My head is an anxious place

I have all the Ds. No, that doesn’t stand for dicks, rude people. It’s disorders: BPD, GAD, OCD.

And it’s the last two that are relevant here. They give me extreme anxiety, meaning my imagination regularly goes haywire.

I try to avert imagined disasters all the time, debating whether my husband should sit in the exit seat and wrest the plane door open in the event of a crash on our honeymoon, or whether his medical condition should prohibit it.

I mean, fucking hell, Ari. How likely is a plane crash?

There were 51 accidents last year, out of 3.87 million flights, and only eight of them were fatal.

8/3,870000 x 100 =0.0002% chance of being in a fatal air crash.

My brain can ruminate on exit scenarios, floating slides and life jackets all it likes, but it’s almost certainly pointless.

And if I do die, well, death won’t be fun. But the one good thing is I’ll be able to stop being anxious, because life is zero fun when all you can think about is perishing or taking steps to stop yourself dying.

But the funny thing is, I wrote this blog because I had an argument with my husband. I had a friend round and my husband poked fun at me a bit in front of him, something I did not enjoy because I’m oversensitive.

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