My Brain Is Screaming at Me

Today is one of those days where the anxiety is overwhelming. Every hushed conversation, every overheard laugh, every unreadable expression – they all trigger that voice that says, “Everyone here hates you. They’re all laughing at you. Why wouldn’t they? You’re ridiculous. You’re fat and ugly and stupid. They only tolerate you because they don’t want to train someone else to do your job.”

Sometimes anxiety is just the feeling that the world is about to crumble around you. Sometimes it’s a screaming paranoia listing everything that’s wrong with you and telling you that nothing you do will ever be good enough for anyone. You try to tell yourself that the voice lies and that you should force a smile. No one wants to hear about your problems. No one cares that your brain tells you on a regular basis that the world would be a better place without you in it. And that’s a scary feeling. When I have these thoughts that my mere existence is making everyone around me unhappy and I can’t fix it because I’m what’s broken, but I can’t talk about it because I’m afraid I’ll just be accused of feeling sorry for myself or looking for attention, it’s sort of like this monologue I did in high school. I never questioned it at the time. I never thought about suicide being kind of a heavy topic for a fifteen year old. I didn’t audition for it. Maybe my drama teacher just saw something. Maybe she saw my need to hurt. Granted she caused a lot of my anxiety, but that’s another blog altogether. Right now I’m just trying to keep my head on straight.

These are the moments when the urge to self-harm is strong. Pain will silence the screaming voice in my head for a little while. I can’t dig at my scalp. I spiked up my hair and sprayed it red for the holiday. The temporary dye would hide any blood, but my fingers would be stained red. They already are a bit because of one attempt to claw my skin. There was a pushpin sitting on my keyboard. It was tempting, so I put it in a drawer. There were a few bits of loose skin around my nails I could pick at, so I clipped them off. I’m trying to control it.

This is a thing that is impossible to explain to “normal” people. “Why would you want to hurt yourself? You’re already in pain all the time anyway.” True. There is never a question of if I’m in pain, but rather how much. Living with Rheumatoid Arthritis and the damage it’s done to my body is often excruciating, but it’s different. Pain I can’t control doesn’t make my brain stop screaming at me.

I take antidepressants and antianxiety meds. Imagine the state I’d be in without them. I want my bed. It’s safe there. It’s quiet. I can’t make the voice stop, but I can give into the endless fatigue. Sleep is peace, mostly. There have been nightmares lately, but not like I used to have. There was a time, before the medication, that I would have nightmares so overpowering (mostly about my father, but we’ll talk about him later) that I’d wake up in a panic, only to have them resume as soon as I fell asleep again. I’d have to get up and move around until I was really awake before I tried sleeping again. Klonopin helps with that. The Prozac does little to help. I’ve only stayed on it because it keeps me from having chronic migraines.

I don’t live in a legal medical marijuana state and, to be honest, even if it was legal, people here are so conservative that I think I’d have a hard time finding a doctor willing to prescribe it. This is more than a little unfortunate. It’s been found to help many of the conditions I deal with. I’ve smoked pot twice in my life. I can honestly say, I’ve never felt less anxious.

On top of the anxiety, I also have some pretty major sensory issues. There’s an ebb and flow to them that I can’t really track. Some days I’m good. I can go to the store and deal with noise and unpleasant weather, and I’m okay. Other days, every sound feels like it’s scraping across my skin. I can’t stand even making eye contact with other people. The softest, most comfortable t-shirt I have feels like sandpaper. Today is not one of the good days. My earphones aren’t enough to block out the sound of the copier or the incessant ringing of my desk phone because someone keeps trying to send a fax to my line, even though I’ve faxed a note to the number on the caller ID explaining that this isn’t a fax line. I can’t drown out the voices of my co-workers who seem to think that tomorrow being a holiday means there’s no work to do. I could try to go somewhere else, since I’m on my lunch break, but it’s raining and I can barely walk right now.

I know some days will be good. I know there will be days when I smile without effort and don’t want to hurt myself. I’ve survived this long. I’m still here.


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