Allegedly, there are people without a running dialog in their heads.
On the flip side, there are those of us with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD). Our brains are like a room full of radios and televisions turned onto different stations. If one is turned off, another one turns on. It’s endless. It’s exhausting.
One of those devices plays a station called “You Don’t Fit In Here”. It reminds me that I’m playing a part when I’m somewhere. Blending in makes me an Oscar-worthy actress.
My anxiety is on full blast today. This evening is a surprise party for a friend of mine. This is my Rich Mom friend group. They look great. They talk about their kids’ sports and after-school clubs (my kids aren’t in any). They go on multiple family vacations per year; I’ve never taken my kids on a plane anywhere other than to visit my parents every few years.
A few days ago, a text thread went out about pitching in for a combined gift. I should have said that I already got her a gift card. Instead, I got suckered into paying over $100 for my share of designer sunglasses. I’ve never paid $100 for my own sunglasses, let alone for a $400 pair of Dior ones. The birthday girl was generous to me over the years with her gifts and I begrudgingly pitched in despite my financial strain.
It’s my weekend with the kids and the birthday girl’s husband insisted they can attend. I know it’s not a kid-friendly event but another friend is bringing her kid so I have no excuse not to make an appearance. My brain shifts into time management mode, thinking how I can’t leave too early or else my kids will be even more bored and I can’t leave too late or else I’ll miss the big surprise.
It’s freezing cold and I don’t know what to wear. My hair is a frizzy mess but I’m not damaging it with a flat iron only to have it turn back into a curly disaster with the rain. I’m having a bad face day and my makeup won’t cooperate. I opt for a simple bodysuit with black jeans, figuring at least I can attempt to look “chic”.
As we drive, my stomach is growling. I’m struggling with body issues and I waffle between gorging on food and starvation. It’s making me cranky.
When we arrive, none of my friends are there. The rental space looks like a nightclub. The room is full of gorgeous people. I head to the bar and ask for sodas for the kids; the bartender tells me the only non-alcoholic beverages are room-temperature bottled waters.
I feel awful. My inner self is uncomfortable and knows there’ll be dozens of pictures. I see the buffet of food but since the birthday girl hasn’t arrived, it’s untouchable. My kids are bored.
My first friend arrives with her daughter. They both look fantastic. All the kids are dressed in their finest. My daughter is wearing a retro anime t-shirt and jeans. My son is wearing a hoodie and camo-print track pants. They don’t own anything dressy because not only do they have sensory issues, I don’t take them anywhere classy to warrant it.
As my other friends arrive, my anxiety increases. I’m not as dressed up as they are. They don’t have kids that are aching to go home. They load up their plates with food and eat with abandon. They talk about summer trips to New York and Hawaii.
My Outer Self nods in fake interest. I don’t care about sports fundraisers or whatever boring family activity they have going on that day. I’m struggling to get my kids to eat anything in the buffet and my brain screams that it doesn’t care about mundane chit-chat.
When my last friend arrives, we gather to take a picture with the birthday girl. There’s a professional photographer and I know my blinking coincides with his shutter. Someone’s husband takes more pictures which makes my Inner Self cringe knowing they’ll be on Instagram within the hour.
I look at the professional photographer’s pictures and my frizzy hair looks like someone has a static-covered balloon over my head. My friends look flawless and I look like a homeless lady off the street.
My Outer Self is an effort on my personality. Relying on makeup and a photographic hip tilt isn’t my strong suit. My Inner Self chastises me for what it already knows: I don’t look like I fit in.
Between the loud music, the worry over my bored kids (who are also complaining about the loud noises), my eating issues, my physical appearance, and my lack of fitting in, I can’t get out of there fast enough. My Inner Self verbally whips me for all my flaws as I hastily say my goodbyes and rush out.
The relief I feel as I drive home is brief. My Inner Self begins the mental replay of the night and reminds me of all the ways I screwed up.
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One of my divorce goals was to finally live a life of authenticity. I didn’t want secrets. In the grand scheme, I’m an open book. If anyone asks me a question about my life now, I’m honest. I won’t hide financial struggles or my dating life when asked.
I don’t offer the information, but I don’t hide it either.
That doesn’t stop the existence of a fake Outer Self to counter my critical Inner Self.
My entire weekend has my brain on a loop livid over my ex-husband, my crappy marriage, and the impact of divorce. I’m pissed over a tax situation that was my own doing because I allowed the guilt of leaving my ex-husband to hand over money that was intended for me in the divorce.
I’m angry that in almost twenty years, only a combined year was happy. My Inner Self reminds me that I didn’t have a happy childhood home and I didn’t have a happy marriage. It tries convincing me that I’m destined to never live happily. Even when I try to live life on my own terms, I’m held back financially.
My logical brain reminds me that if I found out tomorrow that one of my kids has cancer, I’d hate my current self for thinking life is hard. I have a job that pays my bills (although it may not stick around, given some financial woes it’s facing) and my kids are healthy. I have friends of all varieties, not just wealthy ones and all of them are wonderful to me.
My Inner Self is a tank against these attempts at a growth mindset. It tells me that I’ll always be a thousand steps behind everyone else. I’ll never end up in a nice house with a loving partner that grows old with me. It acknowledges that while I’m not borderline suicidal every day like I was in my marriage, I don’t deserve to feel better than a state of misery.
Today, my kids commented that I’m always sleeping. That’s because their entire lives, I’ve stayed up until two am because of Revenge Bedtime Procrastination and old-school anxiety. Without a nap, I can barely function.
The napping and brain fog are progressively getting worse. My Inner Self tells me that this is the start of Alzheimer’s and getting old. When I’m sixty-five and barely functioning, I can point to forty-five as the start of the descent.
Sometimes, my Outer Self radiates and sparkles. I put on a fantastic performance. When I’m that person, I wish I felt that way on the inside. Casually confident with healthy self-deprecating humor, my Outer Self is witty and responsible.
That Outer Self battles my Inner Self in real-time. When my Outer Self is chatting with others, my Inner Self snidely tells me how badly it wants to interrupt and how I’m incapable of listening to others when I’m aching to burst out an interruption. My Outer Self tries with an iron will to avoid returning to that bad habit once common in my earlier years.
Since the divorce, I’ve occasionally pushed my Outer Self onto my Inner Self. It’s a great feeling. I can convince myself that I’m not a horrible person. I can even convince myself that I’m attractive and an awesome human to hang out with. My body stops feeling like it’s coursing with adrenaline and cortisol, the hormones released from my constant state of fight-or-flight (a by-product of GAD).
I must get back to that state or else everything bad that’s happened in my life will have been for nothing. My Inner Self groans at the mere thought. It’s passively exhausting to be miserable. It’s actively exhausting to work at happiness. It’s convincing me that if I’m going to be exhausted, it might as well be the lazy, passive way.
Most of my Medium writing is my Inner Self’s voice. My body is the mechanism to get thoughts to paper.
Something needs to change. My Inner Self begrudgingly knows this. It tells me that I need to eat vegetables and adopt healthy habits, but it also tells me that it’s going to suck and cookies outcompete anything from nature.
Is this my 1 am breaking point? I’m tired of crying. I’m tired of feeling awful.
Tonight, I’m going to slather deep conditioner on my noggin and go to sleep.
Tomorrow, I’m formulating a plan to become the best version of myself. The kind that isn’t a fake Outer Self. It’s the version that makes my Inner Self say, “dayammm girl…that’s some hardcore emotional glow-up you’ve got going on.”
Both my Outer and Inner Selves agree that I need to kick depression in the nuts. It’s a start.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Elisa Photography on Unsplash