If you met me three weeks ago, you would have been introduced to quite the frazzled freak of a human being.
Dry hair. Crappy mood. Pessimistic disposition. A bloated belly from too many Coles cookies. Stress pimples. That-time-of-the-month pimples. Regular pimples. You’ve-eaten-12-Coles-cookies-in-24-hours pimples.
In short, I was a mess. So much so, I wrote a Facebook status about it and had approximately 127 loved ones express their “concern” about my mental wellbeing via text.
Because when you’re writing Facebook statuses, you just know things are bad.
My body and mind were sick of being ignored, my anxiety flared up like a delightful rash, and my life came to a screeching halt. At my lowest, I found myself curled over my laptop here in the Mamamia office heaving big ugly sobs, so anxiety-ridden I was fearful to catch the tram home; fearful to go out in public.
Listen: How Mia Freedman controls her anxiety. (Post continues…)
Why? Well, when my anxiety is bad, I develop an unrelenting and irrational fear that I will die. Oh yes, readers, that I will die. In a terrorist attack, in a horrible car accident, or in a hostage situation after an intruder breaks into my home.
You know, just the realistic stuff.
As much as I know these fears are ludicrous, and just a tiny bit self-indulgent, when my anxiety is bad they send me batsh*t crazy. I flinch when strange men pass me on the tram; sleep talk like a mad woman; and sweat at the thought of walking through a crowded place.