Well. Hi there.
I know what you’re thinking. Who does this extemporaneous wench think she is?
You come to my blog, you subscribe, I post a few times, and then it’s like you’re involuntarily playing a game of “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” Except I’M Carmen San Diego. And I’ve gone M.I.A on my very own blog. Who does that?
And now, here I am, perched on your immaculate floral sofa in the front room of your blogosphere, like a washed-up, soggy old lover, begging for forgiveness. Holy falafel balls, do I owe you some freshly baked raspberry muffins. Please, take some freshly baked raspberry muffins! Quick! Before I emotionally scoff them, on account of all my embarrassed blogging feels and all.
But here’s the thing. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not a dodgy Tinder date avoiding your calls after you’ve been waiting at the bar for the past fifty minutes and have already drunk about ten espresso martinis. I’m not. Promise. There’s a reason why I have only posted a handful of times in the past year.
There’s something I need to tell you, you gorgeous blossoms. We might not know each other tremendously well, what with me only posting about as many times as Kim Kardashian’s been married (Too soon? Too late? Too topical? Discuss). Still, we’re a family here at Don’t Tell Mama, and a family shares their feelings, even when they’re not particularly awe-inspiring or fantabulous, and especially when they’re ones you’d rather hastily stuff to the back of your closet, like last season’s crop top micro trend.
So here goes.
I was diagnosed with anxiety this time last year. Talking about it makes most people uncomfortable, because it’s enormously personal information to absorb. I’d imagine telling someone you have anxiety evokes a similar atmosphere to when a weird uncle has just overly TMI-ed something gross about his sex life at a family luncheon. Only, it’s your mental health, so people can’t exclaim and cover their ears or scoff or giggle or change the topic to Tony Abbott eating a raw onion. They’re usually uncomfortable – because, well, it’s not an easy topic to approach- and you can sense that awkwardness immediately. Most people listen in serious silence, and then they spout a supportive pleasantry or concernedly pat a shoulder. You know they care, but you always wonder what goes through their mind afterwards. “Do they think I’m crazy?” “Do they think I’m just being dramatic?” “Do they think I’m going to go full on Charlie Sheen and end up in rehab?” I don’t worry that you dazzling peaches will think any of those dangin’ things for a split second, nor will you jump to any outlandish conclusions by me revealing my mental health battles. Still, having anxiety is magnificently difficult to admit to, so it’s usually easier to pretend you’re fine – to your friends, to your family, to your blog, and above all, to yourself. So I’ve been quiet.
When I’m anxious, I can’t write. This is the cruellest twist of all, because times like those are when I need it most. The joy I get from putting pen to paper is unrivalled by basically anything else in my life (okay, with the exception of Nutella Swirl ice cream, that shit is unbeatable). But once anxiety fastens its icy grip, that precious creative muscle of mine spasms, convulses, writhes in the pain of being alive. Unsurprisingly, immersed in the depths of panic, I am thoroughly uninspired to ramble about my admiration for Angela Merkel, or John Travolta’s antics at the Oscars, or that flared pants are back. And for that, little old Don’t Tell Mama has suffered.
The good news is, I’m getting better, and feeling more and more ready to write. About current affairs, about Girls Season 4, even about my anxiety (in fact, I plan to post an article about that super soon, once my uber-perfectionist tendencies allow me to). Fact is, lots of exciting things happen in my life. I just spent three glorious weeks in Sri Lanka with two of my very best girlfriends, climbing mountains, spotting elephants, swimming in seas, and buying every coconut roti in sight. I am obsessed with a bucketload of new music, the news is more important than ever, and hey, it’s Easter Sunday today and I have scoffed more chocolate eggs than I thought humanly possible.
For those of you who are still here, perched on a delicate picnic chair, Pimms in hand, ready to read my next post- I love you a thousand M&M’s. Thanks for sticking around. I’ll do your dishwashing duties for a month, and make your bed, and take your dog for a walk whenever you like. I promise it won’t be years until you hear my dulcet tones once more. As my family and friends would attest, you can’t shut this gal up for long.
PS- Do you like my new layout? Faaaaancy.