Have you ever been afraid? Of course you have. It’s a natural and normal part of being a human, part of our genetic make-up.
Have you ever been so scared that you feel you cannot function normally? You know, that kind of fear that creates a terrible, churning void in your belly, that travels down your nerves causing trembling in your hands and knees? That pushes cold sweat through your pores and clouds your thoughts, shutting everything down to a basic ‘fight-or-flight’ choice, robbing you of your free will?
Dial that feeling back a notch and you have the way I feel every single day. Almost everything fills me with crippling fear. If I’m cooking a meal, I get terrified that the various components won’t be ready at the same time. If I walk down the street I am scared that everyone is looking at me, or that I am about to be attacked. Busy shopping centres reduce me to a quivering wreck, desperate to get out, get away.
But the fear is only the beginning. Fear turns to shame. I am ashamed that I should be getting so scared for no reason. It embarrasses me and makes me feel like a failure, unable to cope with everyday tasks. This makes me angry. So, the fear covers a boiling vat of barely controlled rage, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Presumably this is an extension of the ‘Fight’ part of the ‘Fight-or-Flight’ response, pumping the body full of adrenaline, although I suppose it would also be helpful for ‘Flight’ too. Either way, it sucks.
I force myself to face it, trying to interact with people on a daily basis, to force the feelings of fear and anger away, but it doesn’t work. I lie in bed at night afraid of what will make me afraid tomorrow, afraid of the mistakes I made yesterday, afraid of the fear eating away at me. I fear the future. I fear the past. I even fear the present.
It never used to be like this. I used to have confidence. I used to be able to talk to just about anyone without being afraid that they would hate me (or, at least, not caring that much). I used to be able to go out and enjoy myself. Now I feel like I’m sucking the joy out of any room I walk in to like a massive life drain.
I know, in the underused rational part of my brain, that this is a symptom of the depression (at least, I hope it is), and I know that things will get better (at least, I hope they will), but it is getting so hard to live with this constant fear. I’m even scared to talk about it – seriously, the idea of people reading these words is making it unbelievably difficult to write them. You have no idea how many drafts and revisions I’ve had to work through. And that’s for a five- or six-hundred word article that a handful of people will ever see.
How do you think I feel about the rest of my life?