The Anxiety Beast In Middle Age

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I’m tired.

 

English: An anxious person

English: An anxious person (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I know that feeling is justified as we approach the end of another year, and in particular the end of the school year, and the fatigue is further compounded by the shops that are already taunting us with Christmas trees and tacky Christmas carols. (Which, quite frankly, is fucking overwhelming right now).

 

FUCK OFF CHRISTMAS! I love you but I’m just not ready for you yet.

 

I blame the anxiety beast of middle age that kicks in for some women during menopause and peri-menopause. It’s physically and mentally exhausting when you constantly have to worry, and not only about yourself but about everyone else as well.

 

And I feel so guilty about worrying about such inane stuff. Because there are women in my life who have far harder lives than me – who have coped with the devastating effects of serious illness or loss, and yet they still manage to stay positive and upbeat.

 

There is absolutely no reason in my life for my glass to be half-empty – apart from the fact that I’m an alcoholic, OBVIOUSLY – and yet more often than not my fucking glass feels that way.

 

I mean, I’ve only just come back from what was a great holiday. Still dysfunctional – refereeing between teenagers and grandparents over volume control, bad language and the acceptable speed for a golf buggy can also be stressful – nevertheless, it was still a break, with people I love.

 

No, I’m tired for lots of reasons. I’m tired because I don’t really want to work anymore. Of course I have to, but if I had the winning lotto ticket, I wouldn’t have any problem filling my time.

 

I love my job(s), but I don’t cope with stress very well these days. I get anxious when I forget simple things that I used to be able to remember. I keep making elaborate lists yet I never seem to tick anything off. And that makes me anxious.

 

When I’m working flat out, and the state of the apartment turns seedy, it exacerbates my anxiety. I don’t like mess and I don’t function well in it. Some days I lie awake in bed at night, not just because my body’s overheating from this sudden change in my hormone balance or because my bladder obviously suffers from ADHD, but also because I’m worried about what might or might not happen at work the next day; and how the impending disaster will impact on my domestic shit.

 

When you suffer from anxiety, you burn valuable energy worrying about things that will probably never happen anyway, and the effect on your mental wellbeing can be so intense that it could actually provoke physical illness. So then you start worrying about how all that worrying might kill you prematurely too.

 

Which makes you worry even more.

 

I worried about Michelle Levy over the weekend; I worry about how awful people are being to Muslims, I worry about Ebola and and I worry about Kurt’s future. I worry about my health and if the Princess is truly happy in our apartment because she doesn’t have any grass to roll in, and I worry about how much wine I drink.

 

Then I worry if the local bottle shop is going to run out of my favourite wine anytime soon.

If you laughed out loud reading this post, leaked wee or vaguely identified with any of the middle-aged drivel contained therein, don’t be scared and FOLLOW MY BLOG. You can follow by clicking the ‘Follow My Blog’ button (derr!) at the top of this page, (on the left hand side). You can also follow my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/mymidlifemayhem, and if you want to become the ultimate stalker, you can find me on Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram too, where I lurk, (far more often than is healthy for my family and work), in the clever disguise of Louisa Simmonds. 

 

 

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