anxiety – Flo's Debt Free Diary

In Sickness and In Health

I have been ill since Tuesday, as in called in sick for work ill.

Something I haven’t done for nearly 8 weeks, which I was feeling so proud of.

That’s not to say I haven’t been ill during that time, because I have. I had a cold, a real humdinger of one.

Then there were the three nights in a row of insomnia.

I have been struggling.

So on Monday I started coming down with what I thought was a cold, and I didn’t want to, but now that I am Flo 2.0 jobs, I decided that maybe it would be sensible if just this once I took a day off work to recuperate, as I didn’t want to be ill all week like it had felt like with the last cold.

So that was Tuesday, then I added Wednesday to the mix.

Today I felt that something was ‘wrong’ but I didn’t know if I was being a hypochondriac or a baby. The people in Job 1 (the Monday to Friday job) are tough. Unless your leg has fallen off they think you are being a weakling if you don’t plough on through an illness.

So I decided to go to the Doctor, mainly to be told I was being a baby and I was wasting the NHS’s time and money (something I really don’t want to do).

But the Doctor took one look at my throat and said ‘that’s very red’ and immediately started swabbing it, and asked if I wanted a sick note for another week, which I instantly went ‘aargh’ at and said ‘NO!’ which the Doctor wasn’t best pleased with. So she prescribed me an anti septic throat spray and said to come back when I was well enough for work, either work, to get the sick note.

So then there was an awkward phone call to work where my line manager was like ‘You have had a lot of sick days’ and now I feel about 2cm tall and bad, but in a perverse way I’m…happy?…that I am actually medically, not-in-my-head, not-being-a-baby, sick.

Except being ill feeds my anxiety, my anxiety that tells me I am going to be fired for being ill and that I have no job security and that I am horribly in debt and so on and so on.

Which does not help an unwell Flo become a well Flo.

I haven’t spoken much about my anxiety and my mental health on my blog for a long time because for the most part I have been doing great. I have felt on top of the world. I have been very happy and content and it was almost like I had the super power of good mental health.

But now I am trying to ignore the voice in my head that is screaming at me that I am a failure and rubbish.

I Don’t Care (In a Good Way)

I am pretty sure someone I work with doesn’t like me.

He has seemed a bit off with me for a while.

The old Flo would have been agonising over this. The old Flo would have been crawling the walls with worry and anxiety. I would be going over and over again every exchange we had had together looking for proof he hated me, looking for signs, trying to fix it.

I would have been a simpering mess of a woman, practically resorting to bribery and flattery to win him over.

I would have done more to make him like me then I have done for previous crushes/lovers.

But now?

Well, I went over the ‘data’ calmly and rationally. I have no proof that our relationship has changed (though there does seem to be an increase in digs). All I have is speculation.

I look at the facts.

Do I think I am worthy of love, affection, good will? Yes. Do I think I am a good, hard working worker? Yes. Do I think I have done anything heinous to warrant this perceived change in his feelings towards me?

No.

So I am not going to invest any more time or energy on it.

I have finally realised something that has long traumatised me. That no matter how lovely, pleasant or agreeable you are as a person the law of averages dictates that someone, somewhere will dislike you. Probably for being so lovely, pleasant and agreeable in the first place.

I have shied away from social media, I have kept my opinions to myself, I have been afraid of rocking the boat or being outspoken lest I offend anyone. Whilst I don’t necessarily think that is the worst way to live, I have now decided to define my self worth on the opinions of those who matter to me.

And more importantly myself.

Do I like myself?

I can honestly say for perhaps the first time in my life I like myself. I am not perfect, but no one is, and I like myself in spite of or maybe because of my flaws.

I would go so far as to say I am great.

(However The Boy still maintains he is the best person in the Universe and I am at most second best).

So I don’t care if someone doesn’t like me. And I don’t mean in a petty, childish, antagonistic way. I am not about to be discourteous to my work colleague, I will still be professional, I harbour no ill will feelings towards him, I genuinely wish him nothing but the best.

But I have finally accepted that self worth should come from within, not from the opinions of others.

Thanks for reading guys, love to ya all.

I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream

(By the way you should totally read the short story the title of this post comes from, but I must warn you, it is a brilliant story, but it is also one of the most depressing things you will ever read)

Today was not a good day.

I was overcome with despair. I haven’t been well all week and felt that I couldn’t take a sick day on account of having a day off this week and also having only something like 10 days left in this role.

I was holding back the tears on my walk into work.

I nearly called in sick when I was at home in the morning.

I nearly called in sick when I was on my walk to work.

I nearly turned round when I was on the campus even though I was only about 5 minutes away from my desk.

I went in. And I tried not to cry all morning.

I sent a message to my mentor at work, saying I was going to cancel our meeting on Friday, on account of how I have lost all confidence and motivation to apply for jobs and as I have no applications to go over I don’t want to waste her time.

She responded with lovely messages. I forwarded them from my work email to my personal email so I could keep the words close to me.

I had bought in soup for lunch. But I needed more. I needed comforting carbs, a cheap source of dopamine. I bought a sandwich and a banana. And I obviously had the soup as well.

I felt better after lunch in terms of my mental health, but began to feel worse physically. I was functioning at about 60% capacity.

I felt weak. I felt traumatised by my 30 minute walk to the station, then my 40 minute train journey, then a further train and a further walk home.

The boy tried to talk to me on the phone but all I was capable of was blunt monosyllabic replies in an oh so quiet voice.

The thing is a bad day isn’t a case of things going wrong for me. A bad day feels like the end of the world for me.

I feel like I am doing too much. Sometimes I have to fight the compulsion to just lie on the ground like the dude in the video for ‘Just’ by Radiohead and not be moved.

I have the urge to do self destructive things. Over eating is self destructive. It may be more socially acceptable then being an alcoholic or constantly injecting heroin into your face, but it is still a stupid action. A stupid source of negativity. I feel bad so I overeat. Then I feel bad about my appearance. Then I overeat.

My trouble is this.

If you overeat you need to find a non food way to reward yourself for good behaviour.

If you are a compulsive shopper you need to find a non financial way to reward yourself for good behaviour.

So what is my reward for being good? I can’t spend, and I can’t eat. I (don’t) shop, therefore I am (not).

Therefore I am losing the motivation to be good. Being bad is easy.

Sometimes I just want to scream. People generally scream because they are trying to attract the attention of a hero to save them, because they need help, because they are scared.

I need to scream.

But I can’t.

Status: Anxiety

It had to happen sooner or later.

I have had a day off work ill.

It has been 7 weeks since I returned to work after a 28 day absence due to my anxiety and stress levels.

In all honesty I haven’t been in the best of health in those 7 weeks. Just one week after I returned to work I came down with a nausea so strong that when I got home that evening I spent a solid 90 minutes throwing up, took as much paracetamol as I was allowed and went to bed before 9pm. I believed it would be the end of my job if I was to call in sick after one week and was grateful that the day after I felt better and could go into work.

There have been other incidences of nausea and vomiting in the last 7 weeks. In the last 8 weeks there have been three incidences of all night insomnia. I have been awake since 2am this morning absolutely wired.

I have also been experiencing a chronic thirst in the last four weeks, drinking pint after pint of water with it not even being slightly quenched. I have two discoloured patches of skin. I have a large cyst on my face. I have been trying to arrange a doctor’s appointment during some time I had off but I was unsuccessful each time.

It all got too much and I have been awake since 2am this morning alternating between feeling weak, feeling shivery and then boiling hot, having my head down the toilet half the time and having a large mixing bowl near me the other half of the time.

So I called in sick. To be honest I was strongly considering going in even though I would have been on about 2 hours sleep and an urge to vomit at any given moment, but I was too scared of the mistakes I would have been likely to have made.

And now I am getting worked up with anxiety. I am worked up because I am worried that after a 28 day absence I am, unofficially, never allowed to be ill again. I am worried that they don’t believe me. I am worried that they hate me. I am worried that they are marking this against me. I have no evidence that any of this is truth, but I am stressed to the max.

I work in the same department as my father in law. He phoned me and asked if I was coming in tomorrow. I had been leaning towards not going in and had told my manager as such that I thought it would be unlikely I would be going in due to how ill I am feeling but now I am panicking and stressed to the max and am cursing the fact my blood test is late in the morning and it might make even doing a half day difficult.

I do something very unusual when I am stressed or anxious, and I will share it with you.

When I get worked up, I will suddenly start slashing at the air with my hands, kind of like I am fighting it. Almost like I am trying to destroy the bad thoughts physically. But they attack me in other ways.

I also have a list of catch phrases I say when stressed:

‘I’m going to hide’

‘I’m going to run away’

Sometimes I will try and crawl into the space between the boy’s back and the sofa.

Despite the fact I pride myself on my honesty, despite the fact I try and be truthful and authentic to all people I know, despite the fact I feel uncomfortable telling even a white lie, I am convinced that no one will ever believe me when I tell them the truth.

Small Life

I used to dream big. I had confidence that everything would work out for me. I was going to travel the world, be a huge success, have a wild social life, get married, live in a beautiful house and have 5 children.

Naturally things change.

My dreams are smaller now. I will take being able to afford the train fare to see my family over travelling the world. I will take finding a job that doesn’t cripple me in terms of stress over being a big success. I will take no longer having social anxiety around being in large crowds on nights out. I will take being in a fulfilling relationship with the boy, even if it results in no ring on my finger. I will take owning a house of any description over a dream house.

I will take the ability to be a good mother to one healthy child over enough for a football team.

My life is in limbo at the moment. I can’t go on holiday or buy a house or get married whilst I am still in debt. I can’t progress in my career whilst I still find a way to sabotage any success that comes my way. I can’t consider doing something normal like celebrating my birthday whilst I am afraid to socialise.

I can’t conceive a child when my menstruation cycle is messed up due to my weight.

My life is small. I ran away from my home town as the thought of remaining there and living there forever like my dad had done, living a small life with unfulfilled dreams, becoming ‘stuck’ was more than I could bear.

My dad told us stories of the many occasions when he tried to run away from home.

I was lucky. I could go to University on a grant when the loans I accrued were a third per year of what they are now. I could move and try out independence in a safe way, with the security of University behind me. My Dad went to University as a mature student. Our lives might have been different if there were more options for my Dad when he was younger.

The options were limited in my home town. A good percentage of the girls in my year were pregnant before the age of 18. Fine if that’s what you want, but I couldn’t help feeling there was something more to do first.

My life is small. But that’s ok. I have reset the parameters of success. I feel success when I can make it to the end of the day without crying. When I make it to the end of the day without taking a ‘chill pill’ (propranolol) . When I am in a large crowd and it’s only when I return home that I realise I didn’t freak out.

And I can still complete an N64 Zelda Game with the mad skills.