So, beginnings.

I think I should mention, that although the primary subject of this blog is social media and its bizarre place in my life, I should also mention the feeder topics: depression, anxiety, social anxiety, perception, fear and low self esteem.

I see myself as a hugely complex individual, and I struggle to make sense out of me at the best of times. God only knows how the people around me put up with it. I project an attitude of easygoing-ness, however inside I’m a constant bag of nerves in turmoil. I am pretty good at putting on a front, and have developed many coping mechanisms over time, many of which do no good at all.

Three years ago, I finally allowed myself to realise that I suffered from pretty serious depression. At that point, I estimate it had been there, building, for about 13 years. That’s a long time to believe that you’re ‘just a bit sad’. I believed myself to be pessimistic, and could not understand my outlook on things. I have a supportive loving family (immediate and extended), and a lot of friends, and felt ungrateful and stupid for not being happy.

The rebellious person in me was determined not to follow the crowd and every expectation placed on me was like a challenge to do the opposite. The main one, the one that filled me with dread and, strangely enough, made me feel inadequate to a degree I never though possible, was starting my family.

My view on this was simple. I wanted to do it, but in 10 years. As I aged, that timescale didn’t change, until it neared the stage where I had to decide whether or not to bite the bullet and just get on with it. Immense pressure there. I felt truly that, once I started down that road, my life would effectively end. It saddened me. It felt so dark.

I felt like that for years. Each year it worsened, until I reached a point where I knew that this couldn’t be a normal way to live. I know that ‘normal’ differs for everyone, but I could no longer accept the sadness and melancholy that plagued every waking minute.

I had a conversation with a friend who had had similar experiences and she told me of her decision to seek help and consequently to start medication. As we discussed symptoms, sentiments and consequences, I began to realise how serious an issue I was dealing with myself. Deciding then to take action, I started on the path that brought me to the situation I face today. I started medication. I sought counselling. I confided in a few. I did not let my now-diagnosed issue define me, and it did not become public knowledge. I didn’t even share with my parents. Sometimes secrets can be a burden, but I felt that this one protected me. I did not want to be judged or discussed. I did not want sympathy or mollycoddling. I did not need asked every five minutes about how I was feeling. I just wanted to move towards being healthy and a bit more happy.

It was a success overall. I am getting much better in some respects. With medication, my horizon seemed to open out and lift. It was no longer dark. I started my family. Which, although challenging in an unprecedented way, has been the most rewarding and fascinating experience of my whole life. I hate clichés, but the sun feels a little warmer when my child is nearby.

Other aspects I’m still working on. My anxiety/social anxiety has worsened and has crept into areas I thought were immune. My self esteem and worth improved for a time, but old paranoias are creeping back. My perception of situations and behaviour can feed the paranoia, or can appease it, it’s constantly swinging. And, of course, fear. Fear is still hugely present. I’m not sure it’ll ever relinquish its grip. I still feel more numb to emotions than I expect I should, and long to feel, to really feel, again. Years of constant mental trauma and no respite have left me feeling cold, although I hope that that will change in time.

I’m cautiously optimistic. The journey isn’t easy. But it will be worth it. And this blog is part of that.