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 approval 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.

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3 Comments

  1. It’s okay that you don’t want to see a professional. I’ve had 10 different shrinks throughout my lifetime and I’ve hated every last one of them. One of my shrinks put me in the mental hospital three times and now I have PTSD from viewing deaths of screaming girls. “Professional help” isn’t always helpful. Hang in there love xx

  2. Mo, thanks for your honesty, and for speaking out. It takes a LOT of courage. You put in to words all the feelings that swirl around in my head, and I’m pretty sure in the heads of almost everyone with anxiety. I’m diagnosed. Is my anxiety any different because I’m actually diagnosed? Nope, still the same feelings as before I was diagnosed. remember me, way back when (well not too long ago, but the past 5 years has felt like a lifetime to me)? I’m not that person anymore. Nope, and will never be that person again. Can’t drink, because it scares me that I may actually loosen up and TALK to someone. Like, have a conversation with a stranger. that petrifies me. hell, it petrifies me that I may talk to someone I knew back then, let alone a stranger. I know that exact beer bottle analogy you wrote. I feel it, and I can feel it coming on when it does, first just a little tremor, then a gentle shake, then out of no where, that beer bottle is being shaken so hard, it just POOFS, the contents spewing over everything and everyone around you. So, I stay to myself. I don’t want my friends and family covered in that beer. I dont wnt them to see that beer all shaken up, undrinkable, nothing but foam and froth, covering everything in a big mess. Because if they see that, they loathe that, and that’s how they start identifying me, as the one that spews crap all over them. My kids call me a hermit, a recluse. Maybe they are right

  3. Living with it for 50-60 years. Not sure when it started. Used to break out in hives when I was younger. Drinking I thought would help, but it didn’t. Professionals did nothing because I can’t share my feelings. I just want to stay at home so I don’t have to worry that I might just do something or say something wrong. Thank you Matt for sharing. I needed that today. Sometimes I feel so alone.


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