The Truth About My Anxiety

On not hiding this part of me any longer

Anxiety is waves gently breaking on the shore, water sloshing over toes dug into wet sand. Wave after wave, rolling in, sometimes building and threatening to crescendo into the big one, other times ebbing into a soft whisper of water washing away grit with a gentle caress.

It’s the unpredictability of the ocean, the ever-watchful eyes gathering details and trying to calculate the exact timing to step back and avoid being swallowed by a rogue wave.

It’s the constant surveillance, the constant waiting, the impatience of not knowing when it will hit, but the ever-present build-up, like the pressure that needs to be discharged before the catastrophic eruption.

Anxiety is waiting for the release of a good sneeze or an orgasm that just can’t seem to free itself. The desperation of each failed attempt, repeatedly trying the same tricks to no avail until reality sinks in and one is forced to give up and go to bed miserable.

Anxiety is the heart palpitations as the plane is prepared for takeoff. The premonition that this flight is doomed, and whether or not the other passengers sense it, it will likely be my last. Hammering heart, shortness of breath, is that my left shoulder aching?

It’s the knowing that I am imagining this, and the pleading with myself to calm the fuck down or to demand to return to the gate and let me out. The claustrophobia that can only be assuaged by closing my eyes and reciting the poem I had to memorize in the fourth grade over and over (Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening) while my seatmate eyes me nervously and smells the fear emanating from my sweat glands.

Anxiety is the incessant googling of pandemic statistics, the worst-case scenarios playing and replaying in my mind’s eye, and trip deposits being lost due to fear. It’s arguing with myself or others over the minutest of details to grasp one tiny shred of reassurance.

Anxiety is the asshole, the troll leaving nasty comments just because it can.

Anxiety is relieved, just a bit, when I summon up the courage to admit it has a hold on me. That for all the years of priding myself on my mental stability, this monster still flattened itself through the slim cracks like a cockroach to set up a home in my brain.

I can’t let it control me. My kids and husband need me to be at best (even as they support and love me at my worst) and because in the words of a certain Robert Frost:

I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

Key Message: Anxiety is the worst. Admitting it’s a problem and seeking help is a life changer though. Breathing exercises and medications have been a life saver for me. Don’t be afraid to talk to someone about this issue!

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