Vulnerabilities

10/5/2015

Hello there people of the internet, I hope you're having a wonderful day.

Ever since I was little, the two places I have felt most vulnerable have been in bed, and in the bathroom. For some reason, these still resonate as situations where I have to be on edge constantly: I still jump at the tiniest rustle or someone else's door opening. Rational me knows that these fears are absurd; I was convinced for the first 14 years of my life that a murderer was going to climb through my second floor window in the night and stab me (although somehow my duvet protected me from this, causing me to curl up under a thick layer of feathery duvetness right through the depths of summer).

Mostly, this particular fear has subsided, mainly due to living on the tenth floor or a high rise block, but occasionally when the insomnia hits, my brain takes these childhood fears and magnifies them into a situation that could seem almost rational.

When you're lying in bed at 4am, paralysed with fear that one of your flat mates is, in fact, a serial killer, you realise that the crazy you thought you had grown out of is still there.
What I mostly am confused about is how my mind creates these ridiculous situations, yet I appear to be completely unaffected by every horror film I have seen to date. Where did this crazy come from? Will it ever go away?

The bathroom is a strange one - I love the thinking time you get during a warm shower, the warm water almost melting the tension away. The issue with the bathroom has always been being faced with my own, slightly lumpy body. It can be scrutinised from all angles, every little scar is a reminder of past mistakes;  all the bruises and spots are reminders of my clumsiness and poor diet. The fear remains that I didn't lock the door properly so someone will walk in on me inspecting my slightly wonky teeth in great detail.

I don't know why that is associated with being bad, I guess it's just not living up to the image of a perfect being.

Projecting an emotionally strong image is one of my talents, and any crack that is shown in that scares me; it's like a chink in my metaphorical armour that protects me from what others think, that stops me speculating on whether my legs look fat in that skirt or if my hair looks stupid or if I look like a ghost due to my general lack of good quality sleep. I don't know why this matters to me so much. Sarcasm is my shield.

I suppose that my vulnerabilities may seem odd to me, but they don't come up in conversation much, so my knowledge of others' is limited.

Am I crazy? Or do I just have an over active imagination?

Peace out x