‘Putting yourself out there’ is fucking terrifying

‘Putting yourself out there’ is fucking terrifying

But unfortunately, nearly always necessary.

The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things. Like how hard it is to find a bloody job if you have small children. No wait that’s not true – there are a number of part time jobs available in my local area. Cleaner, housekeeper, school crossing patrol, shop assistant and care worker roles regularly come up on my job search feeds. 

I would do these jobs. I have put in applications, despite feeling, deep down, that it would actually be incredibly unethical for me to take any of them. I have a Master’s degree and a fair amount of professional experience as a researcher and information specialist. Another person without those supposed professional advantages should get them, while I focus on finding something that uses my skills. Turns out the hiring managers think that too as I never even get more than the standard “Thanks, but no thanks” rejection email, so at least I don’t have to face that particular ethical quandary.

Trouble is, outside of the metropolitan bubble, no one seems to have grasped that jobs can be worked flexibly. Calls to recruitment agencies or HR departments enquiring as to whether I could apply for an interesting-sounding role alongside a request for flexible working always seem to involve an extended period of silence while the recruiter processes the words I’ve said, and carefully calculates how to phrase “No” in such a way so as not to contravene employment legislation. Sometimes they don’t manage it and just say “No” – and as it’s already taken enough of my will-power to make the call in the first place, I rarely challenge them. 

If im honest, I’m not sure I could necessarily face going back to what I used to do, or any organisation where the purpose was to line shareholder’s pockets rather than actually make the world slightly better. I’ve been thinking about potential career moves and think I’ve found the right fit – trouble is, the training will set me back tens of thousands and I have zero access to finance thanks to a well-hammered credit score. But right now, I need to be bringing in some dosh because we are barely surviving on my partner’s wage. And I don’t think I have enough friends to make investing in an aloe vera pyramid scheme worthwhile.

Today I bit the proverbial bullet and sent out some unsolicited emails to local organisations in my desired field, in the hope that someone might take pity on me and either hire me or take me on as a volunteer. Talk about nerve-wracking. I regretted sending them almost immediately, convinced that whoever received them would point and laugh at their screen, and then show their colleague who would also point and laugh, and together they would compose a mocking reply.

It’s only been two hours so we will see. But as I’m always being reminded in therapy – if you don’t ask, you don’t get. Call it a behavioural experiment. 

An apology to the mother I blanked at the playground

An apology to the mother I blanked at the playground

I’m not being rude. Well, I guess I am, but that’s certainly not my intention. I’d love to be able to wave and smile, indulge in idle chat and get to know you and your kids better. Yes, I recognise you from my daughter’s nursery, or the children’s centre. I probably know your kid’s name, but I’ve never managed to find out yours. 

My daughter, with all the amazing self-confidence of a three year old, exclaims “It’s my friend!” when she spots her playmate across the park. As she runs towards your little girl, she stops to look back for me. I’m following behind, pushing her little sister in the pram, and while I smile encouragingly, she must sense some unease on my part, because she pulls back, then heads towards me muttering that she’s “a bit shy”. This is the moment I should reassure her that there’s nothing to fear, take her hand and take the lead, demonstrating how to approach a friendly acquaintance, to smile at you and strike up a conversation so she and her little friend can relax and make sand castles together. Instead, I mutter “that’s OK”, and try to direct her attention to the slide or swings. 

It has already taken a great deal of courage and determination for me to get us to the playground that morning. Where once I was confident and self-assured, although always naturally an introvert, I am now cowed and anxious. This period of mental illness has been ongoing since that moment at my eldest’s first birthday party where, house packed full of people, I locked myself away upstairs to rock back and forth and pray that the first panic attack, and worst, I’d had in years would soon dissipate. It did as soon as I heard the car doors start to slam as friends and family made their way home, having been kindly but firmly ushered out of my house at the end of the afternoon by my mother. Since that June day, two years ago, barely a week has gone by without a similar attack, and my world has continued to shrink, even as my daughters has expanded. Friends have fallen away, jobs lost, weight dropped along with the confidence I was a good mother. Now, most days, I only see my failings. 

The fear that you will see them too is what keeps me from reaching out. 

I tell myself I will get there. I tell myself my kids will be OK – after all, they are blessed to have the love and support of a gregarious grandmother who makes friends with anyone and everyone, a quietly brave father, who although shy, has an aura around him that people gravitate to, and a grandfather who enjoys the outdoors and knows the names of all the local flora and fauna. 

I also tell myself that maybe, without me having to apologise or explain, you might already understand. 

I don’t have an eating disorder, I’m just terrified of food

I don’t have an eating disorder, I’m just terrified of food

I exhibit a number of behaviours which have similarities to those shown by someone with an eating disorder. I often eat alone, furtively and super-quick. I might stop eating something after a few bites and throw the rest away. I struggle to sit down and eat with others and will literally do anything to avoid having to eat out, including at the homes of friends or family.

I don’t have an eating disorder. I have no issue with my appearance, my weight, and I don’t use food as a comfort. I don’t purge, or binge, or calory count, or over- exercise. I have never done any of those things, and I thank my mother in particular for modelling a healthy attitude to food and body image for having escaped the horrors of an eating disorder. 

I have cibophobia (sometimes known as sitophobia) which translates as a fear of food. Not that food might make me gain weight, but that it might make me physically unwell. I have had this phobia, at varying levels of intensity, for at least ten years, although I only discovered it had a name very recently. It’s an odd one, because this phobia is usually triggered by some kind of childhood trauma or actual food allergy. I am quite physically robust, was rarely sick as a kid, with no known allergies. But I did get an awful dose of food poisoning on a trip to India back in 2004, which I recognise was probably the original trigger, even though the phobia didn’t start to show itself until some years later. And every time I’ve been unlucky enough to get (thankfully milder) bouts of food poisoning subsequently, it’s usually triggered a relapse into heightened anxiety and OCD.

It’s very hard to explain this phobia to anyone – doctors and therapists do tend to jump to eating disorders and I have to work quite hard to convince them it’s not the same thing. I also have to explain I do not have a fear of vomiting (emetophobia). Sure it’s not pleasant, but I didn’t freak out when I had morning sickness during my pregnancies for example. It’s a fear that by eating something unsafe or contaminated, I might then be poisoned, and be so ill as to be incapacitated, and (here’s the crucial bit I think) helpless. For me, the phobia has spilled over into OCD behaviours and an acute fear of contamination by other means too (the very word ‘norovirus’ can trigger a panic attack, and I watch people around me intently to check their own hand hygiene standards). My absolute nightmare scenario would be for my entire family to be struck down by food poisoning / similar at the same time and somehow I’d still have to care for everyone else while coping with my own illness.

To avoid this happening (to keep myself and my family ‘safe’) I can go to pretty extreme lengths. Firstly, I often heavily restrict my own diet. If I’m having a bad week, I might only eat a specific brand of cereal, with perhaps some pasta and cheese and maybe bananas. If I’m feeling more myself, I will attempt to cook a proper meal for my family (a painstaking process with lots of checks and double checks and hand washing and fluctuating anxiety levels), but will often find that when it comes time to eat it, I chicken out and don’t serve myself a portion, lest it somehow despite my best efforts be unsafe. My thinking here is, if my family does get sick, at least I won’t and so will be able to look after them. Sometimes I have wonderful days where I manage to eat well, healthily, alongside the people I love but they have been a rarity recently.

It’s a hard phobia for my loved ones to understand because the rules seem to change on a near daily basis. On a really bad day, I might struggle to eat more than toast (and even then chances are I won’t eat the bit of the toast I’ve touched). On an OK day, I might eat fairly normally but freak out because my partner has decided to make himself a chicken salad (I panic that he might unwittingly spread salmonella everywhere) and then spend an hour cleaning the kitchen. On a good day I might actually cook a roast chicken and eat some of it, but chances are I won’t go back for seconds even if I’m still hungry as, to mitigate the ‘risk’, I’ll limit my ‘exposure’. I have developed so many weird internal rules and safety behaviours I can barely articulate them to myself let alone anyone else. My partner basically has to check in with me before doing anything in the kitchen, and this is a fairly major strain on us sometimes.

This phobia really fucking sucks and is ruining my life. 

Firstly, I have been either pregnant or breastfeeding or both for nearly four years straight; my body has a high nutritional need right now and I am just not able to provide that for myself most days. I have lost far too much weight, and feel and look scrawny and ill. 

Secondly, I actually really enjoy cooking and eating when I am in my right mind. I used to find cooking a cathartic, creative experience, I own a lot of cook-books, and am actually pretty good at it (I’ve never been much good at baking though). I used to love eating out, or at friends houses, or with my partner at home after a tough day. Something I absolutely enjoyed has been spoiled for me.

Thirdly, as a result of this phobia my world has shrunk and I’ve lost friends. I can’t go out for a meal with people, I can’t even manage drinks sometimes. I avoid any situation where I might be expected to eat something, lest I either a) get sick or b) offend someone by refusing. Agoraphobia and social anxiety have sprouted from this original phobia and further compounded the issue.

Fourthly, it is very very hard work to not pass this on to my daughters. Every day I try to prepare healthy food for my family and not let on to the inner panic I’m experiencing. This is exhausting.

I’m in therapy, using CBT to tackle the specific avoidance behaviours by building a fear hierarchy and working my way up it doing behavioural experiments by way of graded exposure (this week, sandwiches!). We’ve also identified that the belief underlying this fear is that it is not OK for me to be not OK (e.g. ill) – I have to be at my best and on call at all times because I am responsible for everyone and everything, because no one else can be trusted. Ironically, by fixating on food as a way of controlling my exposure to the risk of being let down by other people, I’m actually just succeeding in making myself ill in a different way.

This is a major work in progress. There are a lot of layers to it and I’m still figuring a lot of stuff out. But I wanted to write about it partly because there’s very little out there on this specific phobia – and hopefully it might help someone else going through similar articulate their own issues and hopefully receive better help.

I’ve never met someone with this same phobia so if this rings any bells for you please do get in touch.

Things I have been frightened of this year

Things I have been frightened of this year

I’m no stranger to depression and anxiety. Sometimes a side order of OCD and agoraphobia too. I also have a very specific phobia: cibophobia (more on that story later.) Following the birth of my second child in the summer of 2016 I very nearly lost all sense of reason.

There follows a list of things that have frightened me at various points over the last twelve months.

  • Crisps
  • Supermarkets
  • Public transport
  • Doctors surgeries
  • Phonecalls
  • Toast
  • Apples
  • Touching my children
  • Other people’s children
  • Using the toilet
  • Cooking
  • Eating the same thing as someone else
  • Travelling by car
  • Having people in my house
  • Leaving my house
  • Being alone with my partner
  • Therapy
  • Takeaways
  • Spiders*
  • Meat
  • Salad
  • Ladybirds
  • My in-laws
  • New clothes
  • Library books
  • Brushing my teeth
  • Having sex**
  • Dogs
  • Reading horoscopes
  • Gardening
  • Vitamins
  • Ice cream
  • Chip and pin machines
  • Mobile phones
  • Going to the dentist
  • Cutlery
  • Conversations
  • Door handles
  • Kissing
  • Money
  • Chocolate***
  • Tea towels
  • Bedding
  • Social media
  • Melons

*I’ve been mildly scared of spiders as long as I can remember so don’t really count this one.

**It’s more complicated than just anxiety.

***By far the most upsetting fear.

Some of these fears are fairly long standing. For example, I first started to develop a fear of public transport in 2011, but living in London at the time, I pretty much had to power through it if I wanted to get to work, see friends etc. Subsequent to moving out to the sticks and being laid off, this fear has been able to sort of oscify.

But most of these things don’t scare me in a fixed, permanent way: I don’t actually know what’s going to scare me on a day to day basis. Something might terrify me on Monday but not even register with me on the Tuesday. And the fear reaction can be something as mild as having the thought ‘Hmm… this might not be safe’ but being able to make a risk assessment and override if relatively easily (e.g. eat the crisps anyway), to complete aversion and avoidance behaviours (not leaving the house/making the phonecall/eating the meal), to derealisation and withdrawal (going completely inside myself and freezing up) to full on panic attacks (nausea, not being able to feel my extremities, head spinning etc.).

I am in a near-constant state of mild panic. I spend so, so much energy evaluating perceived risks and constructing elaborate ways in which I might mitigate them but still be able to vaguely function. And I have to try my absolute best to do this in such a way whereby my children do not pick up on my anxiety, and do not live a restricted life. It is exhausting and makes me furious: I get so angry thinking about all the things I could accomplish if I use the energy I expend evaluating the respective merits of teaspoons on something worthwhile.

I’m working on it. I’m constructing fear hierarchies and trying to work through them systematically while at the same time continuing to figure out what on earth this is actually really about. It’s not about fucking teaspoons.