Anxiety: The Shit Housemate Who Won’t Fuck Off

You ever had a housemate who’s just a complete twat?

Like, you don’t remember inviting them in. They don’t pay rent. They make everything about them. They cook fish in the microwave and leave wet socks on the radiator. That’s anxiety. That’s my anxiety. It's like that prick who moves into your mental flat and just refuses to leave, even though no one wants them there.

And me? I’m the confident one. The one cracking jokes, loud in a pub, making people laugh at funerals kinda lad. On paper, no one’s thinking “yeah, he’s probably on the verge of a meltdown at 3am because he sent an email without a smiley face.” But that’s the thing. That’s the trick. I’ve got this buzzin’ bastard of a brain that loves chaos like it’s on commission.

I’ve been mates – well, not mates – with anxiety for about 5 years now. Maybe longer, but 5 years since it fully moved in and started redecorating my insides with sweaty palms and racing heartbeats. And every time I think I’ve finally kicked it out? It pops its head round the door like, “Alright dickhead, miss me?”

It’s exhausting.

That time with the rabbits...

Right. So here’s a belter. One night, middle of the night, I wake up (well, kinda), convinced there’s rabbits loose in the bedroom. Full panic mode. I'm like “Leanne, get up, we’ve gotta catch the rabbits before they chew the wires or some shit.” She’s half asleep going, “What are you on about?” and I'm genuinely scanning the room, trying to lure them out like some kinda carrot-wielding mentalist. Fully asleep. Fully in rabbit-catching mode. And it wasn’t even the weirdest night I’ve had.

Because other nights? I'd wake up convinced my heart was about to stop. Like, this is it lads, good knowing you. Sweating. Palms soaked. Brain going "EMERGENCY YOU'RE DYING" – only to Google it and realise it's probably just a panic attack. Again.

Classic bloke response: ignore it till you can’t. Like most lads, I do the thing where I just crack on, bottle it up, try to outrun it. But eventually, I unload it all onto Leanne, bless her. She’s basically my unpaid therapist at this point. I’ll keep it all in for weeks then one night I’m sat there like, “You don't ever get this feeling no?!” and she’s like, “FFS... Can I at least finish my jacket spud first before you come at me with this shit again?”

Poor girl.

She’s the rock though. Even when I’m being a right moody bastard or panicking about imaginary health problems I Googled at 2am.

But here’s the thing…

As much as I hate the prick (anxiety, not Leanne), he’s not as bad as he used to be. He still shows up, still leaves mouldy cheese in my brain fridge and plays drum & bass at 4 in the morning. But he doesn’t control the house anymore. He’s more like the dickhead cousin who crashes on the sofa now and then, rather than the one stealing your milk and pissing in your cornflakes.

So if you’re someone like me – loud, confident, always the funny one – and you’ve got this housemate too? You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re not a nutter.

You’re just human. A human with a shite housemate.

And if you ever need to talk about it – seriously – I’m about. Slide in. Message. Chat. Even if it’s just to say, “Mate, I’ve got rabbits in the room too.” You’re not alone.

Oh – and maybe don’t Google symptoms at 2am. You’re probably not dying. You’re just tired, stressed, and being a bit of a drama llama. And that’s alright too.