Big Anxiety in a Small Person

After reading this link about kids with anxiety, I have some thoughts that have been in the back of mind for a while now.

Firstly, I wish this kind of awareness was around when I was a kid.

I remember my mum telling someone that I 'worried a lot' and I remember 'feeling worried' about random things that I couldn't always articulate.

This was the only word I was ever given for what I felt.

I also remember watching some movie with my family and there was a scene where someone was called to the stand in court and I told my mum that if that ever happened to me I would just cry. Even if I had done nothing wrong and wasn't in trouble, I just knew I'd instantly burst into tears under that scrutiny. Even recalling that memory threatens to overwhelm me, I can place myself exactly back into that kid-me's emotion.

Whilst I've come a long way, that 'worried' kid still kicks around sometimes. I had no idea that it was anything real; I always thought I must be broken for worrying... about nothing. I was always wise enough to know that these were irrational anxieties, even if those 2 words were unknown to me at the time.

On the flipside, we always (lovingly) tease my dad for being a 'worry-wart'... So I guess the argument of genetics vs learned behaviour can kick in there. I've always maintained that it's a little bit of both - especially evidenced by the fact that as I grew older, I've stumbled and learnt my way around my anxiety depression. At least to (more recently) lessen its grip on me than the incapacitation I vaguely recall as a smaller person. But the DNA is still there, and it still raises its head when my methods fail.

Dad was/is prone to anxiety (over being late especially) and we all just learnt to accept that if there was a crisis, he was not the person to count on because he would simply panic. He would visibly reduce into a muddled, flustered being full of breathy exasperation. Meanwhile, precious seconds could be ticking by. Writing that, I am thinking of an instance when I wrenched the phone from him as he struggled to relay information from my mother, bent over the crumpled unconscious frame of my grandmother on the floor, to the 000 operator on the other end.

I also remember when I was very small, I slipped outside and lacerated my leg on a piece of metal. It was bad. I still carry the thick, fat scar on my upper thigh. 

I called out for my brother to help, since my mother was not home and knew Dad would rapidly turn into a useless ball of stress. I was young but sensible enough to have recognised this (and to know that walking inside was probably a bad idea since I'd get blood everywhere!). I was in shock and pain but I tried to keep my voice relatively even so Dad did not know there was any kind of emergency. My brother did a brilliant job of patching me up and although neither of us mentioned it, we knew to keep it from Dad. 

Even when he came into the living room later, as I laid on the couch, bandaged up under the blanket I was wrapped in, resting... He asked what was wrong (had he heard me in distress after all?) and I simply said "Nothing" as innocently as I could. My brother and I went back to watching TV. Mum came home after I went to bed that night and she was informed when I woke up in the middle of the night due to bad dreams, and I went to the doctor in the morning.

 

This. This is in my blood, my genes. And whilst I ruefully comment that today's kids have more resources than I did growing up, I am suddenly struck with the fact that he had less. None, even.

I don't envy the increased anxiety in our young people in this world, but I do envy the fact that due to its (ever increasing) widespread reach, at least anxiety (and depression) is slowly becoming more recognised, treated, and reduced in stigma. I may have missed out on the early help that I would've perhaps gotten (or not, who knows?) but at least I know that before we teeter too far on the border of becoming too much of an over-sensitive, coddling bunch -as the media an others would like to paint us as a society- there are other kids in pain who are getting help.

The long and winding road...

Warning, this post is as long as the title implies.

So I've decided to change up my exercise routine... style... stuff I do to alleviate all the naughty things that I eat. There I said it. Plus I figured that getting some more physical activity into my day could be good for my mental health too.

I haven't been able to afford my car registration this quarter, so I've been walking to my appointments and to the shops whenever I've needed to. Plus with the festival on in town and us having a show, I've been commuting and walking around town flyering and doing some PR. It's actually been kinda enjoyable. So I started thinking about what else I could throw in...


My parents bought us bikes about 10 years ago. 26" Huffy ladies mountain bikes. I guess they were on sale or something. For some reason we got two ladies bikes, even though my mum hasn't ridden a bike since she was a teenager, and probably wouldn't physically be able to anymore. But perhaps it was to serve as some kind of inspiration. Maybe she envisioned us pedalling around the neighbourhood, getting fit and sharing fun active times whilst The Turtles' 'Happy Together' magically played from the sunset...
...Or maybe that was just my dream.

Anyway, the theory eventually dropped down to "We have bikes in the garden shed in case the exchange students want to use them" and that seemed to work for everyone.

I never really had a bike when I was growing up. My brother got one when he was 10ish, and I was only really of the age suited for childrens' trikes. When I got older, we picked up an old BMX that someone was throwing out and fixed it up a little so I could ride to the shops and back but that was pretty much it.
I soon grew out of it -  both with my height and my lack of interest. I didn't have any 'bikey' friends (at least none who were only just now learning to ride), my brother was now a young adult and had his own riding skill settled too, my rear end used to hurt pretty quickly into a ride, and I always felt too uncoordinated.  I worried I would fall and hurt myself, or cause an accident on the road.

These were all my excuses.
When I was 16, I developed crepitus arthritis in both knees and I decided that that was the deal-sealer. It has always kinda annoyed me that I, who was never a sporty person and had never punished my knees with years of physical strain or team sports, would end up with limiting knee conditions.

Anyway, I digress... again. My point is: I grew up still not really having learned to confidently ride a bike, let alone these scary tall things with chunky wheels and lots of gears that mum had brought home.

I loaned one to a girl I was seeing at the time, who was from a 'bikey' family, but she eventually had a bingle and buckled the frame. I don't remember what we did with it, but since we weren't investing much stock in these bicyles, I think we sold it on and said goodbye to it.
Now the shed had only one lonely bike sitting there in the dark for years.

Until this week.

I got a few dollars together from one of my odd jobs, and I bought some new inner tubes. I actually believe the bike's been ridden that infrequently that the perished tubes I replaced were the originals.

My brother gave me a quick crash course on how to change tyres* and adjust the saddle for my height. He helped me put the rear wheel back on straight and to make sure the chain links lined up. All this stuff I would have blundered through myself, eventually getting there but only after an embarassingly long time/effort. He also brought out his tools and an electric pump to make things easier/faster. As luck would have it, there was a spare helmet in the shed too.

*tyres/tires depending on where you're from.

My first test ride was to the end of the road and back. I crunched the stiff gears (not knowing ANYTHING about them or what gear to use when) and was so afraid of performing the U-turn required to get me back to the driveway that I slowed down (making it worse) and wobbled through it, somehow avoiding riding right into the kerbside. I kept looking down at the road, and overusing the handlebars to turn. I could have jack-knifed so easily.

I somehow managed to get back into the driveway where my brother and I tweaked a few things. After another wobbly test ride, he handed me his bikelock and key, and I went on my merry way to ride home.

I chose a route that avoided a moderate hill but involved a roundabout.  I'm not sure how I survived that, but it helped that it wasn't busy and I knew that I could just dismount if I wanted to wimp out and walk around.

For the most part I was coasting down a main road that is closed due to roadworks, and the Sunday traffic meant that I wasn't feeling too pressured by motorists. For the 2.8km ride, I stuck to the middle gear combos because I found them comfortable enough. 15minutes later, I pulled into my own driveway. Puffed, but also pretty impressed with myself.

That night I did some research about gears, and learned how to apply my knowledge of car shifting to the bike gears. I learned about cadence and keeping my head up so the bike would follow where I wanted to go, and to turn by leaning/tilting the bike rather than rotating the handlebars. I also learned that my rear will hopefully stop hurting with repeated riding, and that cushioned shorts don't have to be that ugly clingy lycra kind, but that casual baggy shorts also exist that hide their enclosed padding.

Today I went for a small ride around my area, only 1.4km this time, riding around the closest few blocks, to test out some of these things.
Although keeping my cadence under control is still a bit of a mystery to me at this point, the main differences I found were that turning and shifting gears were both a little easier now that I understood a bit more about them. That, and already my rear was hurting less than my quadriceps. So far (touch wood) my knees haven't complained.

A lot of the articles I'm reading talk about riding around on trails and going over things like logs and rocks. For now, I'm starting from scratch and ignoring that my bike is meant for a more adventurous life than the one I'm ready to give it just yet.

So the journey has begun, it's mostly about bringing my fitness/ability and knowledge up to speed first. After that, we'll progress further.

/n00b

My Treacherous Past

After spending some time on my laptop reading travel blog posts of a friend-of-friend, and looking at some of my old photos, I decide I've had enough.

I close the laptop briefly to gather my thoughts, a chance to reflect on the sudden disgust and regret that's bubbled up in me.

The photos flash before my mind's eye again, and I realise that I was feeling taunted by them. They represent memories that frolic about and tease me about happier times. I had looked at the photographs -either taken by me, or of me, or both - and ruefully grimaced "That feels like the last time of my life I was ever truly happy".

I tell myself that I know this is not true.
I know what my mind is like: it has an uncanny ability to summarise over-positively. Unless speaking of a particularly turbulent time of my life, my mind recalls everything as rainbows and sunshine and happiness, and glosses over (or leaves out entirely) any negative feelings or experiences that were present at that time.

It's a survival mechanism, I know. I am a healer. If I could make visible how well and how often this trick has put me back together, I would look like a patchwork doll. It probably accounts for the lifelong feeling of never really identifying with past versions of my self - I am remade so often, I'm not the same person for more than a group of years.

And it's this very lifesaving thing that bothers me now.

I look around me at my nest, something a past-self would have envied, and I make a face.
"Is this who I am now? Is this what I represent?"

I feel weak, and wasted.

Less than a decade ago I was - felt - remember feeling - seemed fearless.

I try to brush it off as a side-effect to my recent 30th. But I've never really been bothered by age or numbers, and I know this is just a convenient excuse; a way to avoid explaining my dysphoria should another person question it.

I recall adventures of recent times: physical challenges, and mental and emotional ones. I remember feeling uncertain and afraid.

"Was I always so hesitant?"
My memory fails me as I try to answer myself. It spits out the usual list of victories and triumphs and happy memories. When I try to force it to focus on something I know must have been hard, but not quite life upheaving, it refuses to give me any more than a cursory acknowledgement of tribulation.

This is where my diaries or old blogs play a part, and it is shame that I fell out of the habit for some years. When I read back, especially those entries that are so vague they only really depict my bad feelings and not the particular issue I was wrestling with at the time, I am amazed to see how anguished I had been... for I have no recollection of it now.

It's frustrating.

But it's also hopeful.

I sit and think about what this means, and how am I feeling now compared to half an hour ago.
Still bummed, but calmer. At least I know that when I do pull myself out of this rut, I won't have much memory of just how low I felt at the time until I read my own words back.

I look at the scars on my body and soul and think about how they came to be; how the bad things have failed to beat me, whether I remember them properly or not.
A fond proverb floats to mind and I smile ruefully at the fact that I only ever remember it in times like these:

This too shall pass.

30 (and counting) and childless

Precious Gemstone indeed :)

Even as a little girl, I was asked about children. Did I want any? How many? What genders and how many of each?
Ever since I can remember, I've always replied that I didn't want children. It's something I've always known; it's a thought that pre-dates my awareness of my sexuality.

My mum used to always say "Oh you say that now, but one day you'll meet someone and want to have their babies" (edited pronouns to accommodate the spanning of Mum's understanding of my sexuality over the years). I used to joke that the more she said that, with the 'I know what will happen, wait and see' air to it, that I would deliberately stick to my guns on the matter.
But the truth is, it was easy to stick to my guns, because the maternal urges just never rose in me as I got older.

More than once have there been times in my adult life that I have sat down and seriously asked myself if I would have children. Even after the long, private chats with myself, the answer is still no.
Only once have I ever thought that I may amend that decision, because I was blindly in love with a girl who did want children. I thought 'if you wanted to have kids, then okay I will be their other parent.'

But in hindsight, I'm glad that never came to be. Even as a non-biological parent, I don't think I'd do right by those children. And really, that truth is betrayed in my wording:
 'if you wanted to have kids, then okay I will be their other parent.'
Okay. Like I'm giving in to a small disagreement. If I really wanted that, I would have been something like 'I can't wait to start a family with you' or similar, surely?

A friend shared great mini-article here from Abby who sums up pretty precisely why I choose not to have kids.

I have seen too many children who are in this world who probably shouldn't be - at least, not to the parents that bore them. Procreating these days is a choice, and it's mine to not do so.

Sure, when I hold the babies of my friends and my family (pictured), I love them. I appreciate them, I kiss their foreheads and call them little angels just like any would-be-mum would do. But I'm happy to hand them back knowing that I will not have one of my own.

I don't want to have kids just because I'm made to feel or am told that I should, or because others say I'd be a good mum, or even because I'm getting older and my timeframe to make a family is shrinking.

I would like to think that in a perfect world, all kids are wanted and fought for. But the sad truth is, a lot aren't. Some are on this earth due to many many reasons that I won't list here, as the combinations of factors are so numerous. My point is, whatever would lead me to having and keeping (writing from the perspective of pro-choice) a baby, would not be enough to convince me that this is indeed what I had always wanted.

The flat truth is, it just isn't.
And no kid should ever be the mistake their parents made.
I'd never call my child a mistake, or treat them badly, or take it out on them that this wasn't the life I wanted, but despite all that, I would be unhappy. At roots-level, this would still affect them.

If I had children, I wouldn't be the parent they deserved, and what does that make me then?
"Yay, you finally had kids... but... you're a lousy mum."

Only recently I went out to a birthday lunch accompanying a friend, and we sat with a few ladies who had children. The contrast between two mums in particular was astounding.

One was quite obviously not happy with her status as a mother, or the presence of her two (yeah, two) children in the world. And this was indeed reflected by the behaviour of the kids themselves. They messed around, undisciplined, because their mother wasn't (and probably hardly has been) paying them any positive attention, simply throwing a half-hearted 'don't do that!' when they got rowdy.

You may think me, the childless lesbian, a bit judgemental here, and making assumptions... but believe me, reader, when this lady picked up her younger offspring (who had spent most of the lunch face buried in a mobile phone playing games because what else is there to do?) onto her lap to stop her fussing. And she sighed to my friend and the table, aloud, without hush and very audible to her child on her lap: "Don't ever have kids! They will ruin your life."

'What kind of person says that??' said my brain. 'In front of her children, no less!'

While my friend and I left the restaurant later and drove home, we shared our disbelief at such a horrible thing to say... to someone you've never met before but also within earshot of your child. We also found that both of us had the same impression that the chidrens' behaviour/interactions (or lack thereof) was an effect of being spoken to/of in this way. It made me sad for them. I feel sad for any child that I see not appreciated by their parents for the gift they are (adults included), even when their behaviour is challenging at times.

It's a shame, especially when there are so many genuine couples out there who would treat a child like a precious gemstone if they could have one. And believe me, I've had my share of guilt over having a perfectly operational reproductive system and letting it go to waste when so many struggle. I've even been prepared to donate ova to a friend if they'd needed it.

The answer to my brain's question 'what kind of person says that?' is simply:
Someone who isn't ready to have had children now, if at all.

And this is kind of how I feel.

Sure, I wouldn't ever say that to/around my kids if I ever had them, but I know in my heart that I would probably feel this way nonetheless: This isn't me.

Why? Because I simply have no desire to ever be a mum.  It really is as simple as that.

I know it's hard for some people to understand, but it's kinda like sexuality that way: Just because you don't like kissing that gender, doesn't mean the people who do enjoy kissing them are beyond understanding or should be ridiculed/treated as freaks... we just all have different wants. If I don't really want to kiss a boy or have a baby, think of it this way: I'm leaving all the more boys and babies for the rest of those folk who do want them.

I like kids. I get along really well with kids. Hell, I work with kids and my success in that role lays heavily on my great ability to relate to them and understand them. But that doesn't make one automatic mum-material.

I'll settle for being the cool aunt to the kids in my honorary family.
Why? Because that's the role I'm always happy to play, the one I know I feel comfortable in.

Here, everyone is happy. I'm true to myself, those kids have one more person to love and care for them, and the world is spared of my share of offspring that I may have spawned simply out of pressure, not of love.

The upside is, being a same-sex attracted female, my risk of accidentally conceiving is highly reduced. Something to ponder on the Marriage Equality debate, same-sex marriages will produce less unwanted children... as they are harder work to acquire.

I'll leave you to your own thoughts on the matter.

Etymology

I hate this generation's vocabulary because I can't use any of the following words/phrases without them first being mistaken for something else:

• twilight
• tumbler
• macaroon
• gangster
• that's so gay (though this has changed frequently through history)
• vintage
• pair of hipsters
• converse

...and the list goes on.