Summary

The text is a personal narrative detailing the author's struggle with anxiety, the fear of revealing vulnerability, and the coping mechanisms used to manage overwhelming emotions and life responsibilities.

Abstract

The author shares an intimate conversation with their own anxiety, highlighting the internal battle between the desire to appear strong and the need to express vulnerability. Despite the support from friends and loved ones, the fear of being perceived as weak or a burden often prevents the author from seeking help. The narrative describes the physical manifestations of anxiety, including panic attacks and hypochondriac episodes, which culminate in a visit to the doctor. The author employs various coping strategies, such as humor, routines, and distractions, to manage the anxiety that pervades daily life. The text underscores the challenges of living with anxiety, the constant self-doubt, and the ongoing effort to maintain a sense of normalcy while dealing with personal insecurities and external pressures.

Opinions

The author believes there is strength in vulnerability but struggles to openly discuss their anxiety due to fear of judgment and rejection.
The author has a complex relationship with self-reliance, recognizing the importance of delegating tasks but finding it difficult to trust others with their responsibilities.
The author expresses skepticism about the healthcare system's ability to address mental health concerns, as evidenced by the doctor's dismissive response to their anxiety symptoms.
The author uses humor as a coping mechanism, though it is clear that the underlying issues are deeply distressing.
The author feels that their anxiety is compounded by external threats, such as legal action from their daughter's father, which exacerbates their sense of suffocation and helplessness.
The author has a supportive network, including friends and family, but their anxiety often leads them to isolate and withdraw from these relationships.
The author engages in various activities, like meditation and exercise, to alleviate anxiety, suggesting a preference for self-managed treatments over professional intervention.
The author's narrative reveals a persistent internal dialogue, with a part of them always questioning their well-being and the effectiveness of their coping strategies.

Give Me the Strength to Admit My Vulnerability

A conversation with my anxiety

—I’m here for you, you know that right? he tells me as I curl up in the safety of his arms. You don’t have to go through all of this alone.

—No one’s going to love you any less if you tell them that you’re not doing well, she says as we sip our weekly morning coffee. I can hardly think of anything I wouldn’t do for you.

—Thank you, I respond to both of them. I’ll get better. I promise I’ll tell you next time.

But for future reference, know that it’s the times when I go quiet and don’t reply to your messages, and seem like I don’t care, that I need to be cared for the most. It’s when I appear strong, as if I’ve got it all under control, that the complete opposite is true.

I look down in shame. Tears stream down my cheeks. I just told them my secret, goddamnit!

They don’t completely understand though. What am I so afraid of?

They tell me there’s strength in being vulnerable. My rational self agrees.

—You have people in your life that want to help. You should let them.

But delegation has really never been my strong suit. If you want something done you gotta do it yourself. I’ve learned this the hard way.

Sometimes the weight of existence—my circumstances and responsibilities—get so heavy that the metaphysical becomes physical. When my go-to positive, I’m strong–I’ve got this–everything’s gonna be alright–attitude can no longer bear the weight of my worries.

That’s when I can’t breathe.

As soon as I can’t breathe, it becomes an obsession: I’ll convince myself that something is seriously wrong with me until there’s no room for other thoughts.

There are days when I picture my own funeral for the majority of my waking hours. But if you look at me, you’d never know, because I’ll wave and smile, bravely, as I ride by on my bike, hauling a week’s worth of groceries. I’ll chat you up and crack a joke when we meet on the corner. I’ll belly-laugh as I hang upside down from the playset with my daughter.

Lilies are nice, I ponder, wondering who will be there. Will they cry?

Last year I reached peak-anxiety. For weeks I was 100% sure I was having a heart attack. It was all I could think about.

I told no one.

One evening, when I could barely walk from one room to the next without fainting, I canceled with a lover, telling him I was feeling a bit off. I laid in bed listening to my own heartbeat until I eventually fell asleep, cradling my phone with the emergency number up on my screen.

I woke up the next morning (…)

Strenuously, I biked to the doctor, where I sat down, hunched over on the waiting room floor because it was the only way I could breathe.

The doctor’s eye-roll when I voiced my concerns immediately brought my symptoms down to about 70%. My blood pressure, heartbeat, lungs—all looked good. You’re fine, he said. Here, have these mild muscle relaxants.

60% sick still, I accepted the offer to have an ECG to further calm me down. Back in the waiting room, I could sit up straight again.

Attached to a cluster of nodes and cables, while still tense, I dropped down to 40% chance-of-heart-attack.

Your results are perfectly fine, Miss. The doctor winked at me in a way that said ‘cheer up, you silly hypochondriac!’ and shuffled me out of his office. 20%.

Biking home with the sun on my face, I was down to 10%. I’m fine, I thought to myself.

Unless you’re not, and they simply overlooked something, suggested the remaining 10. If it’s not your heart, you’re probably having an aneurysm.

Shut up! I hissed back.

I have so much anxiety over the symptoms of my anxiety that it feels like my anxiety has anxiety. That sounds a lot funnier than it feels, but I hear humor is a good coping mechanism.

Sometimes all I need is to cope.

But coping is hard when my to-do lists have to to-do lists, and I can’t find them because they’re hiding at the bottom of a box of unopened mail. Some have yellow envelopes, which means I’ve really screwed up.

I can’t bring myself to open them, because my fingers are frozen with fear: Fear of what they might say. Fear of the new tasks that will amass atop of the ones already listed on the to-do lists of the to-lists that hide at the bottom of the box of unopened mail.

My fear is the Ouroboros. My fear is an ancient serpent eating itself.

The snake lurks in the shadows of a more sinister threat.

Luckily, my daughter’s father lives halfway across the planet but still makes his way into my home weekly, via the web.

—How’s my little girl doing? The sound of his voice tightens the belt across my chest.

—I WILL defeat you, he threatened the last time he came to visit. With his finger pointed at me and his eyes small and dark, he tells me that he will eventually take me to court. I may not be strong enough right now, but when I am, I will fight you, and I will win!

I know he’s bluffing. I think he’s bluffing. There’s no way he’d win.

Or is there?

I gasp for air inside my full-metal cuirass. 30–50–70% suffocating.

—I get the feeling he’s the kind of man who could flip out kill someone he cares for in a raging fit, said my mom after we broke up.

—Thanks for voicing that concern AFTER I spent 1/3 of my life with him, mom!

—Well, I was afraid that if I said something I might lose you.

—Touché!

Ding-ding-ding. My ‘disassociation-granola’ is done baking. I portion that, along with several batches of fermented ‘detachment-tonic’ and homemade ‘diversion-pickles’ into small, sterilized jars. 60%.

I schedule a call with a freelance client. 50%.

I schedule a sleepover for my daughter so I can go dancing on the weekend. 40%.

I schedule a girl’s night at my place the following week. 30%.

I light candles and incense. I sit down to meditate. I write in my journal. I do ten sun salutations, take four drops of CBD oil, two ibuprofen, and pour one glass of wine. 20%.

They speak of functioning alcoholics, but never of thriving valetudinarians.

I run downstairs to collect the contents of my overflowing mailbox and add it atop the growing pile. There’s another yellow one. My heart stops.

I slide it all the way to the bottom and pull out an overdue to-do list of things I should have done, but didn’t. I glance at it quickly, throw it back into the burgeoning pool of blissful ignorance and close the lid. No time right now! 50%.

Ping. My phone lights up.

— Are you ok? she asks. Remember that I’m here for you if you need anything.

—Thanks, I’m all good! I have company tonight, I can’t chat.

At least I’m 50% honest.

I hop out of the shower and into some casually sexy lingerie. I quickly freshen up. Put on some music. 30%.

Buzzzzzz. I let him in and listen to his footsteps as they make their way up the stairs. My heart skips a beat, but in a good way this time. Back down to 20%.

He takes me in his arms before pulling me out to investigate me.

—How do you feel today?

—I’m good now, I reply.

—Promise? He looks at me sideways.

—You should probably tell him about the aneurysm, nags the remaining 10, again.

—Quiet! I plead.

I fall back into his arms and close my eyes.

—I Promise. At least I’m 90% good, and I’ll be even better in a moment.

This time, I’m not lying… At least not for the next few hours.