Thinking || The Anxiety Diaries – Part 3

Previously on The Anxiety Diaries, Martha diagnosed herself with psychosis and crossed her fingers that her boyfriend wasn’t dying on the other side of the door – find out what’s next for our Little Looney Tune in the final installment of the series!



9 hours – 9 whole hours! Of actual SLEEP! The cold is still there but we SLEPT! The sun is shining, we’re going to see Sarah Millican tonight, life is good!


Boyf says leave at 18.15. We’ve got loads of time. I’m hungry. We had a big lunch. He’s not hungry, but I am. Why am I so fat?! Is 18.15 early enough if we’re going to eat? If we don’t have enough time, either I won’t eat, or we’ll be late. They might not let us in. Okay we won’t be late, late. But we’ll be there by the time the other people have taken their seats. So we’ll have to make people stand up and they’ll hate us. And I’ll have to squeeze my gigantic thighs through and try not to step on people’s bags. Why do people have so many bags? And why do they turn their knees instead of getting up? I’m too fat for that you dickheads! Brilliant, now it’s nearly 18.15 and I’m not ready.


We ate, we arrived, the row was empty. Totally nothing to worry about. It is hot in here though. It’s harder to breathe when I’m hot. I didn’t want to drink but I said yes when Boyf asked me if I wanted a cider. Why do I do that? Now I have a cider in my hand. Alcohol’s probably bad for colds, I shouldn’t be drinking. I’ll get drunk and then I’ll start crying about nothing and embarrass myself. There’s a man coming to sit next to me, is he on his own? Who comes to these things on their own?! He’s a big guy. Now his arm is touching my arm and his thigh is touching my thigh because we’re both so fat. I fidget in my seat trying to lean into my boyfriend so that the man is not touching me. He’s not doing it on purpose. But what if he is? He’s not, the poor guy just wants to watch some comedy. By himself. If I was thinner I could cross my legs but I’m not, so I can’t and our thighs are still touching. He reaches round to get something out of his pocket on his other side, having to lean into me to do it. I lean away without trying to make it look obvious. This man has no spatial awareness. Or he doesn’t give a shit. Both, probably. I’m not relaxed, I down my cider and the show begins. The two seats on the other side of Boyf are empty. Maybe I could switch. But that would look obvious. The man might be offended. I don’t want to make him feel bad. He’s probably not happy that he’s by himself and then some snooty girl decides he’s not good enough to sit next to. It’s mean. Anyway, the moment I do it, the people whose seats they are will show up and we’d have to move back and that would be even more awkward. Maybe if I just breathe in a bit more I’ll shrink.



I should go and get some fresh air. I’ll walk into town and get a coffee then I can help Boyf carry the shopping home. He says he’ll be done in 30-40 minutes, so off I go. I left the bathroom window open. Damnit. I run back in and close it, simultaneously realising how stupid it is to leave the front door wide open – I might as well just invite someone to come in and rape me. I run back from the bathroom, through the front door and slam it closed. If someone did come in then at least there’s a locked door between us now. He’ll probably have got bored and climbed out a window by the time we get home. I locked the windows though. He might not be able to find the key. In trying to be more secure I’ve actually increased the chances that he’ll still be in the flat when we get home.

This is the dumbest thing you’ve worried about today.


Boyf’s walking towards me balancing his coffee, and the awkwardly packaged bits he ordered from Robert Dyas. I rush forward to take something and he says he needs to go back to M&S to get something before we do the Tesco shop. The shopping centre is busy. The sunlight is blinding and my cold is restricting my breathing. I feel so fragile and I don’t know why, but I want to help, otherwise why am I here? I might get in his way, he probably didn’t want me to come and meet him, I should have just stayed at home.

I suggest it might be easier to leave me with the Robert Dyas stuff so he can do the shopping faster. He looks grateful and drops the stuff into a Tesco trolley – “you’ve got the list right?”. I mean to shake my head because this wasn’t what I’d had in mind. I meant leave me on a bench, don’t send me off into Tesco alone with a mop poking out of the trolley. Instead I’m nodding and smiling and he walks off towards M&S. Why didn’t I just say no?


The list makes no sense because Boyf wrote it for himself. ‘Veg’ – which veg?! ‘Lunches’ – mine or his? Okay I always have the same thing so let’s start there. This trolley is surprisingly difficult to push in a straight line. There are people everywhere. What if I bump into someone with this trolley? They might get angry or give me a dirty look. Other people will look at me. I’ll be alone at the centre of a drama with no way out. The man in front of me stops suddenly, so I do too, taking me by surprise. My heart’s beating faster and I’m feeling vulnerable. I open my mouth to say excuse me but nothing comes out. I manage to negotiate my way round him and pick up cucumber and tomatoes. As I come up the aisle two women are standing at the end of it, not moving. They must see me, why are they not moving, that is the stupidest place to stand. Don’t they care? I can’t do this, this trolley is too big. I turn around and yank the trolley to the other end of the aisle and go up the next one. That old man must think I’m an idiot, you’re suppose to push a trolley not pull it. I know that. Shut UP Wanda!

‘Rice’. I stand in front of the rice. Which one? Basmati? Long grain? Brown? White? I was supposed to help, and instead I’m useless, I don’t even know what rice we normally have. I should know that stuff, why do I never pay attention? I’m dangerously close to crying or just backing against the nearest pillar and shrinking up into a ball on the floor – but I can’t leave the trolley with the Robert Dyas things in it. Someone might take them. A mop? Yes a mop, okay, people need mops, hence why we have now bought ourselves a bloody mop it’s a THING, it is ENTIRELY POSSIBLE that there are SECRET MOP BANDITS hanging around the local supermarket. Shut up. Just shut up.

Boyf arrives and laughs at my confusion over his list. I don’t feel like laughing. He walks around and I try to follow him but I’m not fast enough and there are so many people. I don’t want to ask him to take the trolley because I should be able to do this – it’s a small trolley in a Tesco Metro. Not even a big Tesco for fuck’s sake.

Eventually he sees me looking fragile and suggest I go and sit down and wait for him to finish. He’s being kind. I feel so bad I buy him something on the way out. I sit on a bench trying to calm my breathing before realising that he probably can’t carry everything. Did he mean for me to go outside or was I supposed to stay in Tesco? I’m a bad girlfriend, I only think of myself. I move to a bench opposite the Tesco exit so hopefully he’ll see me and wave if he needs help. He comes out with everything still in the trolley. He drove in, of course he did. Why did I not remember that? As I get into the car, Boyf asks if I’m okay and I stutter something about feeling anxious and hope he doesn’t see me crying behind my sunglasses.


I keep moving round the flat trying to be useful. I put washing on and wipe the bathroom sink. There’s residual tightness in my chest from this morning and I wish we didn’t have people coming over. I just want to sleep. If I sit down and do nothing, I’m a bad girlfriend, I’m not helping. I hover in limbo in the doorway as Boyf mops around my feet.


My friend thinks I’m not drinking because I’m pregnant. That’s ludicrous. I have a cold but she jokes she hasn’t heard me sneeze. I don’t want to make my cold worse. But really I don’t want to drink and lose control. I’m starting to become afraid of being drunk. I used to love drinking. I hover in the kitchen wanting to help Boyf, he says he has it under control, but I don’t want to go back and entertain my friends when I have nothing to say. How can I have nothing to say to my best friends? I want to go into the bedroom and hide under the duvet. I’m not funny or interesting. I have nothing to gossip about. I’ve been going crazy but they don’t know that. How could they know that if I don’t tell them?


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