My Mental Illness(es)
Real or Self-Infliclted?
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Social anxiety to the extreme.
What does it feel like to be in my mind? Torture, sheer torture. Granted, there are some unpredictable moments when everything is fine and I pass as a normal person, whatever "normal" is, I dunno.
I live with this subtle, underlying, ever-present feeling like I'm retarded and everyone knows it just by looking at me. My hair is always dissheveled because I have no idea how to make it look nice, nor do I have the energy to care. More than once I've been asked if I'm "cold" because of how rigidly I sit. I walk stiffly. OnceI recceived an oblique comment that I look like I have a stick up my butt. (A sarcastic "Thanks" to the person who said that to me, who may very likely be reading this, and you know who you are, but you know I love you anyway.)
Several years ago an acquaintance caught on to the fact that I'm slightly odd. There are a few people like him in the world who take the time to really consider other people...take time to think and come to a conclusion about a person without being judgmental...simply able to take someone's personality as a fact rather than as virtue or flaw.
He sat to my right at a luncheon we were obligated to attend, a luncheon for the wives of officers stationed in Seoul. Our group of 40 musicians and 30 chorists had just "entertained" them with our music, then were invited to eat lunch with these ladies. We sat at one of ten round tables, topped in beautiful white linen, bedecked with lovely centerpieces as we dined with fine china and silver. The women, obviously trained in social etiquette, carried lively but superficial conversations throughout the meal. They did their best to engage us soldiers in conversation. We introduced ourselves, etc but I just hated every second of it.
My social anxiety was intensified in eating situations because I also had an eating disorder at the time. The eating disorder was akin to bulemia except I wouldn't throw up. If I could help it, I never ate in the company of other people. I'd stuff my face in the privacy of my own quarters. I stuffed myself far beyond any normal limits, full of sweets and breads...obviously some sort of chemical imbalance took away any feelings of satiety. Once I felt the food making me sick or energetic (a couple hours later, or sometimes very early the next morning) I'd go run at least four miles as hard as I could. At every episode I'd try to remind myself to remember just how sick it made me feel to eat so much, and to never do it again. But I have glorious memories from Korea of running up trails to the tops of mountains, in California running down hills to the seashore then back up again, and around and around the 7-mile peninsula. What glorious freedom it was to to channel my jittery nervousness and illness into pure, glorious energy. Exercise bulemia. Cool, eh? Not really.
So eating in social situations brought me terror. I possess no table manners. I hated having different forks to choose from, although I know which one is for what, I just hate it when food comes with rules. Food for me was an emotional release and I couldn't handle it when there was structure and etiquette involved.
This guy, 3/4 of the way through the meal, looked at me and said, "You'd rather be in the bathroom right now, wouldn't you?" That's the only thing he ever said to me after the one day we took a long, uncomfortable walk together and I was unable to talk or communicate in any way. Yes, I would have much rather been in the bathroom than sitting in that phoney, substanceless environment with those chatty ladies caked in makeup. But the bathroom wasn't quite right. I simply wanted to cease to exist.
The eating disorder was replaced with a sexual addiction a few years later. I'd always known the wonderful pleasure of human sexuality but, being emotionally repressed, never felt free to express my sexuality until I finally lived blissfully alone. But that's an entirely different screwed-up story of its own. I don't know if I'll ever be able to find tactful enough ways to tell that story. Or to make it understandable to anyone but myself.
So an eating disorder turned into a sexual addiction, which led to missing a bit of work, which led to getting married to someone to escape my problems, which led to the misery of being married to someone I'm not attracted to emotionally, intellectually, or even physically. Being married led to having a child, and the cumulative result of all the above has left me as a reclusive, unemployable, socially-retarded, unfulfilled housewife. My sole joy exists in raising our gorgeously cute child. And as any parent would agree, the joy of parenthood is intermittent, but wholly rewarding. Now we're expecting another child. (A result of empathy sex for my husband, poor sweet guy that he is.)
I asked my husband the other day, "Do you ever feel like you're living in a nightmare?"
"All the time," he said.
Then there's bipolar disorder, you know, manic-depressive symptoms that many people over the years have said they see in me.
Medications, therapy, religion, I've tried it all. Don't make me blog about it again. I'd be beating a dead horse. The one thing that has helped the most is religion, but I fail so much there too...
What's to come of me....? Of our pseudo-family...? My dear husband who deserves someone better...? Why won't he divorce me...? I divorced him once, but we weren't strong enough to stay apart. I'm so scared... But we just keep on going through the motions, day after endless day.
What does it feel like to be in my mind? Torture, sheer torture. Granted, there are some unpredictable moments when everything is fine and I pass as a normal person, whatever "normal" is, I dunno.
I live with this subtle, underlying, ever-present feeling like I'm retarded and everyone knows it just by looking at me. My hair is always dissheveled because I have no idea how to make it look nice, nor do I have the energy to care. More than once I've been asked if I'm "cold" because of how rigidly I sit. I walk stiffly. OnceI recceived an oblique comment that I look like I have a stick up my butt. (A sarcastic "Thanks" to the person who said that to me, who may very likely be reading this, and you know who you are, but you know I love you anyway.)
Several years ago an acquaintance caught on to the fact that I'm slightly odd. There are a few people like him in the world who take the time to really consider other people...take time to think and come to a conclusion about a person without being judgmental...simply able to take someone's personality as a fact rather than as virtue or flaw.
He sat to my right at a luncheon we were obligated to attend, a luncheon for the wives of officers stationed in Seoul. Our group of 40 musicians and 30 chorists had just "entertained" them with our music, then were invited to eat lunch with these ladies. We sat at one of ten round tables, topped in beautiful white linen, bedecked with lovely centerpieces as we dined with fine china and silver. The women, obviously trained in social etiquette, carried lively but superficial conversations throughout the meal. They did their best to engage us soldiers in conversation. We introduced ourselves, etc but I just hated every second of it.
My social anxiety was intensified in eating situations because I also had an eating disorder at the time. The eating disorder was akin to bulemia except I wouldn't throw up. If I could help it, I never ate in the company of other people. I'd stuff my face in the privacy of my own quarters. I stuffed myself far beyond any normal limits, full of sweets and breads...obviously some sort of chemical imbalance took away any feelings of satiety. Once I felt the food making me sick or energetic (a couple hours later, or sometimes very early the next morning) I'd go run at least four miles as hard as I could. At every episode I'd try to remind myself to remember just how sick it made me feel to eat so much, and to never do it again. But I have glorious memories from Korea of running up trails to the tops of mountains, in California running down hills to the seashore then back up again, and around and around the 7-mile peninsula. What glorious freedom it was to to channel my jittery nervousness and illness into pure, glorious energy. Exercise bulemia. Cool, eh? Not really.
So eating in social situations brought me terror. I possess no table manners. I hated having different forks to choose from, although I know which one is for what, I just hate it when food comes with rules. Food for me was an emotional release and I couldn't handle it when there was structure and etiquette involved.
This guy, 3/4 of the way through the meal, looked at me and said, "You'd rather be in the bathroom right now, wouldn't you?" That's the only thing he ever said to me after the one day we took a long, uncomfortable walk together and I was unable to talk or communicate in any way. Yes, I would have much rather been in the bathroom than sitting in that phoney, substanceless environment with those chatty ladies caked in makeup. But the bathroom wasn't quite right. I simply wanted to cease to exist.
The eating disorder was replaced with a sexual addiction a few years later. I'd always known the wonderful pleasure of human sexuality but, being emotionally repressed, never felt free to express my sexuality until I finally lived blissfully alone. But that's an entirely different screwed-up story of its own. I don't know if I'll ever be able to find tactful enough ways to tell that story. Or to make it understandable to anyone but myself.
So an eating disorder turned into a sexual addiction, which led to missing a bit of work, which led to getting married to someone to escape my problems, which led to the misery of being married to someone I'm not attracted to emotionally, intellectually, or even physically. Being married led to having a child, and the cumulative result of all the above has left me as a reclusive, unemployable, socially-retarded, unfulfilled housewife. My sole joy exists in raising our gorgeously cute child. And as any parent would agree, the joy of parenthood is intermittent, but wholly rewarding. Now we're expecting another child. (A result of empathy sex for my husband, poor sweet guy that he is.)
I asked my husband the other day, "Do you ever feel like you're living in a nightmare?"
"All the time," he said.
Then there's bipolar disorder, you know, manic-depressive symptoms that many people over the years have said they see in me.
Medications, therapy, religion, I've tried it all. Don't make me blog about it again. I'd be beating a dead horse. The one thing that has helped the most is religion, but I fail so much there too...
What's to come of me....? Of our pseudo-family...? My dear husband who deserves someone better...? Why won't he divorce me...? I divorced him once, but we weren't strong enough to stay apart. I'm so scared... But we just keep on going through the motions, day after endless day.
