Hello readers! We are going to pivot a little bit away from my ramblings about fitness and food and move into an area that is still stigmatised despite the increased openness from public, political and influential figures: mental health. Not just mental health as a whole, but what we believe to be the trigger for our issues.

For me, it has been fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of the future and to a degree, fear of change. As a result, it should be a surprise to no one that I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder around the age of 17-18. However, I’ve never really given any thought to why until perhaps a few years ago when I had time to myself and was sort of stuck with my thoughts. I’d like to think that I suppressed whatever it is that disturbed me through my 20s and was able to have a somewhat carefree existence travelling the world, making a fool of myself (waking up in the ED of the Alfred Hospital after a day of drinking) and learning to adult, albeit badly. I also credit emotional maturity as a result of being in a supportive, loving relationship with my current partner where I’ve not been judged or had my trust stomped all over to, in some ways, to grow up.

I suppose we should go back to the start for all this to make sense. What I am afraid of is death. Not just my inevitable one, but that of loved ones, and that of the world, the future, time and the universe. I’m not talking about a little nervousness when the thought crosses my mind. I’m talking about the all-encompassing knots in the pit of your stomach; the shaking hands and the flush rising through your body coupled with the cold sweats and feeling like the rug has been pulled out from under your feet. Your heart feels like it is being clutched by an ice hand and your heartbeat increases rapidly whilst you struggle to draw in a regular breath. I’m pretty sure this started when my godfather died in a car accident in Adelaide when I was about 6? 7? I had never encountered the concept of death (except in my story books) but was naive enough to believe that that happened to other people elsewhere, but not me. Even after the funeral (I wasn’t allowed to attend the burial) I was still confused as to why he wasn’t there. Eventually, after a couple of months, I started to comprehend exactly what had happened but I don’t think it was well processed as instead of going on with my everyday life, I started to be afraid of losing my parents. I obsessed over it, particularly at night where I was afraid they wouldn’t wake up the next morning. I would lose sleep most nights popping into their room to see if they were still breathing and then I would cry myself to sleep to try assuage the deep seated fear of being alone. This probably went on for about a year or so, until I was so exhausted with my day to day activities (school, tennis training, homework, fitness training) that I would be asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. But the fear of being alone never left me, and it haunts me til today.

Fear of being alone is crippling. I think it’s widely misunderstood, and being told ‘you live and die alone’ is no comfort. In fact, what it does is retrigger the anxiety that surrounds death. (And lead to some really, really questionable behaviours during your teenage/early 20s years that I won’t document here). I don’t just dwell on my death, but that of my friends, family and loved ones, but also the world, universe and time itself. I know that’s not supposed to take place for millions and millions of years, but just like everything else, time moves along and it eventually gets here. I’m afraid of dying because there are so many things I want to do and see and achieve; I’m afraid of what the next journey is (if there even is one) and most of all, I’m afraid I have not had enough time with the people I love, but I don’t think that eternity would be enough. (Looking at you, Kewlhunter) I wonder what will happen to existence – mine; yours; the next generation; the next eon – and for some reason, cannot seem to straighten out the thinking with the knowledge that all of this is beyond my control.

I know that the only way to overcome this is to work on it myself – and I have been, but it is a slow process that is at times exhausting in its complexity. But writing it here has made it seem somewhat more real, but also a lot smaller then I allowed it to grow to. Keeping busy and occupied (sometimes to the point where I am overwhelmed) is a manageable coping mechanism, but over time, that takes a toll on you and you either break down, lash out or both. With the slight easing of lockdown in Melbourne (meaning I had two weeks of absolute brain dead-ness) I haven’t been able to actively engage my brain the whole time except to read more and veered between slightly anxious to borderline incapacitated, but with my many years of ‘putting a good face on things’ I was able to get through fairly unscathed, that writing up to this point has taken me four days and my brain is telling me to stop it for now and continue another time.

Sorry to literally word vomit this over you, reader and thanks for getting to this point. I think little bits and pieces will intersperse themselves over time, but I think I’ll keep myself occupied next week once Pilates and and F45 are back 😀