This weekend, I turn 40 years old. I’m not worried about it. Age is nothing more than a number, another year ticked off. I don’t feel 40, I’ve never been as old as I am today, so how am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to feel like?
I am worried about the surprise trip Hubs has organised for me on Sunday night. I’ve been given scant information, which is messing with my chi I can tell you. These are the hints he’s given me so far:
- Pack a bag (I was worried I was being kicked out of home for a wee while, until he quantified it!)
- Within 30km of home
- Dressing up for dinner, slightly higher than is normally comfortable
- Potential for a walk afterwards
- Yes you can pack your running kit
I’ve asked him for more details, but he won’t give them to me. Which for someone who likes to know what is going on, to manage anxiety issues and being prepared isn’t sitting well with me. I’m hoping that he gives me more information as we get closer to Sunday, otherwise I’m worried my anxiety will manifest as rattiness – spoiling the whole thing.
I know this is my issue, my foible. I am fully aware of my struggle to pack for anywhere as it is, let alone when I don’t know what I’m doing. My ex-husband organised a weekend in London for us once; packed for me, nothing matched, I had a pair of boots he liked, but I couldn’t walk in (definitely night out boots, not tramping round a city boots). I also didn’t have any of my make-up or smellies, but I did have a toothbrush. The weekend didn’t go well, as I felt uncomfortable the whole time.
Anxiety and I, (like most people) do not get along. I know damn well that people aren’t looking at me, they don’t care if I’m in mismatched clothes, or haven’t got any gunk to put in my hair or no make-up on. I’m not wearing make-up today, some days I do, some days I don’t. I had time to shave my legs or put make-up on, not both this morning. While my legs are hidden in trousers, I’m going to have my forehead on them in a yoga class later, so my comfort won out over a bit of concealer and mascara.
I wish I could get over things like this as I’ve made such great strides in other areas of my mental health. My depression is mild, maintained nicely by a daily low dose of Zoloft, which keeps me on an even keel and stops the plummeting lows that Rufus gambolling into my life leaves me with. But people thinking less of me, or criticising me makes my stomach twist into knots.
My way of coping with heading my anxiety off at the pass – is to plan, not always to the nth degree; but when we’re going away somewhere, I’ll be keeping my eye on the weather for about a week beforehand so I know what to pack. Sometimes I guess wrong and pack boots, but most of the time I know I can reach into my case and be happy with whatever is in there.
Also the food thing is a bit of an issue too. I can’t eat gluten, so most visits to anyone/where I’ll have to take something with me to eat. Even if it’s just a discreet bag of nuts tucked into my handbag to get me over audible rumbles until I get home.
I’m going to talk with Hubs tonight and explain why I’m struggling. One thing living with depression has taught me, (well there are lots of things it’s taught me and that’s a whole other blog post); but if I’m anxious, I need to tell someone. To share why, even if I struggle to get the words out.