In September last year I received a letter to say that my Disability Support Pension was being reviewed. It was the day that I was dreading and it had come at an already stressful time for my family. I thought that I had missed out on being reviewed, but new measures introduced by the current government meant that I was caught in the net.Receiving this review brought up all of my familiar anxieties about whether or not I deserved the payment. Was I really sick enough? There were people worse off than me surely.
*The following post contains descriptions of self harm. Please ensure you are in a safe place before reading*BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Hands where I can see them inmate.”
She woke with a start, disorientated in the bright fluorescent lights that lined the inside of her cell. She looked towards the small window in her door and saw the sneering face of the guard who had woken her.
I have a controversial confession to make, I don’t always miss my son when I am not spending time with him. For a long time I felt guilty about it because I thought that it proved that I didn’t have a bond with my son. It sounds strange when I write it down, I’m feeling guilty about not feeling guilty.When I organise to have child free time I do it with people who I trust. I know that he is safe when I am not with him and that the people he is spending time with care about his well being. I wouldn’t leave him if they didn’t. So it suddenly occurred to me a couple of years ago, that I didn’t need to feel guilty when he was spending time with other people.
Every person has a different experience of anxiety and how it impacts their life. For a long time I didn’t think that I had anxiety. It wasn’t until I was writing a short story a few years ago, that I realised I did. Reading another post made me see that my anxiety was manifesting itself as anger. I thought I had an anger problem, when I had an anxiety problem.
Do you ever have the itches in your fingers to just write something, anything? The feeling that there are words just bursting under the surface but they don’t seem to want to come together. I worry that if I open the floodgates that it will result in a jumbled mess.Writing has always been a kind of therapy for me. I have journals filled with scribbles, an emptying of my mind. However the last 12 months there has been some kind of block there. I don’t know if it’s anxiety that is stopping me or if it’s a lack of motivation. I don’t know if I am scared to write or too tired to make the effort.