invite in my personal space. Ever since my recent accident, I get into such a frenzy when I am crossing the street; since I am now a living bobblehead while crossing the street on the lookout for anyone else who seems to forget their obligation to driving instead of texting and driving.

I curse out the drivers that turn while failing to use their turn signal lights.

Use your fucking turn signal lights. IT’S FREE! AS MUCH AS YOU PAID, IT COMES WITH THE FUCKING CAR!!! 

I begin to get sweaty and shaky and find myself breathing rapidly. At times, I swear I can still feel the impact of being hit by this asshole’s SUV. I then find myself ridiculing myself because I get so anxious. Yet, it’s bad enough I already live with other issues of mental illness without this new added one.

I have recently started taking Cymbalta to aid in my coping with my depression and anxiety. It’s only been two weeks, but it may actually be working some. I don’t find myself to be so edgy, I think.

When others on right on my back, I still get panicky because my back does hurt every day. It’s just some days are worse than others and when people are really close to my back the least little bump is enough to send me to the ER after I hear,

I’m sorry.

Your fucking sorry doesn’t help my back from being fucked up. I am trying to not be rude when I ask someone to back up and give me a few inches of my own personal space. It’s a process and I have to realize that not everyone knows or understands my plight for my own safety and peace of mind.

Dealing with MY Stigmatization About My Mental Health😱 #sb4mh

Growing up I always knew I was different than other kids because of the way I didn’t deal with reality or because I felt awkward and withdrew from others (I still feel this way). There were times I; not knowing what panic attacks were, hid in closets just to be away from everyone else and in the dark until I felt like I could be around people again.

Another factor was that my parents; though court ordered, placed me in therapy because school officials reported my strange behavior to the state. I have been in therapy for as long as I can remember. However, I can’t say that I knew/understood what I was going to therapy for or what I was supposed to say and/or do. My parents always gave me a stern sentence before they drove me to my sessions,

Don’t you tell these people our business. What happens at home is none of their damn business.

If I find out you told these people our business, I’m gonna whip your damn ass.

(The whipping my ass comment was years prior to when hitting a kid was considered child abuse. That’s when anyone could spank your kid. I’ve had a few teachers and neighbors that have whipped my ass for my parents, but that’s another story.)

So, every week I’d go to therapy and act as if I didn’t have problems. As far as my parents were concerned, kids didn’t have problems. I grew up never telling my therapists about the dark moods I felt while other kids were happy-go-lucky. I never told how I’d felt; at times, like I shouldn’t be alive or didn’t feel like I was loved or wanted. I never spoke about the issues of why I acted out in school constantly; mostly to get the kids to like me, then get my ass beat when my father came home from work.

I never learned the art of true and effective communication in our house where the motto was,

Children should be seen and not heard.

So, I began to think and feel that my thoughts, feelings, and existence didn’t matter.

Suffice it to say, my true mixed feelings about therapy and its purpose(s) were revealed to me when I tried to commit suicide for the first time (February 12, 1985) when I was 14 by trying to kill myself at school. Fortunately, I was seen by the security officer as I attempted to slice my wrist who talked to me with compassion, cried with, and hugged me when she was able to talk me into giving her the knife.

When my mom was called to the school, she had no understanding as to why I’d want to do such a thing. In my opinion, she appeared to be embarrassed to be called there for my mental break down.

That was the day my whole personality and understanding about therapy changed.

My mom committed me to a psych ward for adolescents after taking me to the same therapist she told me not to tell anything to after she picked me up from school.

That was the FIRST time I’d ever opened up about my thoughts and feelings. It was also the exact day I became rebellious against my family, adults, kids, or anyone else that portrayed to give a shit about me. I started cursing my parents and adults out, started smoking and drinking, became anorexic and bulimic. I just didn’t give a shit.

In therapy it took a lot for me to feel comfortable to open up and once I did, there were times I felt relieved then felt embarrassed about what I’ve said. Then I’d shut down. I’ve been on/off different meds so many times.

My family and others that were aware of my mental illness teased me and made me feel awkward about taking the meds; much less being in treatment. So, whether I needed the meds or not… I’d stop taking it.

Therefore putting me more in a funk than I guess I originally was. Either I’d stay in bed; secluding myself from everyone, or I’d be overly aggressive, or I’d try too hard to fit in; therefore making myself too awkward around others.

I still do that from time to time. But I’ve improved, I’m more open in therapy now about how I feel and don’t care what the therapist thinks of me. Just recently I’ve admitted I need to be back on medication to help stabilize my moods, thoughts, and feelings.

I still deal with occasional thoughts of suicide, but I don’t try to act upon them. I am doing my best to survive my battle with mental illness and am grateful that I have a better understanding of therapy and know that I’m not alone.