A little story about worry
So here goes.
Time to talk about something that would normally stay in the dark deep box of stuff that Jo wouldn’t necessarily put on a blog. Like, ever.
But sod it. Rather than worrying about what people think about it, I’m just going to write it.
For those of you that know me well, you’ll know for a number of years I’ve struggled with anxiety. I used to worry about worrying about worrying about stuff that nobody else would ever consider to be something you would need to worry about.
I’d have panic attacks daily, sometimes twice, sometimes thrice and things like going to work, or straightening my hair or getting out of bloody bed stopped being those things that were easy.
I’d worry about everything..
I worried so much about how I came across that I genuinely wondered why my mates were my mates.
I worried so much about how I looked that I genuinely wondered why I ever had a boyfriend, let alone one that was actually quite nice to me.
I’d get myself in a state about going to a family BBQ because I would spend the whole time worrying that everyone would think I was a knob.
I spent a LOT of time worrying that I was a knob. That was a big one.
I’d worry that my bus was going to crash. That I’d get the sack, every day. That the chicken in the fridge was almost certainly going to kill me. That the bloke on the bus was staring at me because I looked like a troll.
I got some help, I got a diagnosis to stop me feeling like a lunatic, I spoke to some people but it never went away. Not properly. Not until recently.
Now, without going into a load of detail, in the last year I’ve finally had some proper things to worry about. When your family’s health and well-being is put in danger, you finally realise what worry should be. What worry was saved for. And that thing wasn’t the size of your nose or your arse or your boobs.
And as shit scared as I have been at times, it put my old worry into a bit of context.
Out of nowhere, I no longer worried about walking into a pub in case people were wondering who the Wicked Witch of the West was. I stopped worrying that I was going to loose all my mates and money over night. I realised that getting myself in such a state about my belly that I’d have a panic attack was literally fruitless. People’s lives, health, that’s what mattered. Not my hang ups.
On Monday I had a little celebration. It was exactly 365 days since my last major panic attack.
I had a bag of Malteasers, a cup of tea and decided to write this.
Because I know a lot of people are where I was 3/4 years ago. When they thought that worry was gonna control them for the rest of their days and they would die alone and in a house with some cats because everyone would run away from the bird who had a panic attack all of the bloody time.
And I suppose I just wanna say it’s going to be alright. Something massive will happen and from an outsider looking in, it will be the thing that tips you over the edge. But actually, it’ll be the thing that saves ya.
Because it’ll make you realise what you should worry about in life.
And that thing isn’t what’s in the mirror, or in the fridge, or on the bloody bus.
If you need a little bit of help with the worry thing, then click here for some tips x