Been a long time comin'

I usually try to keep away from any communicative medium when I feel like this. It's just easier for everyone. I hate whining on the internet. (I mean I hate to whine on the internet, not that I hate everyone who does.) I know a fair few people who are worse off then myself, so I tend to think of it as pretty self-indulgent. And even then, most of them just get on with it for the vast majority of the time, so why can't I?

I know this is silly. Most of my tweets these days are about 4 of the 5 things I love most in the world. (Steff, my friends, football and music, if anyone's counting. I don't tend to tweet much about my family.) In general, at least in comparison to over summer, I reckon I'm mostly positive on Twitter, so I should really give myself leave every now and then to have a bit of a rant. I just can't be as expressive in that format as I'd like, though. Certainly not for anything personal. It's easy enough to get worked up about job cuts and Tories and Lib Dems and bankers (these are a few of my least-favourite things). I find myself using Facebook less and less (except for Scrabble, obviously), and anyway, I don't want my friends to feel like they have to leave comments out of obligation. I've gotten out of the habit of ordering my thoughts and feelings like this in a blog. Ever since I stopped regularly updated Livejournal, I've let my feelings of inadequacy get in the way. I've never been a great writer and never will be. All those wonderfully expressive blogs by my friends seemed to be mocking me. Why it felt like a competition, I'm not sure, but it did.

Anyway, it's almost certainly been to my detriment. I might not have ended up needing to see 2 different psychologists now if I'd just sat down and typed it all out. I might have been able to hold onto my job when Steff went into hospital. I might have dealt with the stress better if I had sat down and properly engaged with someone, actually using all the wonderful people who offered whatever help they could provide. I might have realised that what everyone from friends to Steff's doctors to my family were saying was true - it was affecting me too.


Talking about what Steff was going through felt like I was betraying her. Talking about what I was going through felt like I was belittling what she was going through. I tried not to think about myself. If I remained stoic, I could be there for her her. How could I help her if I was allowing myself to crumble? I now see I did more harm than good...
If I had done any of the above, I might not have had to deal with this tightness in and pressure on my chest, caused by the wonderfully-named Costochondritis, for months.

I hate feeling like this. It's exhausting. Simultaneously, someone sits on my chest while they reach inside and tie all my arteries in knots, giving my heart a good squeeze into the bargain. Any energy not wasted on, say, moving, or breathing, or snapping at Steff when she's trying her best to help, goes on convincing my brain I'm not having a heart attack. (I've had my heart checked and there's definitely nothing wrong with it, thankfully.)

I've come to realise that it's this symptom more than any other which makes me terrified of returning to work or study. It's recently come to my attention that I've dealt with anxiety for most of my life, but it's never taken up more  energy than it has over the last 18 months. I don't know how to make if go away. I'm hoping this is a start.