I just wrote 300 words without coming to any sort of point, so I’m going to start over and get to the matter straight away: crying. I’ve been crying a lot lately.
I’ve done it ever since I was a child. What child doesn’t cry and scream, you ask? Well, quite. But I’ve always been able to summon tears within seconds; it’s a talent, if you can call it that, and I certainly did. A solid crying jag can be healing. People who know me have always been bemused at my ability to sob in movies, sometimes long after they’re over. As a teenager, I sobbed for a solid 90 minutes after first seeing Braveheart. My mother thought it was amusing for the first 30 minutes – after that, a quizzical look came over her face that I interpreted as her way of figuring out if I was actually in the midst of an emotional breakdown.
No, my actual breakdown came about seven years later, with tears aplenty. Pregnancy hormones brought more; severe postpartum anxiety more again. Dad’s death, oh boy, sure.
Since then… next to nothing.
Tears would leak out at times: when I didn’t get a job I really wanted, I sat on the floor of the shower and sobbed so loud Riley came in to see what was wrong. I hated him seeing me like that, so I deliberately stoppered off that part of myself as a safety precaution, which is such a Victorian-corseted-sensibility if you think about it. Establishing an emotional buffer zone allowed me to continue with day-to-day, run-of-the-mill family life. Stoicism got me by, and apart from the odd ground swell of grief that occasionally took me unawares, I was able to navigate my way through.
Occasionally blogging about my struggles with anxiety was my way of acknowledging this part of my psyche and the “Hey, this is me, like it or lump it, I ain’t afraid of looking in the mirror – are you?” ballsy attitude as who I am. Although, if you were to ask me about it, ‘in real life’, I’d be just as likely to cross my arms and shrug and say “I don’t really feel like talking about it today.”
See, and that’s probably the problem. The times when I have written about mental health as a whole, say in Crying in the Car (see, hell, I even named a book about it), represent only a percentage of occasions when I’ve wanted to, or planned to. Why haven’t I?
Fear of judgement.
You’ve been honest and confessional for years on the blog without negative repercussions – in fact, if anything, it’s helped you, says positive-Karen.
This fear also taps out your creative energy, negative-Karen retorts.
Positive-Karen can’t argue with that.
Let’s get back to the crying. Perhaps I’m enduring another grief upsurge; or it’s to do with my painful injury, or stupid gut issues that won’t go away. Whatever the case, I’m doing the best I can. Going day by day. And I’m booked in to see a psychologist. It will be the first time I’ve seen one since PPD.
I’m nervous, but it’s for the best. I hope.
