Saturday, September 1, 2012

Happy father's day, asshole.

 "I think it would be very foolish not to take the irrational seriously." --Jeanette Winterson

On Wednesday I had a bit of a breakdown in my PE SAC (test). It really upset me because Ms Running was one of my favourite “fun” people. She never failed to put a smile on my face and I hardly ever felt anxious in PE. Our email exchanges made me laugh out loud—“sorry miss, I think I left my worksheet at home” “you clown LOL”. But on Wednesday Ms Running watched as I lay on the table; holding back tears and agitatedly staring off into space. I wrote in incomplete sentences and almost walked out. 

I don’t want her to think of me in that way. I don’t want to be that person; I hate my anxiety/he who must not be named and how it makes me behave.

I don’t want to ruin our relationship with mental illness. 
A lot of my relationships have. When I was diagnosed with GAD, something instantly changed between me and my Dad. He repetitively tells me that “no one has a monopoly on suffering”, meaning no one suffers more than another. He expects everyone to deal with their problems alone. He doesn’t believe in talk or drug therapy. Dad often yells at me when I struggle to breathe or loses his temper if I don’t respond to questions (sometimes it’s hard to talk at the dinner table). As he so eloquently put it a few months ago, “what do you talk about in these sessions? You don’t seem to have made any improvements in the last year and a half!”. No Dad, I haven’t. And you’re a contributing factor.