High Functioning in Heels

 Lewis Carroll, Lauren Laverne

I've been doing some soul searching of late.

Not the in the sense of 'turning inward and summoning what my heart desires'. I've just quite literally been looking for my soul.

I've always been frivolously hopeless when it comes to keeping my personal belongings in check, so I should really have seen this predicament coming. I play ongoing games of hide-and-seek with my keys. I loan my favourite books to people, insisting they devour them, and then wonder where they all went. Now, it would seem, I’ve also been flippantly discarding little chippings of my soul like confetti and my emotional petrol light is blinking hysterically at me.

I’ve hit the point where I am finally running on emotional empty. 

It took me quite some time to come to terms and accept my personal mental health. I was more than happy to throw my arms around friends and tell them their insecurities were normal and post quote after quote of ‘lifting the stigma’ propaganda, but my own personal demons were something I continued to deny as an external entity, separate from myself and an exception to the rule.

Which is, obviously, absolute bollocks. Bollocks that I believed, blindly, because I can be persuasive like that. 

The truth is, they are as much a part of me as my big toe. And just as painful when kicked. 

I was diagnosed with OCD, I have horrid anxiety, and have, in the past, been to levels of depression that have seen me entirely incapacitated in a darkness so thick, I thought I’d drowned in it. 

Anxiety has been known to engulf me whole. It can plunge me into a place of surrender and turn all the lights off inside. My mind spins out of control, and in the dizziness and darkness, the world calls to you 'now function as normal'. I’ve had to fight with it pressing against my chest, like an icy hand keeping happiness just out of reach. 

I've been there. Done that. Still have the ticket stubs.

Naturally, I had initially taken all these shadows in like a metaphorical pair of uncomfortable shoes. Occasionally, I would have to slip them on and stumble about in them, but when that was done I could kick them off and hide them in the back of the wardrobe like the rest of the online purchase regrets. 

It would make the awkwardness of life so less bitter if I were just able to exorcise the memory of these facts. 

But I can't kick them off. I can't hide them under the flared denim that l prefer not to talk about. Those arseholes are stuck to me. 

I can make an entrance at social gatherings, kissing people on the cheek, smiling and waving. I can float from person to person, engaging in conversation as that loud girl we all know, the one who makes inappropriate jokes at timely intervals. But preceding these occasions, eight times from ten, is the hour I spend locked in my bathroom, purging my body of tears and stress vomiting until I’m ready to be in character as her. 

There are times when that noisy, seemingly carefree girl in the high heels takes exhausting effort to portray.  

Now I know that I must carry these footnotes with me as part of my complicated five-foot-not-much structure. 

The moments will come and go, and I will work through them to the best of my ability as they do.

This realisation stung, but I got there. I mean, genetically I was also given mousey, frizzy hair, but one can attempt control and make do, right?

It may take extra effort for me to attempt social interaction, but so does spray tan after care and I’ve managed to work that into the same social events. 

My problem now, post acceptance stage, is this flippant soul-confetti conundrum. Even with the acknowledgement of my emotions as a co-pilot, I have a constant urge to overcompensate every aspect of control I have left. 

When something triggers the shadows to crawl back upon my shoulders and call me to battle, I assure the world I’m fine by excelling in any other project I can get my hands on.

For the chosen few who I’ve allowed in to see behind the curtain, I overwhelming ponder why they stay and continue to provide offerings hoping they continue to. 

This unavoidable guilt, driven by a desire to not be a burden, has me giving more of myself than there is to spare. 

Ask me if I’m alright, and although I can barely summon the breath to reply, I will undoubtedly manage to make some sort of penis joke and send you on your way. 

It’s just what I do. 

I fight my demons with valour, only to return to reality wincing ‘so sorry about that, shall I throw you an elaborate party and make you a seven tier cake now? Overlook the times you act like a proper arsehole and just call it even?’

‘Poor Soccer Hubby! Poor children! Putting up with the likes of me!’ say I. 

‘My poor friends!’ I continue, ‘they deserve all I can give, dare I remind them of the nights they sat with me as I dissolved to tears’. 

‘All the people I don’t even know!’ I implore with desperation, ‘lest they be made uncomfortable by me being uncharacteristically quiet!’

On those off days where existing is a struggle, I fight harder for normality. Not for myself, but for the benefit of those around me. Out of fear that my insecurities will seep through the smoke screen and make someone else feel awkward. 

I try to enact a snapchat filter over my personality in real life, a glossy haze that smooths the sharp edges and appeals to the world. 

Alice in Wonderland, Disney Pictures

I’ve painted the roses red until I’m numb, tired and out of paint. 

And I’m an astounding idiot for it.

As begrudgingly admitted, I’m aware and in acknowledgment of my mental history notes. I’m aware of the risk of draining myself dry. I’m aware it is soul killing. I do it anyway. 

With this face-palming hypothesis, I am now embarking on some ground-breaking research, and I would love this opportunity to share my discoveries with the team. 

I may have stumbled upon a tactic that when applied, will not cause imminent destruction; it’s called ‘saying ‘no’’. 

Just stopping, shaking your head and retreating back to scour for any speckles of your soul you have left. Putting your hands up in the air and declaring, finally, ‘I am at my limit, you may kindly fucketh off’. 

Standing my ground and demanding my right to a refuel has, remarkably enough, not caused the earth to halt. 

Not going to ridiculous efforts to please people who don’t notice either way, hasn’t stopped my heart in its tracks. 

Furthermore, having no choice but to help with cooking dinner, doing the laundry and preparing lunches, has not caused Soccer Hubby to spontaneously combust. 

Shrugging and telling people ‘I’m sorry, I can’t make it this time’ has, thus far, not released a cursed plague. 

My research may be in its infant stages, but I can attest to it. You can say you’ve had enough, and not epilogue in an apology for feeling that way. 

‘But doesn’t Mum usually do that?’ can be echoed through the halls all week. Anyone in this house who has been inflicted with a previously established Mum Duty, will just have to do so without a parade being thrown in their honour. 

It has been an alarming plot twist for them to realise there are no award ceremonies held in secret for Best Performance in Unstacking a Dishwasher.

‘What is she doing?’ They whisper to one another, crowded around a window as they gaze towards me.

‘She appears to be sitting down.’

‘But, why?’ They ponder.

‘Is she broken?’ says one.

‘Are her batteries flat?’ asks another.

My exploration in this area has led me to believe that yes, we quite possibly do run flat. All of us. We push ourselves into performing the normality of expectation. We think we are alone and unique in this darkness, and hope with desperation that someone sees and connects with us in there. We do this until the last bar of battery flickers out.

We've also survived this many episodes of Game of Thrones so far. Emotionally, we've all been a bit overwhelmed.

These are my official findings.

Plug yourselves in to charge. Allow yourself to refuel, recharge, and reignite. Don’t do it apologetically. Tap back into the socket, sit and charge with zero fucks given. 

For all the times I’ve felt embarrassed by the reality of needing this, this is the time I will do so vocally, hoping this study of mine encourages you not to be.

If I have to accept every ingredient in my batter as a part of me, I have to stop trying to avoid others doing the same.

So for those token days that are just a little bit shit, sometimes I’m going to miss events. Sometimes I’m going to be a little more flat that usual. Sometimes I’m not going to be able to vacuum and cook dinner. Sometimes I’m going to need you to ask if I’m alright so that I can try to drum up a dirty joke.

Sometimes, when I’m loading fragments of my soul into a glitter cannon, I’m going to have to remind myself to aim that bitch at myself for a change.