RESTLESS LEGS SYNDROME: SO MUCH MORE THAN RESTLESS LEGS

When most people think of restless legs syndrome (RLS), they immediately assume it’s about having a sensation of restlessness in the legs. That is after all, what the syndrome is commonly called.

Another name for RLS is Willis-Ekbom Disease and perhaps that would alleviate some of the confusion – as RLS can be so much more than restlessness in the legs. And so much more distressing than the dismissive tone I’ve heard when RLS is mentioned.

“Restless” is an understatement

“Restless” seems like such a subtle term for the intense sensations often experienced. Descriptions vary widely – aching, burning, cramping, crawling, creeping, itching, pulling, throbbing, tingling.

For me, it’s the creepy, crawly march of the tiger beetles. Like many others I’ve anecdotally heard, the restlessness is not limited to my legs. And it is not always limited to evenings. But more significantly, I learned some years ago that pain can be associated with RLS.

To continue reading please visit:

https://restlesslegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net/living/wrong-assumptions/

Image and links courtesy of Health Union and Restless Legs Syndrome Health Info & Community (sleep-disorders.net)

LIFE’S SHIFTING SANDS

Everything in life is transitory – the good, the bad. The ugly, the beautiful. Nothing lasts and my father’s demise and death is confirmation of that.

Throughout the last months of his life, and declining health, I’ve been actively seeking to publish my book and as anyone who reads my blog knows, I’ve started a presales campaign to support the publishing process.

I NEVER INTENDED FOR THE CAMPAIGN TO COINCIDE WITH MY FATHER’S DEATH

And yet it did. So I found myself sitting by my father’s bedside, holding his hand and silently sharing our love for each other, while just moments before or after I was involved in an interview for the promotion of my book.

He was intensely interested in how things were going for my book campaign and if he’d been alive long enough, I know he would have proudly supported me. Instead, he got to listen to me excitedly telling him about the campaign progress or the latest interview.

ON WEDNESDAY 27 JANUARY AT 5:40AM, I DID A BREAKFAST RADIO INTERVIEW

Ryk Goddard and I have known each other for 20 years so it was an easy thing to chat to him as the sun was rising. Disappearing from the hospital for 30 minutes wasn’t so easy but I trusted dad would remain stable in that time frame. And he did. I told him all about the interview when I came back but by then he was very much unconscious. I like to tell myself he was listening and cheering me on. I can hear his voice now, dripping with pride and encouragement.

If you’d like to listen and cheer me on, forward through to the six minute mark to hear Ryk and I have a morning chat about living with mental health issues in modern day times.

A COUPLE OF HOURS AFTER THE BREAKFAST INTERVIEW I DID A PODCAST WITH MOYRA GORSKI

Moyra hosts the Juggling the Chaos of Recovery Podcast which focuses on all types of addiction but in particular, those impacted by eating disorders. We had such a lovely chat! The podcast is still in the editing phase but watch this space – it will be worth listening to when it’s live!

A couple of hours after that – bearing in mind my father is in a coma in the adjacent room – I attended an online meeting for businesswomen. WESOS is the Women Entrepreneurs Secrets of Success Facebook group and it was such a joy to chat with all the amazing women from all walks of life. There are so many of us out there looking for a chance to make a difference – one way or another.

A week later – when I was knee-deep in funeral preparations – another opportunity came my way.

FIONA MANSFIELD INTERVIEWED ME ON HER ONE MOMENT PLEASE PODCAST

She has quite a fascinating podcast where she interviews all sorts of people who have come out the other side of something. It was a pretty epic 90 minutes. It’s a long chat for sure, but personally, I think it’s worth having a good long listen. Sit down with your feet up and a nice cup of tea and have a listen to Fiona and I chatting about the realities of living with complex mental health issues.

Throughout all the ups and downs of the past month – the devastation at losing my much-loved father, relief he is no longer suffering in this world, the excitement of launching a book campaign, fear that it might all come to nothing, the honour of being interviewed, the stress of arranging an event to celebrate my father’s magnificent life – all these things have left me teetering on an emotional edge that I have not historically been equipped to deal with. I can say with confidence that I have navigated these weeks much better than I may have anticipated.

I CAN ALSO STATE THAT THE NAVIGATION HAS NOT ALWAYS BEEN STRAIGHTFORWARD

My history of self-harm has come to a close. It is seven or eight months since last I picked up an instrument of harm. And to be perfectly honest, the thought never really crosses my mind anymore.

But food remains my natural enemy and I have in recent weeks found myself back in the binge eating waters. There’s a lot of shame in putting that statement out there. But it’s a truth. It is what it is.

The thing I haven’t done, however, is compensate. And in eating disorder recovery that’s a big deal. I haven’t purged or restricted or given up and gone, fuck it – I’ll just eat the whole packet. I’ve overeaten and comfort eaten and I’m at a really heavy weight, but mentally I’m trying to retain perspective and emotionally I’m trying to get my feet back on the ground. There’s a very fine line between making eating rules and making a plan.

IN THE COMING WEEKS I NEED TO TREAD THAT LINE CAREFULLY

Now that the big hurrah of my father’s funeral is behind me, I have the opportunity to grieve. Alone. It’s time for me to just sit and be. To remember. To not worry about other people for a little while – to find some inner focus and some moments with my God. Prayer is very peaceful.

And my book? Well, that’s a very exciting journey and there’s just one week left on the campaign. I believe so strongly that my story is meant to be shared and this is my big chance, so I’m going to take it.

Life is filled with shifting sands – I never know whether the day will bring good news or bad. Or both. I’ve worked on keeping both feet firmly planted on the ground to brace for whatever comes next. And to embrace every moment I have.

ADIOS PAPA

My dad was awesome.

He was kind, compassionate, energetic, funny, generous, gentle, inspiring, nurturing, patient, talented and so much more.

Gordon Lindsay Yemm arrived on 23 March 1933 to Olive and Leonard Yemm – and he came bundled with his other half, Norman.

THE TWINS WERE BORN IN ELSTERNWICK

A year later the family moved to Warragul, 100 kilometres east of Melbourne, where they spent the next decade before moving to the inner suburb of Ascotvale to finish out their teenage years.

Gordon and Norman often reminisced about wonderful family holidays in the Victorian coastal town of Kilcunda – a wild and woolly stretch of coastline where their grandfather ran the local camping grounds. Every holiday, the family would make the trek on the old steam train. The boys loved the open air, the beach and sand, and fishing. They returned to Kilcunda throughout their lives and in 2015 Norman’s ashes were spread at a point along the shoreline they called Pop’s rock. One day, Gordon will reunite with Norman and he too will be laid to rest at Kilcunda.

The Yemm home was filled with sport and music, two passions shared by the twins. Every Friday night there was a sing-along with Olive on piano and Leonard on ukulele. By the time they were five Olive was teaching them to play piano while Leonard captained the Warragul VFL side and instilled a passion for sport into both boys.

The twins weren’t interested in education and spent more time throwing paper airplanes than doing homework. Just before their 14^th birthday, both boys finished school and took up a seven-year printing apprenticeship.

AROUND AGE 16, GORDON’S GRANDFATHER BOUGHT HIM A SAXOPHONE

This was the beginning of a 70-year love affair with music. He practiced for hours to perfect his technique and it wasn’t long before he added clarinet to his skillset. At 20 the twins were called up for national service where Gordon joined the band. He met musos who became lifelong friends and when national service wrapped up, they created a band performing gigs all around Melbourne.

At this time, the twins were introduced to running. Never backwards in coming forwards, they joined a professional running club before ever setting foot on a track. Working with a coach and doing endless laps around the Port Melbourne football ground, within a few years they were doing rounds of the Victorian racing circuit. They became known as the Good Yemm and the Bad Yemm – because Norman always won and Gordon usually lost. On purpose. For three years he held back and lost, so when the time came and the odds were good enough, he had a high handicap and made some tidy sums betting on the side.

WHEN WESTSIDE STORY DEBUTED IN MELBOURNE, GORDON WAS ASKED TO PLAY IN THE ORCHESTRA

Not only did he need saxophone and clarinet but added flute to his repertoire. He became instantly hooked, declaring it the most beautiful sound of all instruments.

His work required making deliveries around Melbourne in a van. After years of sharing a driver’s licence with Norman, Gordon finally got his own licence. He’d finish deliveries quickly then sit in the back of the van perfecting his flute embouchure.

As the apprenticeship ended, Gordon got a job selling toasters in Myers. It was short-lived because not only was he regularly disappearing for racing meets, but his sales targets weren’t being met. Ever the epitome of kindness, Gordon politely offered sales to other staff members, leaving his own record diminished.

An opportunity arose to play in the West Australian Symphony Orchestra for six weeks. He jumped at the chance to pursue a classical career and after just three years of playing, flew to Perth to fill in as second flute. Soon after, a permanent position with the Tasmanian Symphony arose and Gordon flew to Hobart.

HE WAS NOW A VEGETARIAN

After living near an abattoir, sights and sounds of distressed animals made him realise that killing animals for his consumption was unkind and unnecessary. He never ate meat again. Except one time. When visiting Guatemala in the 1990s, to meet with his foster child, the village put on a feast. Plonked right in the middle was a roasted guinea pig, still with its teeth. For the sake of politeness, he ate the guinea pig and declared it tasted just like the rabbits he’d eaten as a child.

In the early 1960s Gordon met a beautiful young woman called Carrol. Before long they were dating and on 17 December 1964 the couple married. I was born in 1966 and in his customary clumsy manner, he dropped me from the basket as they arrived home from the hospital.

In September 1968, my brother Christian was born and just five weeks later he died from SIDS. At the same time, Gordon had accepted a permanent position as second flute in the Perth orchestra and just weeks after Christian died, we moved across country. Soon after arriving, Gordon was diagnosed with a skin cancer on his lower lip. The surgeon removed the cancer and Gordon awoke from anaesthesia with more than 50 stitches.

HE COULD NO LONGER PRODUCE A PROPER FLUTE SOUND

When he returned to the orchestra a few weeks later, the normally friendly, easy-going man had become – in his own words – very badly behaved. Arguing with colleagues and the conductor. He was called to the office for disciplinary action and lost his job just months after he began.

Still grieving the loss of their baby, and no longer able to perform, in 1969 Gordon and Carrol moved north and bought a toy shop at Nobby’s Beach on the Gold Coast. During this time two more babies were added to the family – Kristin and Vanessa. He was such a fun, good-natured dad – singing and playing with us, or fishing and hiking. His absences during orchestral tours were always keenly noticed. Life-long friend Jo Doughty remembers Gordon being so good with children – playing the flute for ‘musical chairs’ at birthday parties and painting portraits of her children.

WHEN NOT PLAYING HIS INSTRUMENTS GORDON TESTED HIS VOICE, JOINING A LOCAL BAND

I have fond memories of him singing The Pushbike Song and Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head at the Broadbeach pub. His singing career was short-lived when they realised he couldn’t remember a single lyric. In keeping with his famous poor memory, early in his career he performed 99 shows of The Sound of Music. At the end of the season, he could barely play a note from memory.

Gordon found painting bikinis onto Hawaiian dolls and making grass skirts wasn’t enough for his creative talents. He took up painting then became determined to rebuild his musical career. He spent countless hours in front of a mirror, studying the shape of his lips and experimenting with ways to recreate the perfect embouchure. Eventually they moved from the Gold Coast to Brisbane where he performed with the Queensland Symphony Orchestra.

But still, Gordon wasn’t satisfied with his flute sound so, in 1974 the family packed everything they owned, bundled three small children onto a cruise ship and sailed to the Canary Islands.

In Tenerife, Gordon hoped his rudimentary Spanish and the universal language of music would be enough to see him work on foreign soil. This didn’t work out and a few months later he heard the QSO position was still open so returned to Australia. But first, they visited family in Tasmania.

WHILE IN HOBART, GORDON LEARNED THE PRINCIPAL FLUTE POSITION IN THE TSO WAS UP FOR GRABS

He did a late audition and was offered the job. For six years he flourished in this role while nurturing a new generation of flute players through private teaching and the establishment of the Tasmanian Flute Society.  

When I turned eight, he handed me a piccolo and my musical career commenced. He wrote in a letter to my grandmother, “Perhaps one day she will sit alongside me as second flute,” and when I was a teenager it came to pass. The local theatre company staged a production of Don Quixote and for my first paid gig, I sat alongside my father as second flute and piccolo. It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

As the years passed, Gordon became aware the tremor he had all his life was impacting his ability to perform professionally. He was offered a permanent teaching position in Lismore and jumped at the chance.

IN 1980 OUR FAMILY MOVED TO BALLINA ON THE NORTH EAST COAST OF NSW

For 25 years Gordon became a much-cherished mentor to flute, saxophone, clarinet and bassoon players, many of his students going on to become outstanding professional musicians. Vernon Hill remembers, “His legacy as both a teacher and a fine musician lives on in a generation of flute players and educators around the country.”

During their many years in Ballina, Gordon and Carrol’s youngest child developed serious mental health issues. It was a time when psychological support was scarce and the family fractured apart. By the end of the 80s their marriage had ended.

As the worsening tremor threatened to end his musical career, not only did Gordon escalate his painting, but he researched surgical options for managing the tremor. He underwent Deep Brain Stimulation which connected electrodes in his brain to batteries in his chest. The success of the surgery saw him return to music, but this time with the added bonus of the WX11 wind synthesiser.

HE COULD NOW PERFORM AS ANY INSTRUMENT AND BECAME A FREQUENT PARTICIPANT IN COMMUNITY CONCERTS

In Lismore, Gordon met a Scotsman called David Urquhart-Jones who was a fine pianist and occasional bagpiper. Over the decades that followed, dad and Dave performed countless times around NSW and Queensland and ran masterclasses for the up and coming generation of musicians. They remained great mates for life.

In 1986, Gordon met a beautiful piano player called Linda at the Macgregor Summer School in Toowoomba and in 1993, they married. As Gordon’s health began to deteriorate in 2019, Linda became a dedicated and stalwart carer for my father. I’ll always be so grateful to Linda for the gentle and loving care she showed throughout their years.

In 2010 the international Wind Midi association held a conference in Las Vegas. Dad wanted company so we flew over only to discover the conference was cancelled. On our first night he walked to a casino to see the AFL grand final on the big screen. On his way back, 77 year old Gordon took a “shortcut” by climbing a fence to get to the hotel. He misjudged the landing and face-planted into the concrete. He came back, blood pouring from his head and said, “I was mugged.” He thought it was so funny.

DESPITE YEARS OF HEALTHY EATING AND PHYSICAL ACTIVITY, IN 2012 GORDON REQUIRED HEART BYPASS SURGERY

At the same time, my sister became terminally ill. He was recuperating from surgery and unable to travel to the Gold Coast to farewell his youngest child when she died.

Between 1988 and 2008, Gordon was presented with his six much-loved grandchildren: Jamie, Conor, Liam, Hamish, Abbigail and Ethan. He was a cherished grandpa, always ready with a hearty laugh or a passionate debate on the benefits of medicinal cannabis.

Even when distance separated them, Gordon and Norman remained extremely close. When together, it was like nobody else was in the room. Norman’s health deteriorated and on 03 February 2015 he passed away. As attendees at the funeral were invited to lay a single flower upon the coffin, Gordon went up, lay his head down and sobbed, “My other half is gone.”

At the end of 2019 Gordon was diagnosed with metastatic melanoma on the liver. He dived into immunotherapy and bought himself a precious year of life. When the second round of therapy began in November 2020, he responded badly and from there his health deteriorated. He rallied before Christmas and the family gathered at South Arm for a precious and joyous Christmas Day. He wore a gold crown as king of the table.

Over the course of four weeks, he became increasingly frail and at 2am on Thursday 28 January, Gordon peacefully passed from this world to the next.

MY FATHER WAS A GENTLEMAN IN EVERY SENSE OF THE WORD

A better man you could not meet.

MOMENTARY RELIEF PART 2: EVEN MORE STRETCHES FOR MY RESTLESS LEGS

Let’s start by saying restless legs syndrome (RLS) is no fun. The irritating and incessant sensations beneath the surface, leading to an irritating and incessant need to move, is tiresome. It impacts sleep and restricts activities where being confined or staying still is essential.

But on the upside, if you’re fit and well enough RLS is a good excuse to exercise more and increase mobility and flexibility with regular stretching.

What are benefits to regular stretching?

Stretching is a great tool to use in conjunction with strengthening because it helps to lengthen out muscles that have become short and tight. This increases flexibility to allow a good range of motion in the joints.

There are many important benefits to regular stretching, including:

• Reduced pain and stiffness
• Greater range of motion
• Improved muscle function
• Reduced risk of injury

To continue reading please visit:

https://restlesslegssyndrome.sleep-disorders.net/living/stretches-static-dynamic/

Image and links courtesy of Health Union and Restless Legs Syndrome Health Info & Community (sleep-disorders.net)

THE LEGEND IS GONE

I have been on this earth for 20,062 days. Today is the first day I draw breath without my father. Despite knowing this day was not only inevitable but imminent, I’m still consumed with grief. There’s no easy way to farewell the man that gave me life. The first man I ever loved and the one who set the bar so high for future love.

GORDON LINDSAY YEMM: 1933-2021

My father was the kindest, gentlest, most patient man you could ever know. He had a wicked sense of humour, a willing smile, an insurmountable capacity for understanding, love and forgiveness.

He showed a boundless love for his four children and six grandchildren. His eyes so easily brimming with tears of joy at proud moments. And instantly filling with tears of sadness when remembering the two children he buried. He had two long marriages to two beautiful women he loved with a passion. He was a man well-loved and admired by everyone he ever met.

His indelicate taste buds never met a meal they didn’t like. His bald head was always filled with cuts and bruises from beams and pot plants that were just a little lower than his head. He had a lifelong love of trading shares on the stock market – the thrill of a day’s gain or the disappointment of a loss entertaining him all his days.

His long, lean legs ran thousands of kilometres – up mountains, down valleys, across rivers, around and around and around athletic ovals.

MY FATHER GAVE ME MY LOVE OF MUSIC

He first passed me a piccolo when I was just eight years old. He showed nothing but pride for the musical career I pursued for forty years. And immersed me in a first-class teaching apprenticeship as I watched him mentor the thousands of young flautists who crossed the threshold of our home every week. Students who went on to become professional musicians the world over.

When his benign familial tremor heralded the end of his musical career he turned his eternally optimistic nature to painting. His walls are a gallery of creativity, touching upon all sorts of art styles and reflecting his quirky, deeply sensitive nature.

He had known nothing but excellent health his entire life but in 2012 required a multiple bypass operation. He was mystified that his vegetarian and athletic lifestyle hadn’t been enough to completely prevent a failing heart. You can’t argue with genetics.

IN 2019 MY FATHER WAS DIAGNOSED WITH METASTATIC MELANOMA ON THE LIVER

A great big lump of a thing that must have come from a skin cancer – probably obtained during his heady days of long-distance running without slip, slop slapping. He stayed positive and jumped into the immunostimulant therapy offered. It bought him a precious year of life. Towards the end of 2020, the therapy ended and he was given a second type of therapy which he responded to very badly.

In December 2020 dad was hospitalised with extreme colitis caused by the therapy. I’ve never witnessed such an awful thing. My beautiful, strong optimistic father, bedridden and desperate to be released from the terrible misery and suffering that ensued. Doctors and nurses looked almost as saddened and distressed as I did. Nothing they tried could alleviate his symptoms.

They arranged for him to be admitted to palliative care but just before he left they tried one last thing. By the time he arrived in palliative care, the one last thing was kicking in and within a week he became one of the very few people to walk out of the ward.

IT WAS THE MIRACLE I HAD BEEN PRAYING FOR

People near and far joined me in that prayer. My church put the prayer team to work. The last-ditch treatment bought him six amazing weeks with his family. Six weeks where we were so incredibly conscious of the fragility of the time that remained. And he bought himself a giant television with surround sound. We spent Christmas Day at his house, gave him a gold crown and made him king of the table, surrounded by loving family.

As the new year rolled around his body started to fail and all the bicep curls and leg raises in the world weren’t able to stop the degeneration of his dying body. On Monday 18 January he went back to palliative care. It was a heartbreaking decision as like most people, he wanted to die on his own terms in his own home. But moments come in life that ruin the best-laid plans.

Over the course of ten days, he slowly slipped away. He laughed and joked with family and friends and all the beautiful caring staff. His beautiful gentle nature so obvious to all, right up until the end. His walls papered with paintings and photographs, eliciting conversations of a lifetime of memories.

On Australia Day, Tuesday 26 January he slipped into a state of deep unconsciousness – not quite comatose but non-responsive. His eyes occasionally fluttered open and his foot still tapped to the music playing constantly by his side. As the day slipped by and Wednesday rolled around he was slipping away. His closest family stayed by his side and held his hand and kissed his forehead. I read him the last chapter of my book. I told him that tomorrow was mum’s birthday.

I’M SURE HE HELD ONTO THIS PIECE OF INFORMATION

I was tiring. I had been at the hospital since Tuesday morning and by Wednesday evening I was exhausted. I’d squeezed in three interviews for my book promotion while dad was just nearby. Every minute away from him filled with the fear he’d go without me being there.

Wednesday night rolled around then it was just dad and me. His breathing now shallow, slow and mechanical. His pulse weak. His hands cold. I could feel a quiet determination from deep inside that he would see it through to Thursday. At midnight I changed the date written on his mirror to Thursday 28 January 2021 – my mother’s birthday. I sent happy birthday thoughts to her in heaven.

I was completely exhausted so about 1:30am I climbed into bed and fell asleep for what felt like five minutes. Listening to the five-second breaths and the radio quietly playing in the background.

I HAD A NIGHTMARE

Filled with demonic spirits surrounding my father and me desperately filled with fear and making every valiant effort to push them away so I could protect him. It seemed endless. They wanted to take my beloved father and he was in a coma so I was screaming to get them away.

The dream ended and I woke at 2 am. The room was silent. I leapt out of bed in my underwear. His face now pale, smooth and brow unfurrowed. He looked completely at peace. No breath. No movement. Cold temple, warm arms. My father was gone. The man who watched me come into this world had left. And left with a joke – he died on my mother’s birthday. He would think that hilarious irony.

When I left on Monday, his last day of speech, I walked out the door, turned around and said, “I love you.” He looked at me and said, “I love you dear Simone.”

I KNEW I WOULD NEVER HEAR HIS VOICE AGAIN

It’s just one day later and I miss him so much. He’s released from his suffering but his loss is acute. I can’t imagine this world without him in it.

DYSREGULATED

I have Bipolar II Disorder. Apparently. Or not. Who can tell? It’s not like you take a blood test and all is revealed. But I exhibit many of the traits and sometimes a label is handy. And sometimes it’s not. But there’s one thing that can be said for sure,

I AM EMOTIONALLY DYSREGULATED

To be perfectly honest, I don’t like typing that – because there are immediate judgments from some of you. But I want to explore exactly what emotional dysregulation is (from a non-expert point of view). Where it comes from (completely inexpert position). And what it means to me (a valid point of view in my opinion).

Emotional dysregulation is a term used in the mental health community that refers to emotional responses that are poorly modulated and do not lie within the accepted range of emotive response.

Emotional dysregulation can be associated with an experience of early psychological trauma, brain injury, or chronic maltreatment (such as child abuse, child neglect, or institutional neglect/abuse), and associated disorders such as reactive attachment disorder.

Emotional dysregulation may be present in people with psychiatric disorders such as attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, autism spectrum disorders, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, complex post-traumatic stress disorder, and fetal alcohol spectrum disorders.

Emotional dysregulation – Wikipedia

So that’s what Wikipedia thinks. What I think is this… My emotional dysregulation manifests as extreme sensitivity. I’ve written before about being a highly sensitive person and I adamantly believe that to be true. I feel people’s emotions acutely and I’m physically really sensitive. Flip flops cut holes between my toes. That’s how sensitive I am.

When I feel excited and joyful I basically pee my pants. It has happened – I confess this to be true. I laugh hysterically and my whole body gets overly excited, including my already excitable bladder. There’s nothing like pee in your pants to take away from the whole joyfulness of a situation.

When I feel sad I’m consumed by it. I can’t let the feeling go. I can’t stop thinking about the sad situation no matter how much I try to reason with myself. In recent years I’ve learned to cry and tears just drip from my face, like a rusty tap that leaks without reprieve. For decades those tears remained bottled up on the inside, unshed and poisoning me from the inside out. As undignified as it seems, they’re always better outside than in.

THERE’S A CERTAIN CATHARSIS AND HONESTY IN ALLOWING EMOTIONS TO SIMPLY EXIST

When I worry it becomes catastrophic. Until such time as I write out my jumbled thoughts, worry escalates and manifests into a truly appalling cascade of completely ridiculous scenarios. I’m not an idiot. I know how illogical irrational fears are. I can tell when worry is escalating into anxiety then panic. I know it’s happening. I know a chipped toe nail isn’t a brain tumour, but I have a very good imagination. And that imagination can create colourful canvasses. I’m very good at it.

I do have a coping mechanism though. One that deescalates all the catastrophising. I write. Sometimes I write here – although recently I’ve only written sporadically. But I also journal. And it’s in my journal I write how terrified I am that everyone I know and love is going to die. And when I finish writing the fear is much less.

PEOPLE TELL ME TO JUST STOP WORRYING

Honestly. That is completely useless advice. Worrying isn’t a choice. I don’t wake up in the morning and decide I’m going to worry about shit. Do you? Perhaps you have better emotional regulation – you probably do. And perhaps when you start to worry you keep perspective, let that worry go and move on. But telling somebody not to worry is the same as telling a crying person not to cry, or a laughing person not to laugh. It invalidates the emotion.

I’ve learned coping strategies through Dialectical Behaviour Therapy. It’s really good stuff – I highly recommend it. And my emotional regulation has vastly improved. But I’ll always be a sensitive person. I’ll always feel things – a lot. I may not show it or express it because stuffing emotions away is what I was taught. But stuffing them away doesn’t make them disappear, it just fills you up with emotional turmoil that expresses itself in some other way. Self-harm, disordered eating, addiction. There are lots of ways to ineffectively cope with unexpressed emotions, but that’s what comes to mind.

I’ve often wondered why I’m emotionally dysregulated. Was I born that way? Did I learn it? I don’t know. It’s probably a combination. My childhood wasn’t physically abusive but it was emotionally traumatic.

I’VE WRITTEN A WHOLE BOOK ABOUT IT!

Sometimes I feel like I exhibit post-traumatic symptoms. In fact, I know I do. There are certain moments when I go from calm to panic in an instant and people don’t understand why. I’m consumed by fear of what’s about to happen, even if logically I know it’s nothing. Historically things have happened and the panic is a fear of what might be, not what is. If I’m in the middle of a panic attack and you’re asking me to explain myself, your timing is all wrong. Panic isn’t logical and a trauma response isn’t a choice.

I’ve learned skills though. Through DBT, psychological therapy and inpatient stays, I’ve learned to recognise and label emotions (that might seem ridiculously simple but when you’ve spent a lifetime burying emotions it’s not easy to recognise them). I’ve learned distress tolerance skills. I’ve learned to put boundaries in place that protect me emotionally – just a little bit.

EMOTIONAL DYSREGULATION IS PART OF MY LIFE

I don’t know any other way of living. We all grew up the way we grew up and take for granted that’s the way things are. I can’t imagine what it’s like to continuously just roll with the punches and let it all go without worrying. I feel the punches and try to work out what I did wrong to get hit in the first place. That doesn’t change. But I’m learning not to carry all that worry into the future and to let the past be a lesson not a life sentence.