I've just done my first solo travel, and I’ve been sat here reflecting on myself, and I think I’ve learnt quite a bit. Some of it I already knew but had pushed to the side, sort of not giving it any more air time. But having this time, without anyone asking me questions or having expectations, has just given me the headspace to think about who I am and why I am the way I am.
One of the first things I’ve had to acknowledge is that my child gets his autism from me. I definitely mask. It’s been quite refreshing to not have to be upbeat or pretend to be interested in what someone else is saying. It’s not even about pretending to care, it’s about not having to be present and engaged when someone’s talking, even those close to me. I didn’t have to force a smile or maintain a conversation when my mind was elsewhere. Not having to do that—just having a deadpan face—made it so much easier to exist.
I think I’ve also realised that I really suffer from anxiety and panic. There were a couple of moments where I thought I’d got lost in the hotel. If I'd been here with others—my partner, my mum, or whoever—I’d probably have got snappy with them, and it would’ve been disguised as being bad-tempered or tired. But being on my own, I recognised the actual symptoms of panic: my heart racing, my head spinning. I do get like that quite a lot because I think I carry the responsibility of having things sorted for other people. But when it’s just me, the symptoms were much more physical than psychological, rather than me just being a crabby cow.
I don’t think I’m as confident as I thought I was. Maybe I hide behind my partner’s social personality. I’m good at booking, organising, and planning, but when it comes down to actually enjoying something, it doesn’t seem to be in my skillset.
I’ve also learned that, at the core, I am a truly miserable cow. I used to be the one that brought the humour, the life of the party. But bloody hell, where did that level of effort come from? I can’t do it anymore. Engaging with people, even waiting staff—I just can’t. I don’t want to, and I don’t have it in me anymore. That said, I do enjoy the occasional conversation, but it has to be on my terms. I suppose that makes it hard for people to know when to approach me. My partner always takes the piss out of me because some days when I do the school run, I won’t even go into the schoolyard, and other days I will, and I’ll talk to people. But sometimes I just haven’t got the energy to be sociable. I really appreciate my partner for how they are, and maybe I should take a few notes, or maybe I should just keep being me and stop worrying. People should accept me for who I am, whatever that is.
I’ve also realised that I don’t really know what my personality is. I overthink situations to the point where I’m not even authentic in them. I find it tiring and challenging. I come away from things thinking, “They didn’t like me,” or “I said the wrong thing,” or “They thought I was dull.” I wonder if I’m supposed to be fun or intelligent, or if the people around me have better jobs or more money—am I supposed to behave a certain way to fit in? I overthink it all so much that I’ve lost sight of who I am.
It’s not just social inadequacies that I worry about; it’s physical ones too. There was a day I was supposed to go to Café Del Mar. I’d booked a sunlounger in the VIP area, and I just wanted a chilled day with nice music and good vibes. But I didn’t go. I think the reason behind it was because I’d seen their Instagram and Facebook pages, and they’re full of all these pretty dollies—perfect skin, slim bodies, big tits, and they all seem so popular, attractive, and engaging. People are enamoured by them. And then there’s me. Whatever this is. I’ve really struggled with my weight over the years—it’s been up, it’s been down. I’m at my lowest now, and I still don’t feel content with my body. So it’s clearly not a weight thing, but I’ve got to tell myself it’s not about the weight and not get mad at myself if I gain some. I’m probably underweight and too skinny now anyway.
I used to turn heads. I used to be attractive, and people would notice me. I’d walk down the street, and people would look at me. That doesn’t happen anymore. Maybe it’s because I’m older now, or maybe it’s because of the way I look. I don’t know. But I do place value on physical appearance, even if everyone tells you it’s wrong. I want to look better in every way. But the more I try to improve myself, the less attractive I seem to feel. I know I’m married and settled, and my partner loves me, but being desired by your husband or wife is different from being desired by a stranger. When it’s a stranger, it’s animalistic, raw attraction. When it’s your partner, it’s just... the means to an end. And I don’t feel that animalistic desire anymore, and I miss it.
I’m at a place in my life where, to most people, I’ve got everything they’d want. I’ve got the lovely house, the partner, the child, a good job, my health, and I’m reasonably attractive. I know I’ve got things that others would love to have. But at the point where I should feel the most comfortable, I actually feel the emptiest I’ve ever felt. The enjoyment of all these lovely things just isn’t there. And before anyone starts panicking about depression, it’s not that. Everything just feels a bit duller than it used to. I’m not considering doing anything silly or making any rash decisions. I’m grateful for the life I have—it’s just that it feels very safe.
Maybe this isn’t unique to me. Maybe all women who reach this stage in life feel this way. But it’s one of those taboo subjects that no one talks about, for fear of offending their husbands, seeming ungrateful, or being told there’s always someone worse off, so you shouldn’t complain. But maybe it’s normal. Maybe we should all just admit that, despite how lovely our lives are, it can feel a bit shit at times