I am more afraid of weekends than weekdays.
Mental health ruins my capacity for fun, a time waster - in both overthinking and under-enjoying as well as literally choosing to spend a lot of time in my comfort zone. Satisfying the eating disorder voice is more appealing, and easier, than opting for the more threatening (increased fear, risk, danger) social option.
Take last Thursday, the long bank holiday weekend, I am annoyed, sad, even, that I left one of my best friend’s birthdays because I wanted to go home and cry; talk about partners, jobs, promotions, holidays, moving in together and first houses triggered my insecurities. Although the conversation marginally touched on these topics, because I feel so lost about my current choices and lifestyle, career and future - the reality of what can happen when running a business does not pay off - I only heard what I wanted to hear. They have what I want and yet do not have.
My thoughts snowballed into the bigger decision of whether or not I continue with business, is it holding me back, would I be happier without it? (I genuinely went home and wept).
I often wish I was that fun, care-free friend who stayed at the pub with everyone else. That I can rise above the insecurities in my head, show up and celebrate my friend until the end - the day is nothing about me. I also felt the need to apologise. Like I let my friend down and need to make up for it, like I am a let down of a friend. Not good enough. Feeling fragile - being on the brink of tears and feeling significantly anxious - makes me hate what mental health can do to me. She deserves better (and I miss parts of the old me too)*.
*It doesn’t help that I bailed on dinner with her last Summer after she mentioned drinking Aperol Spritzes in the garden. I freaked out (alcohol, sugar, cellulite, the list goes on). Yo-yoing between yes and no until she had to make the decision, “let’s just not”, which I still feel ashamed about.
On this same bank holiday weekend, I weighed up inviting my friend to stay for the night. As with any ‘big’ weekend plan, I only see red - weight gain, cellulite gain, unattractive gain. I wrote out the suggestion text and yet didn’t send it for at least six hours because I remained on the fence about whether I could handle the unfamiliar out-my-comfort-zone territory. Less control, fewer ‘safe’ foods, missing a day of exercise - risk of possible weight gain - versus the ‘pleasures’ of eating and drinking and actually enjoying the weekend (as) carefree (as possible).
My friends mostly have good values, it is not their judgement I fear - on arriving I feel pretty secure in myself, happy around them, have a lovely time - it is purely my own. I have filled myself with anxieties and insecurities. Business has let me down, it has made me feel less worthy and less-equipped because of its lack of reward. Therefore my body is the scapegoat to make up for this loss.
On saying yes and committing to events, it is easier to put on a brave face and pretend I am fine. Even though part of me is always distracted, I catch myself offering internal reassurance that I am ok, I am liked as I am, nobody is looking at me, caring what I eat or drink - and “no Gaby, that extra portion of cheese will not make you any less of a person” - regardless of whether or not my body changes or has changed over the past few months.
These real-time emotions we rarely hear about at the time of it happening because, physically, I am there. Surely that is an outward, visibly positive sign that I feel confident, right? Empowering on the one hand but equally nauseating. Although I am there, the anxiety is present too, as though if I think about it too much in the present moment - for example, in the midst of taking a bite of pizza - I actually want to vomit.
The literal embodiment of ‘being afraid and yet doing it anyway’ - and it makes me feel sick.
As the end of my twenties is fast approaching, I often wish I was that care-free character who said yes to life more and no to negative thoughts. That I didn’t retreat back to eating disorder behaviour in advance of social weekends to make me feel ‘better’ about them. I know there is learning in this, there is still time to turn things around and enjoy my 30s - but right now, I look back with a slight lump in my throat. Truth is, priorities are changing and a lot of my friends are settling down. Going out dancing on weekends, enjoying celebrations that have been-and-gone, are opportunities I will never get back.
I am trying to say "yes" {to life} more and overthink {my body} less, but I still slip up to protect myself. There is still a high chance of me cancelling and sometimes I simply am, as Stephen Bartlett explains, "an aggressiver no-er".
And when Sunday afternoon comes around, I feel a sense of relief that it's back to the control, comfort and safety of my routine. Minimal risk, maximum me time - the fun continues.
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