Reinvention

It's been approximately three weeks since I moved into my apartment. Over that course of time, I've felt anxious, scared, excited, isolated,  and depressed. But most important of all, I feel free. Depression and anxiety are still a really big part of my life however, and I feel a bit naive for thinking a new environment was going to make most things easier to handle. The panic attacks have returned with a frequency that is very concerning, and have begun to occur even while I'm at work.

Regardless of that, I don't feel the same kind of panic that arises when someone wants to visit. I can invite friends over for the first time in several years, and my roommate isn't someone that thinks of me only as an extension of herself. The anxiety I've been experiencing is of a different nature than what I had dealt with back home, and now seems to be rooted more firmly in my own issues with confidence and self worth rather than an immediate outside source, i.e. my mother's hoard or the deteriorating condition of the house.

Although I've seen a definite improvement overall, it seems there's still a lot of work to be done.

Apprehension

Now that everything has fallen into place and nearly all of the packing is done, I've had a lot of time to think. Usually, this isn't a good thing; I tend to focus too much on negative thoughts rather than positive ones. It's become difficult to remember that even small things have the potential to make life better, or to think of what things could become if given a chance to grow. Deeper friendships, a better relationship, all of it seems so distant while I feel so emotionally numb. With worsening depression has come the instinct to recoil back to the emotional wall I used to be so comfortable hiding behind. Speaking my mind and opening up once again seem pointless, and it's been so much easier to go through the motions than to continue experimenting with being open and connecting with people.

It's strange to think I used to feel secure, even briefly happy, although that was six months ago. I felt capable of opening up to people and wasn't afraid of it. Now, I feel the complete opposite. My theory is that a lifetime of being treated a certain way by both of my parents, as though I had always been incapable of making decisions and was inappropriately emotional, is the underlying cause of it. Why else would all of these old feelings come up with such a vengeance if it wasn't because I've been challenging the false identity I've worn my entire life?

Progress, Part Two

In less than a week I'll be on my own in an environment were peace is much easier to find. Six days, to be exact. I've continued to pack and prepare for the move, which in itself has been challenging. Not physically, but emotionally. The most mentally exhausting aspect of sorting through my things has been having to face the memories they might bring up, and bad memories are often easier to recall than good ones.

I picked up the keys from my soon-to-be roommate today, and that alone managed to stir up some conflicting emotions. While I feel sure that this decision is the right one, I can't shake the anxiety it brings. Why does it require so much work to feel secure in my choices, while doubt is so much easier to come by? Even at work, it's so much easier to fall into a negative train of thought than it is to believe I'm doing well there.

Regarding the process and how my mother has been handling it, she's been helpful in my search for the basics I'll need such as a bed, linens, etc. I'm surprised about that, to say the least. I also managed to work up the nerve to ask my aunt for help, which was no easy task. She's offered to lend me her van, which has taken a lot of the stress out of this entire process. I've noticed it's still very difficult for me to reach out to anyone regardless of the positive results I've gotten, though. 

Progress

The day I'll be moving out is approaching fast, and while the reality of it is finally sinking in I'm still feeling incredibly anxious. My mother's initial reaction to the news that I'd be leaving was one of anger and resentment, unsurprisingly. Her reasons for why I shouldn't move included money issues and safety concerns, though the best one of all was her perceived likelihood that I'd never be able to see any of my friends or family due to the distance. To put this into perspective, it's a twenty minute drive from the house to my apartment. Though, over the last couple of days she does seem to have come to terms with it, though. She's even asked normal questions like 'How close is it to the train?' rather than 'How will you ever be able to support yourself?'. I feel as if this moment of rational thinking on her part is short-lived, but that could also be my own issues with her past behavior coming up.

In spite of the overall lack of support from her, I'm still looking forward to being able to live on my own terms in an environment over which I actually have control. The idea that I can have friends over without being ashamed or self-conscious is still foreign, though I'm genuinely excited to find out what that's like.

Conditioning

Over the span of two weeks I've looked at apartment listings, visited one, and by some amazing stroke of luck had found the perfect place at the perfect price in the neighborhood I've been dreaming about living in for ages. Anyone who lives in this city knows how ridiculously difficult it is to find a comfortable apartment in a safe area that's actually affordable, and the fact that I actually managed to do so makes me feel as if it's too good to be true.

I always imagined I'd be overwhelmingly excited to have the opportunity to get out and be on my own, but now that I have no choice but to face the reality that I really am leaving, a lot of very uncomfortable emotions have surfaced instead. Codependency and its related issues, as well as guilt and depression, are all coming through more than usual. Self-doubt is also screaming for attention. I'll have to truly accept that I can't save my mother from her own demons, and that no amount of logic will ever overpower her hoarding instincts. Aside from that, I'll also have to face the likelihood that my own issues are still going make getting through each day challenging, albeit less challenging than they are right now.

Before starting therapy, I'd never given much thought to the more subversive forms of negative conditioning that could be a factor in why I still struggle with things that are, in my opinion, very simple. Certain landmines are especially difficult to identify until they've already been set off, while others are known but seem uncontrollable once triggered, like some kind of Pavlovian response. I still struggle with being confident that I can function on my own, that I can be independent, or that I'll be able to survive. Being depressed is still a constant, regardless of being able to find peace in an environment that isn't chaotic or unhealthy. The idea of having people come over, which I haven't been able to do since I was very young, still brings forth all kinds of anxiety even if I won't have to worry about hiding my mother's big secret anymore. The list goes on, and on, and on.

Only time will tell how living somewhere else will turn out.

Isolation

It's easy to believe no one else can empathize with being so depressed that it overrides every other emotion. Depression can make everything else seem fuzzy and unfocused, blurring out the details to the point that happiness or anxiety become too similar to differentiate. Likewise, depression can also make it easy to forget that there are people that might genuinely care about your well-being, even if you've already become ambivalent to the idea of still being alive.

Even with therapy and a lot of support, I still struggle with being in that state of mind every day. It makes me wonder if I'll ever reach a point of actually feeling as though my life and everything I'm trying to accomplish is worthwhile.

Validation

From as early as I can remember, I have always been treated as something that exists solely to bend to my mother's every whim. If not, I was always the scapegoat instead. She would pretend to be the epitome of a martyr parent to everyone on the outside, the self-sacrificing mother that would do anything for her child. Yet on the inside, she would use that same act to guilt me into making sacrifices for her instead. She would (and still does) remind me of all the 'sacrifices' she's made to justify everything she knows she shouldn't be asking me to do. How else can a mentally ill parent come to terms with emotionally blackmailing a twelve year old into handing over all of her money just to cover the mortgage? This particular thing happened often in my childhood, if only because she could never stop herself from buying more shit she didn't need.

On the other hand, whenever I bought something for myself instead of donating everything I had to paying the bills, she would make sure I knew what an ungrateful, horrible person I was. Buying anything other than food for myself was, as she once put it, like biting the hand that fed me.

I believe part of this stems from the fact that she sees me as just another part of the hoard, an object without its own thoughts or opinions, and growing up being treated as such explains a lot about why I have so much difficulty with finding validation in myself. It also explains why she reacts with skepticism or negativity whenever I accomplish something for my own well-being rather than hers. It might be a subconscious thing for her, but that doesn't make it any less damaging for me.