Lately I’ve been getting increasingly anxious as our move-in day creeps in. Maybe it’s that fabled millennial pride; I don’t want to be seen as “just a kid that doesn’t know what she’s doing”. How else am I supposed to have moving experience, when this is truly my first move away from my parents’ house?
Then again I’m not even sure who’s thinking that. I recognize I can be cruel on myself.
Last night I lost sleep (and mobility of my body…aaand more than likely bodily functions) fearing that we won’t have enough space in our studio apartment to really have a “set up”: a couch, a tv area, a place for our books. I’m a simple girl with simple needs (space for my makeup and a place to veg out). Growing up in a crowded, cluttered, rodent infested house…I guess thinking about all this made me triggered. A lot of my childhood memories in that house have a suffocating feel to them. The point of moving was to create a safe space. What if I’ve been doomed from the start?
Which leads me to recognizing (as I’m sipping my coffee, body tense, bones popping as I type) that I’m in a pickle. This is what therapy and medication have been preparing me for. Distress tolerance.
My impulsivity is strong. I’m trying to calm down by listening to horror stories on YouTube as I work but every once in a while I’ll open up a new tab and go browser shopping (how clever). “Treat yourself” anxiety whispers. “You really deserve something nice since you’re struggling”.
I’m no expert on parenting (CLEARLY) but isn’t this a huge nono when a toddler is insatiable? I’ve been working on re-raising my traumatized inner child and while the few minutes of peace is fantastic the spiraling anxiety of me worrying about money, beating myself up for giving in to my impulsive habits, isn’t worth it.
I’m growing dependent on my partner . Again. This was a major issue in the past; I looked to him to solve all my problems. If he couldn’t I would immediately think “what are you even good for? do you even care? you don’t care. thanks A LOT”. I’m still trying to build a strong foundation for myself, and while I really want to shut down for spilling my heart out in a text only to get “I’m sorry” as a response, I know I can’t afford to. I can’t live depending on other people anymore. It’s not his anxiety. It’s not his responsibility to solve my problems. He can help, but relief should come from me. Right?
I guess this post is a way of coaching myself. Tough love. Stepping back and looking at the situation via blog post did help a little.