Going Slightly Mad by Christine Stromberg - HTML preview

 What's Wrong With Me?

When I discovered that my particular problem had a name it didn't alarm me, or make me depressed. Actually I'd suffered bouts of severe depression since childhood, so it would have been difficult to know the difference I suppose. I already knew about the OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder, which had also developed in childhood. Finally, in my sixties, I went searching online for why I felt the way I did, why I get so antsy around other people, why I'm hopeless at relationships, and I came across a site which described various personality disorders.

I read through each and every description, in an attempt to find out whether or not any of them described me, discounting those that had features I don't have. Then I came across one that seemed to be talking about me, so much so that I just sat and cried. A torrent of silent tears poured down my face as I read. Not from sadness, just sheer relief. It was as if someone was saying: "Hey, I know you, it's ok, you're not crazy, just suffering something other people have, it has a name, and we understand."  To feel that someone finally understood me was unbelievably life affirming. It still is.

All through my childhood I'd been virtually speechless. Painfully shy, lacking any sense of self worth or confidence, school had been a nightmare for me. At home I felt isolated, as if I just didn't belong. There were times I felt invisible, sometimes I was convinced I must be a changeling, because I clearly wasn't part of this family I shared a house with. There was no obvious affection, parents who seemed always too busy to talk to me, a big sister who was ten years older and seemed totally out of reach and a little brother born when I was five, just starting school. I felt totally rejected. It didn't help that an older cousin who spent a lot of time in our house bullied me. I learned a few years ago that she regarded my sister as hers and was jealous of me. I got in the way. Of course the adults didn't believe me. I was "lying"

Hugs and cuddles were something other children got.  It was as if we couldn't afford those in our house.  Slaps I got, sure, but not cuddles. I have learned to some degree since why this was but, at the time, I couldn't understand why my mother said and did certain things that seared my soul, why no one wanted me around.

I seemed to be always in trouble.  I hated going to school. My teachers called me a daydreamer, or at worst, stupid. My parents also called me stupid - when I would forget things or get errands muddled up in my head. Or when what I tried didn't stand up to my perfectionist father's standards. It's no surprise that I married very young in an attempt to find some affection but, sadly, my husband also took up the chorus and was always calling me stupid. Or a waste of space. It wasn't until I finally broke free from all that and went to University that I discovered I wasn't stupid after all. However, it only went some way towards giving me confidence and I was fifty by then.

Another taunt I'd heard since childhood was 'crazy' and I came to believe it.  So much so that I took the name Crazylady for some time, online. I also developed tics as a child. My mother was always telling me to stop pulling faces or whatever. It's hard to explain but, like the OCD, it just something I feel I have to do.  It's not a sense of dread, or that something bad will happen if I don't, it's not that clear cut; just a compulsion. I have to do it and feel horribly uncomfortable if I don't. Physically uncomfortable. Doing whatever it is takes away the nasty feeling, brings relief.  I have even, on rare occasions, turned to self hurting, just to feel relief. Nothing too dramatic, nothing that will let others know. My secret shame.

Someone once described having Avoidant Personality Disorder, which is what I have, as "never having had a time in your life when you felt good enough, or worthy enough", and that does sum it up pretty well. It means that even when I get compliments I don't really believe them, the opposite belief is too well fixed in my brain. I "know" that people are just being kind. Fear of rejection is the most overwhelming emotion.

I try and try to get things perfect, knowing I never will, still hearing all those voices telling me why it isn't. In the end it takes enormous amounts of courage to put anything I've done out there for people to see or hear, and the first criticism will make me retract immediately, hurtling back into my shell.  My online name now is "hochiwich", the Romany name for a hedgehog. Prickly, yes, when feeling threatened but soft as butter inside.I've spent a huge amount of my life apologising for, well, for living really.

The experts say that this disorder is almost impossible to cure as the patient just never really accepts, can't believe, that they are worth help and that the kind words of the therapist aren't just that, kind words.  Meaningless. The OCD is largely under control, simply because I hate being not in control. I fought it and now it's a lot less compelling. The tics still appear, more so when I'm feeling stressed or anxious. And as if that wasn't enough I also have a hoarding disorder.  I believe I know where it stems from but that doesn't help. I still panic at the thought of losing things.

I am writing more, allowing others to see what I write, knowing I will never be able to please everyone and trying to accept that that's ok. That I don't have to. That I'm as worth it as anyone else, even though, deep down, I doubt I will ever truly believe it. I have come to understand that all of these things are anxiety based and when I start to feel overwhelmed I take an anxiety relief supplement.  And I do some meditation, chi kung, when I remember to.

Running away was a big thing with me. If something went wrong, a disagreement, a mistake, I would just simply run away and hide. I have a relationship now, one which has allowed me to be me, warts and all, and am learning not to run, but to face up to the anxiety and pain. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have the freedom to be me at last.

Why am I writing this now, and allowing it to be seen? Simply because there is a movement afoot, called Time To Talk, to make these things public, to put it out there and say "Hey, I'm human too, I have problems but at heart I'm pretty much like you".  Though I'm not sure I am. I truly pity anyone else who lives with the hell of constant self doubt. If writing and publishing this helps anyone else, great. If it helps me too I won't complain.

The picture above describes how I was for many years.  I am so much more confident now, confident enough to put my thoughts and feelings out there, regardless of what anyone may think.

It is my hope that anyone in that place of fear and low self esteem will find the courage to break out and conquer it.