On You Mark, Get Set, Don’t Go

 

 

“My name’s blurry face and I care what you think.”

I am laughing in all my old photos. I’m fat, bubbly, and I love life. I have an eccentric sense of style. My hair is messy but intentionally so. I am confident in my skin. Life is good.

Then everything changed. I was twenty when I first realised that I am mortal. Sure, like everyone else, I had thought about my death from time to time, but it always seemed like a faraway thing – something that would happen to a different version of me.

My first reaction when I found out about Ian’s death was denial. There was no way he was dead, but the look on his distraught mother’s face told a different story. His heart had given out.  They had all known that his story was coming to an end – the prognosis for his heart disease was not good. There was nothing they could do. They were helpless. His poor mother had to watch as life gradually oozed out of her son’s body.

Ian and I were not friends. We’d probably exchanged a grand total of 100 words, but here was a kid my brother’s age who’d met his demise. I’d lost friends and classmates before but something about Ian’s death disturbed me. I think it was his mother narrating his last moments. How he had been hopeful that he would get better once he was transferred to Matter hospital. How he passed away minutes after arriving in Matter. How it broke his mother’s heart. How his older sister could no longer be left home alone because she missed him too much.

Ian was the last thing I thought of every night before I feel asleep. Was he scared in his final moments? Had he been in a lot of pain? Would his mother ever be okay? Soon, the thoughts shifted to my own death. How would I die? When would I die? What if I die tomorrow? What if I have an undiagnosed brain tumour? Is that a normal mole or is it skin cancer? What if we get into a car crash? What if I die in my sleep tonight?

To the outside world I was the same old me, but fear was taking over my life. I couldn’t shake off thoughts about my imminent death.

If I go outside a stray bullet might hit me, or something might drop on my head and kill me. I must not go outside.

If I stay indoors with the door locked the house might catch fire and I’ll be trapped in here and burn to death. I must not lock the doors.

But what if I stay indoors and earthquake happens and the building collapses on me? I must not stay indoors.

Death is coming. Where do I go? Where do I hide? Where can I be safe?

I spiralled. During one anxiety episode, I was pacing in my parents’ kitchen, terrified of going outside when something snapped in my mind. I’ve talked to a few therapists about what happened on that day, and they all seem a little surprised. Getting over crippling anxiety often requires professional intervention – yet I somehow managed to snap myself out of it on that beautiful afternoon.

The ridiculousness of the situation just struck me. Yes, I was scared but, did getting scared change a thing? Now that I had made myself sick with worry, was I still not going to die someday? Did getting scared change my fate?

If after all this worrying I was still going to die, then what was the point of worrying so much? Trying so hard to avoid my death had only narrowed my world and upset me. Death is inevitable, I cannot control it neither can I run away from it – and so it happened that I became indifferent towards death.

 While I was preoccupied with thoughts about death, a storm of discontentment was brewing in my life.  I can’t pinpoint exactly how it started but I went from a happy, playful teenager to thinking that I was a loser.

It was strange. Even at the peak of my social anxiety in high school I had never thought less of myself. I had been my greatest cheerleader– some would say a bit of a know it all. Yet here I was inexplicably appalled by myself.

I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror. I was too fat. My lips were too dark. My breasts hang too low.

I didn’t like my social life. I was too quiet. I never went out. I hadn’t even tried alcohol.

I didn’t like my interpersonal relationships. I talked to my mother too much. I didn’t have enough friends. Why the fuck was I still single?

I had been an angry child but suddenly the anger was turned inwards. Somewhere along the way I convinced myself that I was fundamentally flawed; a mess that needed fixing. The self-assured, smart, shy girl was replaced by a sad, anxious adult. I started to make the wrong choices.

I catastrophized. When it rained, I thought the sun would never shine again. Maybe it was some sort of defense mechanism – if I anticipated the worst possible outcome I wouldn’t be hurt when it came to fruition.

I blamed myself. I bore the responsibility for all the horrible things that happened to me and my loved ones. I was jinxed. I was useless. I was crazy.

I sought external validation. I couldn’t love myself, so I had to find other people to do it for me.

Catastrophizing was the first nail in the coffin. It took away my confidence. I would tremble when I had to ask for my change back from shopkeepers – what if they yell at me? I was terrified of asking for help at work – my bosses will think I’m incompetent and fire me. Talking to strangers was a nightmare – they are judging me.

Self-blaming was the second nail in the coffin. Everything that went wrong was somehow my fault. I blamed myself for my mother’s sadness – my birth trapped her in an unhappy situation. When I applied for jobs and got regret emails it had to be because I was stupid and everyone else but me could see it. When people were less than kind to me it had to be because I had done something to deserve it. It was all about me, me, and me.

Seeking external validation was the final nail in the coffin. It didn’t matter that I had so many supportive people in my corner. I wanted everyone to love me. So, I chased after people who were too caught up in their struggles to have space for me. I was determined to prove myself to them. Like me, want me, prove to me that I’m worthy.

I catastrophized so much that I started to self-sabotage. What’s the point of going to work on time if they’ll still fire me? What’s the point of writing a nice CV if I won’t get shortlisted? What's the point of dressing up if I'm still stuck in this body?

I blamed myself for so many things that the sadness nearly killed me. I would self-sabotage then cry myself to sleep when I was faced by the consequences of my own actions. I would blame myself for other people's bad mood. I started to wish that I had never been born.

I wanted to be wanted so badly that I starved myself, but despite losing 20 kilograms the self-loathing still lingered. I needed people’s validation more than I needed air, so I chased after people I didn’t necessarily trust.

It didn’t matter that I thought that they were weirdly religious; who the fuck wants to join the Opus Dei? Or that they had shady pasts. What do you mean you used to sell drugs? Or that they clearly had massive hang ups. Why are you posting sappily captioned photos of you and your ex, years after your breakup? All that mattered was that I wanted them to want me. Validate me please.

The more the years went by, the deeper the hole I dug myself into. I had started out a naïve, honest person, but anxiety was changing me. I was angry all the time. I was scared all the time. I was terrified of feeling out of control. I was weary of everyone and how easily they could hurt me. I was stuck in flight or fight mode. I feared disapproval and got sick with anxiety at the thought of not being good enough. I said ugly things I can't take back.

 I lied to therapists to get them to like me, “I’m feeling happier. It’s been a good week.”

I’d lash out when I felt criticized, “You are a misogynist, and you don’t even know it.”

I overanalyzed everything people said, “You have this misguided notion about me.”

 I was a slave to anxiety and self-loathing. But where did all this fear and self-hatred lead me? What did I achieve from being so scared and needy? I have wasted four years being my worst enemy. I have been overly cautious and self-critical and all it has done is make me miserable. Nothing was wrong with me in the first place. This is ridiculous.