I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a blog for quite some time. When I’m in a constructive mindset I often find reading the stories of others’ quite comforting. It’s reassuring to know that there are those out there facing similar struggles. But whenever I attempt to put pen to paper, or indeed fingertips to keypad, I fall short. I have absolutely no idea where to start.
This itself prompted the title of my blog. How on earth can someone explain things that they don’t even understand? It’s not as if someone can always explain it for you either – they’re not you and don’t know the precise details of every event that’s triggered you, nor can you accurately describe it sufficiently enough to do it justice. So here abandon all ideas of expectation and fear of judgement and embrace honesty. To be honest with myself means I can understand my musings and episodes of paranoia and depression. I can understand what triggers a panic attack instead of overthinking the causes, feeling guilty and useless and find myself in an even more panic stricken state than I did previously.
I remember having panic attacks in my sleep when I was young – fits and wild hyperventilating as I woke up from a recurring dream. I used to call it ‘waking up wrong’ since sometimes I’d wake up and my world would be running five times as fast. Every movement I’d make would feel as if someone had got the fast forward button on the remote stuck. That would be the warning sign, and then the shouting would start. Every casual thought that entered my brain would be bellowed in my ear. Every usual command, no matter how innocent or normally calm would be shouted in my head, cussing and profanity thrown into the sentences every couple of words, a hideous, nasty voice shouting at me like I was the most disgusting piece of scum on earth. I remember being in the shower one morning with the voice bellowing at me to simply find the soap, ‘fucking find the fucking soap you disgusting piece of shit!’ It almost sounds comical to describe, but when it’s screaming at every action you make, every rub of the towel, every step to the kitchen and bawling at you when everyone else can only hear the quiet trickle of orange juice pouring smoothly into the glass. It ended up that I could only sit very still, quietly with my hands over my eyes and my face screwed up tight, in complete isolation until the voice lost its fuel and there was nothing for it to shout at anymore. Then I’d tentatively open my eyes, my movements slow until I felt safe that it had gone, and I could carry on with my day pretending my brain hadn’t just wasted me the first few hours of the morning.
I’ve no idea what that even was, or why I had those dreams or ‘woke up wrong’. I had tests, nothing ever seemed to be wrong. I just used to blame my brain.