I’ve come to realise that I’ve always struggled in life. Fitting in, being happy — I always had a sense that I didn’t fully belong, but I became really good at pretending. I remember starting school at six or seven; everyone else seemed so naturally okay with fitting in and getting along. I struggled.
I didn’t really like school. I enjoyed learning about geography, history and culture, but maths was a nightmare. It became a source of anxiety whenever we did it. I could never finish my maths books and often had to take them home over summer to catch up. I received no help or tutoring, so I was anxious going back to school each year because I hadn’t finished the books. That left me feeling behind from the start. It made me feel stupid, even though I did great in English and other subjects.
Looking back, I’ve always worried a lot. That’s probably linked to the messy early years of my life — but that’s for another post. I worried about what people thought of me, how they perceived me, how I behaved or dressed. I’m trying to trace where my anxiety began.
When I was about eleven to thirteen, it intensified because of my father’s changes. He became bitter, accusatory, verbally abusive, manipulative and self-centred. Like many teenagers, I was already struggling, but his response to my changes was yelling and psychological abuse — calling me an idiot, dismissing me. I became very anxious at home; I never knew when he’d lash out. Sometimes I knew I’d done something wrong, but other times the anger was totally uncalled for. I won’t go into specifics now.
The result was bad anxiety, insomnia, headaches and depression. A deep sadness settled in me, and my days filled with daydreaming — thinking about dying, leaving, hating, and being sad. I didn’t understand then how badly I was doing, but I do now. I internalised everything and stopped showing emotions. I lied to everyone around me and built a façade of self-confidence. Disappointments came so regularly they felt normal. By thirteen I’d largely given up on a future; I couldn’t see myself growing old. I became mentally self-destructive, but no one knew because I was so good at keeping up the act.
The sadness stayed — it’s always there, lingering. I’m trying ways to keep it at bay. Sometimes I succeed; more often I don’t. So I still pretend.
I’m on a journey to live with it rather than be controlled by it. I take various medications that help somewhat. Work has been a bright spot — my colleagues are great, and I feel appreciated. The workplace feels like a safe space.
Writing this is a trigger for reflection. It’s confronting, and it opens new ways of understanding for me. I feel emotional and fragile as I write, but I’m trying to live in the present and not dwell on the past. I’m just trying to pin down when the dark clouds first rolled in and learn how to keep them at bay.
If you’ve felt the same way, know that you’re not alone.
