It's so easy to get frustrated nowadays. Some more cynical types, myself included, would argue that disappointment is built into the very fabric of modern life: after all, were something to prove to be a bottomless well of happiness, were the satisfaction to last uninterruptedly, then it wouldn't need replacing, and the consumerist wheels would start to come off the materialist cart. If exciting new experiences didn't eventually normalise into the mundane and unnoticeable, then we wouldn't feel compelled to invest in new ones. We have to believe, upon a purchase or contemplation of an upcoming event, that it will be simply awesome! Otherwise, why bother in the first place? Advertisers know this all too well; when was the last time you saw a car marketed with the tag line "The new Citroen Temporal - you'll have to replace it someday"?
Notwithstanding, when you are coming to terms with or trying to move past a Panic or an Anxiety disorder, you do still need things to look forward to. I also feel as though I need to see progress on a daily basis. For the sake of those around me, I wish to make great leaping bounds on the road to recovery, such is the counter-ballancing distress caused by such an infuriatingly ephemeral illness. No single obvious cause can be held down and owned as the preceding factor or underlying catalyst for the fear and overwhelming terror that can leave many people, myself included, house-bound and unable to function in public/social situations. This is very frustrating, and like most, my first instinct is to lash out at the 'unfairness' of it all. Occasionally, I just drown in it. Rarer still, I accept my recent limitations and put the kettle on.
In the last week, I have had two really distressing experiences involving this paradox, namely that we need to be brave and optimistic in our planning of fun things to look forward to, but we also need to be realistic and not set up situations which are way beyond our current limitations. The need to balance self-preservation with self-motivation has never been more poignant than when I inadvertently found myself stranded in Liverpool's Albert Docks last Saturday, intending to see a gig at the arena, but instead had a catastrophic melt-down and was unable to leave the car! The rest of our party went off to have a bite to eat in a Pizza Express before taking their seats, whilst meanwhile I was curled foetal in the Fiesta's footwell with my face buried in my hands. I couldn't even bring myself to look out the windows, so overwhelming was the endless stream of humanity which swamped the footbridge and immediate surroundings. I felt trapped, as if stranded on a solitary outcrop of rocks with a rising tide cutting me off from safe passage to the shore. I also felt completely freaked out and paralysed by the simple fact that I was in Liverpool itself, so far away from my "safe place" (home) in the Peak District. Worse still, being at the mercy of the show's itinerary, I was unable to leave and go back home of my own volition, such is the cost both mental and monetary of public transport on me. Finally, to top it all off, the local pubs and bars were rammed - it was after all Saturday night in a major European city centre. I'm not sure what I expected. It certainly wasn't this.
It was horrible! I cried panic-stricken for much of the five hours I was there, and felt just cold and numb for the rest. On a few occasions I was forced to make a dash for a nearby hotel lobby to use their bathroom facilities, and my anxiety was so intense I literally couldn't even look up and around me but instead found my gaze rooted to the red paved brickwork from under a large hat pulled low over my trembling brow. I wanted to scream as people veered across my path, brushed shoulders or on a few occasions walked straight into me. I have a panic disorder which can make being out in public an unreal, overwhelming experience at the best of times, but this time I really had to fight the urge to scream and lash out at them in a very public fashion. This was "fight or flight" at it's most basic, and the last thing I need right now is criminal charges being brought against me for an essentially unprovoked and unjustifiable attack on random members of the public, simply because they are unaware of my albeit temporary spacial requirement and social limitations. This urge to throw out kicks and punches scared me. I am not an aggressive person (quite the opposite) and days later when reflecting on the episode I feel deeply ashamed. My overwhelming experience was one of a hair-trigger primeval and bestial violence, a surreal and disturbing disassociation with reality and even writing about it now, days later, I'm shaking and fighting back the wobbly throat-lumps of indignation. Were it not for the kindness of one of our group who gave up her gig and stayed with me in the car, I would have had to go through it entirely alone, and probably have wet myself too.
Everyone is different. I know I am not the only one who has violent thoughts, compulsions and urges when it all gets too much, like a rat backed into the corner, hissing and ready to lunge forth with blazing red eyes and vengeful fangs. At the end of the day I am but human, and most humans, when pushed far enough, will resort to unthinking, red-misted violence. What happens when we get pushed further than that though, I wonder? Some clearly act out their frustrations, and sadly the media is only to quick to pounce upon stories of unbalanced people (perhaps not getting the help and support they deserved) who ended up committing the most atrocious and unprovoked acts. A quick 'google' will be sufficient to exemplify the pushing of pregnant mothers or other such innocent and oblivious bystanders into the paths of oncoming traffic or onto railways lines etc. when someone snaps. I know all humans have a dark, violent streak in them, buried deep beneath the layers of social artifice, but it doesn't make it any less distressing when these unsolicited urges arise and attempt to take control. It's this type of behaviour which has given schizophrenics and persons of a somewhat unhinged bent a bad name over the years; for me, the stigma and association of mental health problems with psychotic violence contributes to the deep-rooted fear that I am losing my mind, exacerbating my problems as I worry that my grip on reality is becoming ever more tenuous. That almost certainly is not the case, but still the thought that I am slowly drifting apart and away from everything I am or was is a inhumanly terrifying prospect.
What did it teach me though? Last night I was supposed to see one of my favourite artists at a big gig in Manchester. After the trauma of Saturday in Liverpool, and knowing I wouldn't be able to handle the noise, heat and crowds, I sold my ticket and spent the night at home alone. It's really painful admission for someone who himself has been a musician on stage for most of his life, yet another fine blow to my already-crumbling conceit. Granted, I booked the ticket months ago when I wasn't having any of these problems, but my failure to attend just makes me feel like an even bigger freak and fuck-up. I need to be more kind to myself, but hey, that's how it feels, this bitter sting of disappointment. I was kicking out against something beyond my control. and the only one it hurt was me. How much more useful would it have been to have celebrated my good sense, rather than rail against my perception that once again, I was missing out on all the fun? It's all so unfair, isn't it? Maybe not... Another question for another time, perhaps...
At college this week I saw a fellow student on my course punch a wheelie bin in anger at something an antagonist had said (I think it was homophobic comment, I am sad to say) and as a result the lad had to abandon his day to go to hospital and treat suspected broken fingers. For a painter/decorator, you only get one set of hands, and so this is tantamount to a chef cutting out his tongue in a rage at a sub-par soufflé. Reading an essay by the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne this morning (I can't recommend his stuff highly enough), I was struck by something he said: "Do those who tear out their hair at life's injustices realise that baldness is no cure for adversity?" When we thrust the spear of anger or pent-up frustration, to whom do we direct our embittered lunges, if not our own already weeping minds?
Somehow, we need to become aware and practice stepping back when we are feeling the frustration of frustration, of anger at anger. Some say that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, but for people like me, on occasions, the fear of fear is more crippling still. Either way, we need to set small, realistic goals that will enhance our faltering self-esteem, not decimate it. At the same time we must remember that lashing out in frustration and hurting the ones we love is of no use whatsoever, and just makes life worse. How much more true when bearing the brunt of vengeful, petulant lashes from our own trembling and resentful hands?
Feel free to comment below if anything in the above article has affected you,
Your friend, in love and understanding,
The Dharma-Farmer xx
Somehow, we need to become aware and practice stepping back when we are feeling the frustration of frustration, of anger at anger. Some say that we have nothing to fear but fear itself, but for people like me, on occasions, the fear of fear is more crippling still. Either way, we need to set small, realistic goals that will enhance our faltering self-esteem, not decimate it. At the same time we must remember that lashing out in frustration and hurting the ones we love is of no use whatsoever, and just makes life worse. How much more true when bearing the brunt of vengeful, petulant lashes from our own trembling and resentful hands?
Feel free to comment below if anything in the above article has affected you,
Your friend, in love and understanding,
The Dharma-Farmer xx
