Paula McGuire - Must Try Harder: Adventures in Anxiety

First published in Great Britain 2018 by Trigger Press

Trigger Press is a trading style of Shaw Callaghan Ltd & Shaw Callaghan 23 USA, INC.

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Copyright Paula McGuire 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the publisher

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available upon request from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-911246-85-5

This book is also available in the following e-Book formats:

MOBI: 978-1-911246-88-6

EPUB: 978-1-911246-86-2

PDF: 978-1-911246-87-9

Paula McGuire has asserted her right under the Copyright,

Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Bell & Bain, Glasgow

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MISSION STATEMENT

Our goal is to make help and support available for every single person in society, from all walks of life.
We will never stop offering hope. These are our promises.

Trigger Press and The Shaw Mind Foundation

For Gerry, my courage when I have none.

For Mum, Dad and Donna, who always knew the person I could be.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Lets get started.

Three innocuous little words slip from a casual tongue. Ive heard them before, heralding exams or meetings. But this time, oh God, this time

I hesitate.

The artists grip pencils in nimble fingers, wood creaking against graphite in anticipation. They have no idea what shape or form lies beneath this crumpled waffle dressing gown, from the local supermarkets basic range. Hell, Im not shape. Im not form. Im barely even structurally sound at this point. What am I doing here, in the middle of a strange village hall, hemmed in by a circle of baying Botticellis, shivering in spite of the electric heaters pointed in all my varying directions?

These people expect a model, something to sketch that isnt wobbling to the beat of its own shame. My only existing modelling quality is a clay-like consistency. Im pretty sure they could fashion a decent sculpture from one thigh, but catwalk-ready, I am not. I have scars and knobbles, a complexion so pasty it could fix wallpaper. Shapes like mine need corralling with care and cardigan, not setting free to cavort as they so please.

Perhaps theres still a way out. Maybe I can just dissolve in the pit of bile masquerading as my digestive system, or paddle seaward on the constant stream from my overworked sweat glands. Someone, please, spare us all this shared experience. Sometimes spirit just isnt worth the Dunkirk.

Sixteen foreheads bob expectantly above mottled easels. I have to do something. Anything. Move, Paula. Fight. Try. Every moments pause, Im keeping the life drawing class from their subject.

Dynamic poses, isnt that what the tutor said? So pose, woman and put some dynamism into it. Pretend to be digging, or oiling a lathe. Maybe they wont notice youre still dressed like a hotel lock-out.

Air comes in jolting pockets, gulped into lungs filled only with the hope that this might be the last breath to come. I begin to twitch, to obsess, to fall into patterns so ingrained they have their own postcode. My muscles ache with the stress of prolonged clenching; readying to spring into flight the minute that fight loses out. The familiar pull of panic clutches at my chest, preparing to throttle every ounce of my resolve. Not now. Please not now.

You cant do this, it screams; echoing so loudly around my frenzied head Im sure the room will hear. Run. Hide. Die. You will never survive this.

I grit my teeth and drop the robe.

PART ONE

THE ANXIETY

CHAPTER 1

ADVENTURES IN ANXIETY

Hello. Im Paula and Im anxious.

If you had managed to meet me at any point during my first three decades on this planet, thats pretty much the only thing Id have been able to tell you about myself. Possibly not quite so 12-step succinctly, but the gist would have been the same, if you were close enough to catch it.

Of course, you never would have been close enough, unless you had found your way into my home, dragged me from under my blanket, and stopped me crying long enough to explain you only wanted to hear a little more about me. And, even then, faced with such a kindly house-breaker, I still probably wouldnt have had the nerve to say a word.

This is basically my rather inarticulate way of saying that, for most of my life, all I really knew about my own character was anxiety. Everything I was, any future I could have imagined, was tied to this most misleading of facts: Im Paula and Im anxious.

Back then, anxiety, in all its encompassing forms and fashions, was my constant. Every morning, every night, every in-between was coloured by its shadow and shaped by its trembling hand. Even on the best of days and there were some, I promise my fragile mental health had to be factored into plans made and situations arising, to the power of 10. Why 10? Because anything less would have been ineffectual, anything more might have been gasp noticed by lookers-on. And God knows, even my metaphors had to comply with generally accepted standards of decency.

I say back then, as though describing a lifetime ago, when biscuits were bigger and my head was full of their broken bits. In some ways, I suppose, it was. The only reason I can share this with you now is because Im thankfully more removed from its subject than I ever believed I could be. In other ways though, barely moments have passed, and I still wouldnt declare myself divorced from my past: separated, perhaps, but still bearing its name. Fortunately though, I like a good laugh, and if the finger of fun is pointed in my direction, all the better for everyone.

Before the words run away with me, I should tell you a little more about what youre getting yourself into by joining me between these inked pages. I wont lie, because Im not paid any extra for it, but, at times, this isnt the happiest of stories. Cross Bambi with a DUrberville and you wont go far wrong. Thats the reality of mental ill health and, for me, it was the reality of life for long enough. But that doesnt mean youve signed up for a misery manual. If theres one decent thing about suffering chronic social anxiety, its that matters so often go pear-shaped that you learn to press your own cider. And while its not all comedy gold, hopefully theres enough silver in there to line the clouds Im sharing.