You Never Know If Someone Is Hurting

You never know if someone is hurting. Sometimes they don’t even know.

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This is pretty well out in the open these days in terms of depression and such, but yet it obviously needs to be said and recognized and acknowledged in different forms.

My anxiety has probably been around for quite some time, I’d say at least 10 years, if not 20. (And I don’t want to dive into its origin, childhood and crap like that.)

It was only until about 5 years ago or so that I noticed it. About 4 years ago when my brother really pin-pointed my moments of anxiety and shed light on them from an honest, loving, and intuitive outsider’s perspective. 

He politely and delicately suggested medication and/or therapy, which is something I shy away from due to my “I can fix anything” attitude. I didn’t consider medicine as a fix, but instead, a mask or a band aid. I value therapy, but not for me.

Once I was willing to try medicine I chose to have a second child, and was not going to be on meds whilst pregnant or breastfeeding. I’m on baby 4 now, due next month, so I’ve really not been on any medication for any useful period of time. The lability of pregnancy hormones raging through my body for the umpteenth time is enough crap for my system to handle right now anyway!

Aside from being incapable of living in the moment because of the need for control over every day in the future, I don’t sense anxiety daily. It is certainly more conditional.

I’ve tried to eliminate the stressors to decrease anxiety “flare ups”, and believe it or not the 3 children 4 years old and younger are not really included. Nor is this pregnancy, that is just the absolute pits (who knew it could get worse, every single time!). I don’t think being primary caretaker of my 92-year-old grandmother is a contributor either. The dog, pssh, that’s easy. The being a full-time stay at home mother whilst fitting in my part-time accounting/bookkeeping/assistant/property management/cleaning gig to cover bills while supporting my husband’s dream of owning his own (successful) business…that’s tough, but surely not a stressor. *eyeroll*

What does get me? The little things. The things that make me wish I was cold hearted, so they wouldn’t stab me so deeply.

Tonight, it was a delightful returning guest to our thriving Airbnb property. She messaged me, very calmly and politely, mentioning one sheet set was not on the bed and where to locate it. No big deal, right? In the closet, plenty of spares. WRONG. My heart began to pound, it was even harder to breath than just the baby compressing my lungs, and I felt awful. As though a target was slamming down on me, and I had completely and utterly fucked up the day for everyone. My guest told me not to worry, it was no big deal, they got the sheets, but fyi the middle fire place isn’t working. OH MY GOD! FUCK! Except… I updated our listing to reflect the finicky middle fireplace, but I felt awful because she didn’t see that update nor did I remember to mention it to her. Did she care? I doubt it, because she mentioned how they were enjoying the front main room fireplace.

Day before yesterday’s trigger was a bit more reasonable. I rear-ended a last-minute break slammer with my 3 kids in the car, heading home for dinner. No one was hurt (yes baby was checked out in the hospital a couple hours later) but I felt so terrible. It was my fault, but was rather unavoidable (No texting, phone calling, distracted driving, drugs, alcohol, yelling at the kids…nothing). She was shaken up, and after a total of 45 minutes everything was said and done and we went on our merry way. It was so minor, insurance will cover it all, no one injured, nothing to be upset about…in theory.

So why was my evening ruined both times (and countless others)? Why is it now 3 hours beyond my normal time to go sit upright and uncomfortably on my stupid couch to attempt some semblance of sleep whilst avoiding the wrath of heartburn and a baby crushing my lungs?

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Anxiety.

Inner pain.

Fear of letting even the smallest fly down.

Not being perfect.

Not having every little detail in order.

Lack of control yet Too much control.

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It’s somewhat comical how I struggle so deeply to live in the moment, except when I am living in the moment, experiencing life down to the millisecond when my anxiety appears. I am aware of every extra heartbeat, shallow and rapid breath, uneasy tingling in my hands and feet, my random (non-pregnancy related) urge to pee, the restlessness no amount of movement quells and the unmistakable racing of my mind.

What do I do to make it stop? It depends. I usually try and recognize that I’m getting into a funk and then try to distract the shit out of myself until I fall asleep or forget. I’m almost always fine the next day, after hours of mindless turmoil. The only thing that otherwise helps is writing and meditation/mindfulness. It’s hard for me to get into the headspace to meditate, so I’d rather sit with my angst for countless hours.

My take home point is that, it doesn’t take a terminal illness diagnosis, death in the family, sick child, etc. to set someone off into a bought of sadness or anxiety. It could be something as stupid as few pieces of folded fabric not in the right spot.

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This isn’t to say my life isn’t wonderful, it’s just that not every second is bliss. I am rather sure this is the case for many other people out there.

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Just, be aware. You never know what’s truly going on. So, maybe quell your judgments, unkindness, trolling, and shaming. Yes, to be a decent human being, but also because you just never know how your words/actions impact those you care about.

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