When Getting Better Means Feeling Worse

I wonder sometimes why I feel so anxious now, when my life now is so much safer and I’m surrounded by so much love and acceptance. I don’t remember feeling anxious ‘before’, when I felt so sad and lonely and insignificant so often. I don’t remember having to talk myself out of panic attacks or even having panic attacks. I don’t remember a constant fluttery ache in my chest or being self-conscious about joining conversations, or avoiding certain places or people or songs or words because I knew the emotions they triggered would feel overwhelming. I would never have described myself as anxious. 

I do remember attempting to get support for depression on multiple occasions. I tried different medications (which resulted in unbearable side effects). I went to several different psychologists over the years, who focused on encouraging me to find ways to take care of and prioritise myself as a way of counteracting my feelings of sadness and lack of energy. I consulted with my pastors and church elders, who recommended prayer, a heart of service and humility, reading the Bible, and focusing on being a better wife and mother. 

I felt sad and overwhelmed and, at times, hopeless, but not anxious. Outwardly I maintained the facade of a happy if tired stay-at-home mother busy with children, volunteer work and hobbies, raising three wonderful children, supporting my busy professional husband, and trying to be an active part of my extended family, church, and school community. Inwardly, I was exhausted and emotionally depleted. Maybe people noticed that, but I don’t think so. If they did, very few cared enough to do anything about it, so that’s pretty much the same as not noticing, right?

While I was undeniably depressed throughout my marriage, I think the depression was a symptom of a bigger problem. I think I felt sad and trapped and inadequate beyond the ability of my brain to process those feelings and that presented as depression. I wasn’t depressed, I was distraught. And abused.

It’s almost three years since I left that marriage. It’s just over a year since the last time I had to talk to the police to report harassment and intimidation from my ex. Almost one year since his most recent openly expressed harassing demands, delivered via his lawyer with the threat of legal action. (More subtle acts of intimidation and emotional manipulation continue.) More than 18 months since my last conversation with my mother (which lasted less than two minutes) and ranting text message from my father. One year since I wrote my parents a letter saying that their ongoing indifference to me and my children and support of my ex meant that I was choosing to no longer include them in my life.

It’s been thirteen months since I commenced trauma/C-PTSD therapy with an incredibly helpful supportive therapist, attending sessions on an almost weekly basis to find ways to understand and counteract the coping mechanisms and conditioned behaviours of a lifetime of emotional neglect and abuse. And it’s been just over a year since I married a man who reminds me daily that I am loved and valued and safe and who always treats me like I matter. Always. 

My children are safe and happy. I’m surrounded daily by people I love. I have a good job working for a man I respect, and I am slowly, slowly regaining the ability to connect with people and with words. I have everything I need, and more. 

Yet the fluttering ache of anxiety in my chest remains a constant companion. I often start the day slowly, not because I struggle to wake up, but because I have to give myself a pep talk to convince myself that I can cope with whatever the day might bring my way. That I’m not useless and inadequate and vulnerable. That I’m safe.

It has surprised me that even though I am in such a safe and happy place, that the anxiety still feels so intense. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that anxiety isn’t a reaction to my environment (as the depression was), but it is now part of who I am. Maybe I’ve always felt this way, but now I’m more aware of physical and emotional signs of my anxiety. Maybe I can simply better recognise anxiety, instead of grouping all my feelings together and labelling them as depression because that was much easier to deal with than being honest with myself about how trapped and hopeless and awful I felt for so long. 

Or maybe I’m still riding the wave of those suppressed emotions now that they are free to be acknowledged after almost 44 years of putting in so much effort to convince others, and myself, that everything was fine when so much of it was awful. I guess it will take time for those previously unacknowledged feelings to run their course (because ignoring them doesn’t make them go away).

I am so much more aware of myself now. I struggle daily with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety and low self-worth (well, mostly non-existent self-worth, actually). I have no idea why my husband loves me. I blame myself for everything (including things I have no control over). I anticipate my failure in every situation and I anticipate the worst case scenario for everything I do. I accept all criticism as being justified, and shrug off compliments as unwarranted kindness. Simple acts of love and caring from my husband and my children leave me feeling overwhelmed and confused. I need to talk myself back from the edge of tears and panic far more often than I should. 

But despite all of this, because of it really, I can see that I’m getting better. Because I can write all of this down. I can see that the way I’m responding is dysfunctional. I can see that my view of myself is distorted through the lens of the disapproval and unrealistic, narcissistic, self-focused expectations of people who only ever valued me for how I made them feel and never for myself. 

I feel worse because I’m more aware of my own emotions and because acknowledging the reality of my past is hard.  It’s all part of the process of recovering myself after a lifetime of abuse that conditioned me to believe that only the parts of me that supported others had any value. 

My anxiety is part of who I am now and I’m finding ways to deal with it. It sounds like things are worse, but the reality is that despite the anxiety and challenging truths and emotional triggers and the effort required to counteract so many emotionally undermining conditioned responses, I am starting to make active choices to care for myself. And I am starting to slowly believe that I deserve to be happy. And that’s a sign that things are getting better.