Here’s my problem (well, one of them)

This is something I don’t ever talk about. To anyone. Ever.

I suffer from anxiety. It’s an un-diagnosed thing. It’s something that I honestly didn’t even realize I suffered from until a few years ago. I don’t know what I thought it was prior to this amazing moment of self-realization.

What people don’t know is that I am rife with self-loathing. I often don’t like myself very much. And when I don’t like myself very much I cannot for the life of me fathom why anyone else would. Sometimes I’ll even push people away because I think I’m undeserving of anything positive anyone has to give me, emotional or otherwise. Or worse, I’m certain that the only reason why people tolerate my presence or include me in things is out of pity. I’ll question everything I do. Being an author, a parent, a husband, a boss, an actor, a musician. All of it.

I have good days, like most everyone. I also cover it up by acting full of myself and making jokes. A lot of jokes. Always making shitty jokes. Sometimes the jokes are just for the sake of making jokes. Other times, not so much. I’m also constantly seeking the approvalĀ and affection of others even though I will probably never feel deserving of it.

I’ve always kept it hidden because, for whatever reason, it causes me shame. Then I feel anxiety about my anxiety.

I don’t suffer anxiety attacks often. Rarely, even. But when I do, Katy bar the door. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I can’t breathe. I want to strike out at everything and everyone. I want to be untouched. I want to be held. I need people but want to be left the hell alone. All at the same. Damn. Time.

I want to destroy everything near me; both tangible and not.

Why do we not ever talk about this? I mean the royal “we”. I suppose I’m a slave to that outmoded concept that since I’m a guy I’m supposed to be strong and bottle everything up. I do. The problem then is that the bottle gets too full. Or more to the point, the bottle gets shook like a beer; the contents under too much pressure until the force inside is so strong that it can crack the seal and blow up, spraying the messy contents all over the damn place.

Am I going to get better? No. Am I going to do anything about it? Like seeing a professional? Probably not. Am I going to try and be more mindful of my own emotions and allow me to validate(?) my feelings and thoughts? Possibly.

At the very least I’m going to try.