Written by @yasaikatsucurry
Did you know I have an anxiety disorder? You did? Oh. Well then.
Anyone who meets me instantly gets a blow-by-blow account of my struggle with anxiety thus far. I’m in CBT, yano! And it’s great craic!
One of the very first things that was discussed, in my first session, was what was I really afraid of? I’m a big awkward mess, and my fear of loads of seemingly normal things stood in my way in a pretty major way. And still does, if I am brutally honest.
So, for your consideration and delectation, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, friends, Romans, countrymen, I present you with:
Ruth’s List Of Fear (patent pending).
1) The telephone
Even listening to Gaga’s song didn’t help. I hate talking on the phone. I give good text, but call me and I WILL ignore it. It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t stand being misunderstood, it frustrates me. I am frequently misunderstood on the telephone. Does my box in. So now I don’t use the phone. Simples! Well, that’s not strictly true. I have a list of four people I can use the telephone for. And my therapist isn’t on that list. What a laff, eh?
I love wearing makeup. Love it. I am guilty of still touting out the liquid eyeliner flicks, popular around ten years ago. No shame. But I am also guilty of not checking my makeup so I look like that Munsch painting. The Scream, that’s the one. My makeup smudges, slides around and none of my friends ever tell me. You fuckers. I’m too worried that constantly checking myself in the mirror will make people think I’m a shallow tart (I am), so I frequently just go without. Which illicts the response ‘Ooh, don’t you look peaky!’. Thanks. So I’m a bit scaredy of it. I buy loads of the stuff, eyeliners, BB cream, mascaras, blushers. I even get nail varnish regret, for gods sake. ‘Oh gawd, does this colour make me look like Lily Savage?’.
Fucking love a good swear. But I think I swear too much. A lot. I use swear words as adjectives ‘Pass us that fucking salt, you cunt’. Recently my sister and I said, in unison, ‘I’ll cut you first you cunt’. It was sweet. An in joke. I told a colleague, and she was appalled. So yeah, swearing. I love it, people hate it, I do it a lot and I’m worried people judge me very harshly for it. I think I swear even when I haven’t, and can frequently be found apologising for my terrible language. “But all you said was, mocha frappuchino…”. Ah. Grand, so.
4) Eating in front of people.
I’m a messy eater, and I blame this on having no wisdom teeth, and only two upper molars. This is due to oral-maxillo facial surgery, I’m not 18 months old and teething (Incidentally, may I just say, Sorry Mum. It must have been a fecking nightmare, so I apologise for being teethy and whiny as a toddler. Please accept my most humble apologies. Do not pass go, do not collect £200) Anyway. It means I am really self conscious about eating, which I have weirdy issues with anyway (Hence the nickname Bobby. As in, Bobby Sands. That is borderline offensive to others, the Irish mainly).
5) Talking, in general
I have no inner monologue and no filter. I say what I want, when I think it. I have some very good friends that love this, and some people who think I need to check myself. I actually wrote to one of my best friends ‘You’re a scummy fucking bastard and that’s why I love you’. That’s not…normal, is it? I also frequently demand my friends tell me what they’re wearing. It’s for the mental picture you see! I have a few really good friends who I would simply cease to exist without, but for who seeing in person is tricky for a plethora of reasons. It helps build up a mental picture. So, we can be texting back and forth about a difficult day and all of a sudden, there I am with ‘What you wearing?’. I sound like a pervert, which is fine because I sort of am.
6) Baby groups
Oh. My. Days. Listen up, if you haven’t ever been to a baby or toddler group that was terrifying, then you’re doing it wrong. This isn’t just me with all my ‘ishoos’ talking. Competitive parenting all OVER the shop. “Oh Tarquin just LOVES making his own sushi! He’s SO advanced for an 11 week old. I know because the people at MENSA said when they came over to ask him to be on their board of advisors”. That sort of guff. Terrifying. It was awful going to them when I was pregnant with my second baby, very close after my first was born (18 months between them) because I was 24, and looked about 16 and People. Would. Judge. It made me so apprehensive that I stopped going to them for a while, unless I had a friend as a buffer. I hate that. I felt like such a massive let down for my kids. Bah.
To summate, I reckon I am a big, offensive, cringey article. Fine if I think that, but I’d hate it for everyone else to think that too. The thought of that scares me witless. I just want everyone to get along and lurve me, really.
Thanks for reading. What are you wearing, you bastard ❤ ?