In some cruel twist of fate, I spend my life valuing literature and words, yet remain unable to articulate in certain situations due to an anxiety that renders me speechless. And these situations are generally ones where me speaking, usually about something that matters, is a fundamental requirement.
In trying to manage the anxiety, everything else shuts down. My brain treats the situation like an unexpected software update where critical functions become temporarily unavailable, and a restart is required before I can remember my own name. And I convince myself that I must, surely, come across as unintelligent, inarticulate, dumb, stupid, pathetic.
Or a person unworthy of respect.
I stand there in these conversations, my mind searching for words that definitely existed 10 seconds earlier, playing some malicious version of scrabble. And sometimes it does find words; the wrong words, and I’m left wishing I’d just gone with no words at all. How does that even work anyway? The wrong words? Either words are accessible or they’re not, but my brain decides to be selective.
Sometimes, if I’m extra lucky, these scenarios lead to a full blow panic attack, and then I get to throw in trembling, twitching, possibly dribbling for all I know, to what is already a pitiful display. Not only does my brain misfire, but my heart decides it’s time to run while my muscles decide, fuck that, they’re collapsing instead.
In writing this, what I hoped would be the blog I threw the most humour into, I find the dryness tipping into a bitterness that I wasn’t expecting. An angry mourning for a confidence that was robbed from me. If I ever possessed it in the first place that is. And if I did, it never stood a chance against my upbringing.
So, with all this in mind, I saw therapist for the first time in my life recently. I found the root cause, and then quit therapy thinking I had all the answers. I didn’t though. And knowing the root cause means nothing when you’re trying to find the word “photosynthesis” and your brain gives you “plant WiFi”, so I’m still scrambling around in the depths trying to find that light bulb moment that magically makes it all go away.
I could lead on from here and talk about perception. I could talk about how I know other people probably don’t notice the things that I’m worried they notice, or about how even if they did they wouldn’t care, or wouldn’t judge. I could say about how, if they did judge, then they aren’t the kind of people whose opinion matters anyway and I shouldn’t be wasting time agonising over it. I could continue to theorise about how other people are equally as wrapped up in their own internal dialogue, their own fears, and are most probably as concerned about what I think of them as I am about what they think of me. But if any of this made a difference, I wouldn’t be here right now writing this blog, and Headspace would be out of business.
However, I will talk about kindness. Especially to oneself. Kindness is no fluffy thing and in reality I’d be doing this post a disservice if I left it out. Kindness really is the answer to everything and if there was more of it maybe I wouldn’t be here, writing this blog. Narcissism wouldn’t exist, genuine self-expression would be an integrated part of normal society, the compassion we seek would be readily available; laid down on the tables of daily human interaction, and self-hatred would be impossible in a society where it’s our differences that are celebrated across Facebook and TikTok.
So for now, the only way I can find any measure of positivity in my experiences is to write about them, and spread the notion of kindness in every way that I can in the hopes that, like the butterfly that flapped its wings, it becomes one small act that causes a chain reaction across society and has at least some impact on making the world a kinder and better place.