I tried. I really tried. I had it all planned out and it was actually quite simple. Walk to the bus stop. Catch the #3 into town. Get off bus and wait 5 minutes. Catch the Uni6 into Portswood. Get off bus and walk round the corner.
The anxiety started the evening before. I even had a proper panic attack that evening. My heart raced, my mind raced, I shook all over, I was sweaty and clammy. The worse scenarios ran through my mind. I would miss the bus, my hip would give out and I would collapse in a heap of pain. The bus would be late, I’d miss the change to the second bus. People would look at me – or worse try to speak to me. I’d get lost or confused. I wouldn’t be able to cope with the pain in my hip and knees. I’d be over anxious about being so far away from home and have no control over getting back. I’d be too much of a mess for my therapy appointment. I’d throw up from the anxiety. I’d have a panic attack while out in public. I’d cry in public.
On the morning all this was exacerbated to extreme levels. I had several panic attacks. One from just going upstairs to get dressed – I thought it’d be an easy thing to do – non committal and simple. But no, that sent me off the edge. I felt stupid and pathetic. I couldn’t even face getting dressed. I stayed in my pyjamas.
I talked through it with a dear friend. I felt guilty and ashamed and embarrassed. I felt I had let my therapist down. I couldn’t even face calling to apologise. The worst was the hour I was meant to be there. I felt utterly let down by myself. Screw everyone else – I had let myself down by not being able to do something I’ve done many many times (okay not in years but still). I was completely disappointed in myself.
I hate this. I hate feeling this way. I want myself back. The me that can do things. The me that doesn’t always cower away at home in her pyjamas. I want the me who loved going out and doing things. The me that loved to push her limits and challenge herself to do more. Yes, I’d like to be that me again.