The voices in my head are pretty insidious, but they are still a part of me. They are still my own brain telling me things. It feels like it's my mom, or my best friend when I was 12, or teenage boys making fun of me. But really, it's just me. The sentiments may have come from outside me originally, but they are part of me now.
This feels important to clarify. When I worked as a domestic violence crisis counselor, there was something I used to tell the DV victims/survivors I worked with: It's not your fault, but it is your responsibility. Of course if someone has abused you it is never ever your fault. However, you are the one who has to get yourself out of the situation. You are encouraged to ask for help, and we will help you any way we can and find other folks to help you as well, but the ultimate responsibility for freeing yourself lies with you.
I'm not saying that insecurity and anxiety are like domestic violence, except in this small way: It's not my fault that I have this disorder, but it is my responsibility to take care of myself.
The thought patterns of insecurity, which I sometimes call the voices in my head -- they are not my fault, but no one but me can alter what is inside my own mind. They are me, they are part of me, they are not actually the voices of the people I took them from.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Giving Up Insecurity
Yesterday I decided I'm giving up insecurity. It's not quite like giving up smoking, or TV. You know when you've had a smoke, or watched TV.
It's more like breaking a habit, like biting your nails. You can't smoke if you don't have cigarettes, but your nails are always there, and if you're in the habit of biting them, you are likely to do it before you realize what you're doing. It requires a lot of patience and remembering to take your fingers away from your mouth when you catch yourself doing it.
Insecurity is like that. It's thought patterns, little voices telling you you're not good enough, not pretty enough, too weird, too stupid, too insecure. Thought habits can be broken just like biting your nails. Thoughts like this:
I'm not pretty enough. I'm just as pretty as anyone else. I'm prettier than her.
Comparisons are an insidious part of this. My goal is not to compare, negatively or positively, but just to be. I am. I don't have to be pretty, I don't have to be ugly, I don't have to be smart, or talented, or ambitious.
Just like Meg Murray, I am. The end. I am.
It's more like breaking a habit, like biting your nails. You can't smoke if you don't have cigarettes, but your nails are always there, and if you're in the habit of biting them, you are likely to do it before you realize what you're doing. It requires a lot of patience and remembering to take your fingers away from your mouth when you catch yourself doing it.
Insecurity is like that. It's thought patterns, little voices telling you you're not good enough, not pretty enough, too weird, too stupid, too insecure. Thought habits can be broken just like biting your nails. Thoughts like this:
I'm not pretty enough. I'm just as pretty as anyone else. I'm prettier than her.
Comparisons are an insidious part of this. My goal is not to compare, negatively or positively, but just to be. I am. I don't have to be pretty, I don't have to be ugly, I don't have to be smart, or talented, or ambitious.
Just like Meg Murray, I am. The end. I am.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Penises and Anxiety Drugs
I met Chris that first summer after I had become single. Like most of my trysts, he and I were matched on a popular dating site; at the time my dating goals consisted of interacting with as many penises as possible.
Let me tell you, Chris had a nice one.
The first time we met in person was at a bar near my apartment. He was hungry; I drank and listened to him talk. Although he talked too much, he was pleasant to look at, if a little older than my usual preference -- 42 to my 34. I heard about his friends, his girlfriend who up and moved to another state, his job, possibly his drug habits. Maybe I learned about the drug habits later.
When he had walked me to my front steps, I meant to hug him goodbye but found myself disinclined to let go. When he kissed me, it made sense. So I asked if he wanted to come inside. He wasn't the first man I had asked inside since the breakup, I don't want it to seem like he was. But he was one of the first.
Come to learn, he had some beautiful tattoos and he really knew what to do with his hands. He was also thin and well-endowed so he could actually touch me with his hands while he was inside me, a new experience for me. Afterwards, we realized we had friends in common, or rather that his closest friends were acquaintances of mine, people my best friend from college knew through her husband.
When I called my friend, she squealed as is her wont. Yes, she knew Chris. Yes, she thought he was gorgeous. In half an hour she had me worked up about his potential as a boyfriend. Chris wanted a girlfriend, and had probably five women on his roster of candidates for the position.
The anxiety had started. Even though I hadn't been looking for a boyfriend, suddenly I wanted to see more of Chris, spend time with him, kiss him, fuck him, and be his girlfriend. He told me that he wanted a woman to take care of him, and I thought "I could be that woman!" He wasn't what I wanted, not really. I didn't really want a boyfriend who wanted taking care of, and certainly not one who was a walking pharmacopoeia who regularly drove while stoned. Suddenly, though, the idea of being someone's girlfriend again seemed irresistible, and my anxiety grew into a beast taking over my middle. I wanted it, I didn't want it, I wanted to be rid of the fear and stress. I called him and tried to talk him into being my boyfriend, thinking that I'd feel better if he just said yes, dammit.
He didn't. Although he seemed somewhat open to the idea, he thought I was too young and he didn't say yes, and I was so mortified at my behavior that I didn't talk to him for two weeks. When I finally reached out again, he let me know that he had decided to date another woman exclusively.
It was after that episode that I decided to see a psychiatrist and be put on anti-anxiety medication, because I realized I was making decisions based on what would make me feel better, rather than what was best for me. My experience with Chris hurt, a lot. However, he was a catalyst for what later felt inevitable -- my reliance on meds to keep my anxiety in check.
I'm not totally convinced that I want to be on drugs for the rest of my life, but relationships are scary as fuck and I don't want to navigate them anymore without the drugs.
Let me tell you, Chris had a nice one.
The first time we met in person was at a bar near my apartment. He was hungry; I drank and listened to him talk. Although he talked too much, he was pleasant to look at, if a little older than my usual preference -- 42 to my 34. I heard about his friends, his girlfriend who up and moved to another state, his job, possibly his drug habits. Maybe I learned about the drug habits later.
When he had walked me to my front steps, I meant to hug him goodbye but found myself disinclined to let go. When he kissed me, it made sense. So I asked if he wanted to come inside. He wasn't the first man I had asked inside since the breakup, I don't want it to seem like he was. But he was one of the first.
Come to learn, he had some beautiful tattoos and he really knew what to do with his hands. He was also thin and well-endowed so he could actually touch me with his hands while he was inside me, a new experience for me. Afterwards, we realized we had friends in common, or rather that his closest friends were acquaintances of mine, people my best friend from college knew through her husband.
When I called my friend, she squealed as is her wont. Yes, she knew Chris. Yes, she thought he was gorgeous. In half an hour she had me worked up about his potential as a boyfriend. Chris wanted a girlfriend, and had probably five women on his roster of candidates for the position.
The anxiety had started. Even though I hadn't been looking for a boyfriend, suddenly I wanted to see more of Chris, spend time with him, kiss him, fuck him, and be his girlfriend. He told me that he wanted a woman to take care of him, and I thought "I could be that woman!" He wasn't what I wanted, not really. I didn't really want a boyfriend who wanted taking care of, and certainly not one who was a walking pharmacopoeia who regularly drove while stoned. Suddenly, though, the idea of being someone's girlfriend again seemed irresistible, and my anxiety grew into a beast taking over my middle. I wanted it, I didn't want it, I wanted to be rid of the fear and stress. I called him and tried to talk him into being my boyfriend, thinking that I'd feel better if he just said yes, dammit.
He didn't. Although he seemed somewhat open to the idea, he thought I was too young and he didn't say yes, and I was so mortified at my behavior that I didn't talk to him for two weeks. When I finally reached out again, he let me know that he had decided to date another woman exclusively.
It was after that episode that I decided to see a psychiatrist and be put on anti-anxiety medication, because I realized I was making decisions based on what would make me feel better, rather than what was best for me. My experience with Chris hurt, a lot. However, he was a catalyst for what later felt inevitable -- my reliance on meds to keep my anxiety in check.
I'm not totally convinced that I want to be on drugs for the rest of my life, but relationships are scary as fuck and I don't want to navigate them anymore without the drugs.
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