I have suffered depression and anxiety on and off all my life. When I think of my childhood, I can remember vast swathes of time where I was worried about one thing and another. Worried about having to be an unwelcome addition in other people’s houses when my parents were at work. Worried about my little brother getting bullied by child minders and only me to defend him. No one to talk to. Worried about not having secret places in my bedroom because my room was never a private space. Worried that I didn’t fit in at school, with anyone, even my friendship group, and likewise at university, later on. Worried about being misrepresented by people who were supposed to have my back. Worried about my capacity for blistering anger.
Worried about being beaten and humiliated by my first husband if I stepped out of line. Which I always seemed to do. Worried about being crap at housework, because I was supposed to be good at it. . .
I don’t feel worried with my lovely second husband. He is the love of my life. I trust him with everything. He doesn’t generate worry in me. Worries are just ordinary stuff like getting enough shopping in for the weekend, or the toothpaste squidges on the side of the sink, or a bin getting too full. I don’t worry about not fitting or coming home to find him not there, or him turning on me out of the blue, or playing head fuck games because he enjoys it. He likes the fact that I am me, even though I puzzle him. He would never hurt me, I know that with absolute conviction. I am lucky, although I had to wait a long time for my soul mate.
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