Living a Double Life in My Head
When I step outside myself and look in, I see a shell of a person just trying to get by. But no one else sees that. In therapy last Friday, I sat and ranted my way through the week, explaining why I feel entitled to act the way I do.
I hide behind my anxiety. I predict scenarios based on repeated behaviors and patterns. It feels like I’m living a double life: the one in my head, and the one happening in the present. And trust me, they don’t always line up.
Turning 50 and Running on Empty
Here’s the thing: I get really cranky when I don’t sleep.
Case in point: I went to an awesome 50th birthday party this weekend—my third one this year (reminder, I’m staring down 50 myself in a few months). Like the others, it was themed, catered, and filled with people I didn’t really know. Normally, that loosens the reins on my social anxiety—less pressure when no one knows me.
But even after an afternoon nap, I was wiped. I found a spot to sit, avoided the poolside dance floor (yes, they built one over the pool—wild), and quietly yawned my way through the night. Less than a mile away, another party was happening with live music and a full Saturday-night vibe. My husband was thriving. I was wilting. Around 10 pm I finally looked at him and said: “Yo, if you want to stay, that’s all good—I’m grabbing an Uber.”
Love, Music, and Two Cars
A friend once told me, “All is fair in love and music.” She also gave me some of the best marriage advice I’ve ever heard: take two cars when you go out.
Genius. That way she and her husband both get to decide when they arrive and when they leave. Freedom = sanity.
I admire this strategy. For me, the stress often starts before I even get to the party. I hate rushing to get out the door, and my husband’s driving style is… let’s call it “character building.” My residual anxiety kicks in before we even park the car. By the time we arrive, he’s ready to vibe, and I’m already halfway disassociated.
Anxiety in the Passenger Seat
Suggesting we take two cars would crush him. He loves walking into a room with me at his side, even when I feel crushed on the inside. But part of me wonders—if I had the freedom to come and go at my own pace, would I have more energy? Would I feel safer? Would I feel like less of a letdown?
Instead, I stay quiet, balancing guilt and anxiety like party favors I never asked for.
Compromise, Love Cups, and Feeling Heard
Here’s the thing: why should he have to compromise with my anxiety? Why can’t I just be “normal”? Why can’t I dismiss the racing thoughts, the lists, the constant churn?
Because I’m human.
Maybe a compromise like this isn’t weakness—it’s strategy. Maybe if I felt safer, heard, and respected, my love cup would fill up. And in return, I’d have more to give.
Or maybe I’m being dramatic and should just suck it up.
Rinse. Repeat.
(Also—Shannen Doherty passed away this weekend. Fucking Brenda. That one hits. But she deserves her own post. xo, MS)
