My anxiety has been a constant for most of my adult life.
Some days it’s a low hum in my body, just some static on the radio before switching the dial. Other days it’s a loud incessant barking, the rabid sound my next door neighbor’s dog Buddy makes whenever I’m out in my yard. “I live here too, you know!” I want to shout back. But like Buddy, my anxiety never listens.
Some days my anxiety is like riding a high. I’m sitting at the top of a roller coaster, knowing the down part is coming and waiting with baited breath for my stomach to flip. But in the meantime I’m going to hold on tight and enjoy the breeze, because now that I’m taller than 48” high, I’ve earned my spot on this ride, gosh darn it.
Some days it’s a fixation on one thing or another. My job is wrong, my clothes don’t fit, my choices didn’t work out. If only I were thinner or better dressed or richer or something-er, my anxiety would be a thing of the past. Except I forget that wherever I go, it goes too. It’s the box of old ticket stubs and love letters I’ve been lugging around since college and can’t seem to give up. It’s me in the past and maybe not me in future, but it’s going to keep coming along, taking up space regardless.
Some days I embrace the ever-present challenge of my anxiety. I decide to hone my diet, work out harder, and journal more consistently. I may dabble in reiki massages or try to pray it away. I swear off worrying and caffeine. I disavow carbs and thinking about the future. These attempts usually require much huffing and puffing. There’s lots of side-eying at Diet Coke and dark chocolate. Such tactics typically end in exhaustion and further annoyance, but I’ll be darned if I won’t keep trying them every month or so.
Some days my anxiety is a companion I’ve decided to tolerate. It’s a scruffy, kind of dirty cat I’ve let come into my house only to regret that choice when he later decides to stay. “So what if I’ve fed it all these years,” I argue. “I never formally signed any adoption papers!” (I say this because it almost happened to us, until the cat my children aptly named Lucky turned out to be my other neighbor’s indoor-outdoor cat Tom. Who still poops behind my house, I might add. But we’ve decided to like him anyway).
Some days my anxiety is my worst enemy. I hate it with full force. I try to quell it with my quick-witted sass or blame it for all of my worst flaws. My anxiety is the reason I’m always late and sometimes say things I instantly regret. Sometimes it’s the reason I can’t possibly change the plans that have been written in stone since the beginning of time, or you know, in my brain since 10am. May the Lord bless those who try to change a previously agreed upon restaurant selection.
I’m annoyed at my anxiety for its incessant need to be medicated. Annoyed at my hopelessly sweet and kind nurse practitioner who is able to suggest in the most dignity-giving way that perhaps my anxiety might like an increased dose this year. Even though I did that last year. And maybe the year before that. What can I say? My anxiety is greedy. If I were the swearing type I might call it bad names, but I’m not, so I just smile back at my nurse practitioner before saying, “I’ll cut back on the caffeine and meditate more.” As if we all don’t know how that will work out.
Some days my anxiety is a tool to be wielded. My self-consciousness helps me cross every T and dot every I, my ability to see every possible risk means nothing is left to contingency. It’s why I’m good at my job and ever better at managing money. My fear keeps me frugal and my obsession with the future keeps my investments flush. Or as a financial advisor once said, “You’re going to be just fine, Laura, and if you ever need it, Mike here will keep you from only going out on triple-coupon-Tuesdays.” As if that is a thing somewhere. (I would know.)
Some days my anxiety is a gift, warning me of the wrong direction, screaming at me so loudly from my stomach the sound comes up and out my voice, yielding a strong and powerful, “No!” My anxiety growls at the nearest ill-fitted job or relationship. Sometimes I let her talk, sometimes I don’t, but she’s forever the drunk friend ready to grab the karaoke mic whenever she senses the slightest hesitation.
Some days my anxiety forces me to write. It won’t take no for an answer until the words are on the page, out of my head and into the world, where they can then become someone else’s problem. As a result I have pages upon pages of journals I need to remind my children to make room for in my grave, lest anyone read my harried thoughts and think less of me after I’m gone. Or worse yet, I’m still able to feel mortified postmortem. (On that note, I’m sorry Kathy, I couldn’t help myself when I read through your old journals, even though you mostly wrote about the weather. Except for the passage about when Mike got his first real job and spent his entire $500 paycheck at the mall. In the literary world, that might be called foreshadowing; the man still likes his Nike’s).
Some days my anxiety travels from me to my children. I snap or bustle around, I obsessively clean or fret. My kids pick up on my moods no matter how hard I try to hide them. I’ve gotten good at apologizing because I’ve found that being repentant later is better than faking it in the moment. Unless of course your child doesn’t remember about that time earlier in the day when your anxiety made you less than patient. And once reminded only says, “Oh that, yeah that was rude,” before sticking out his tongue, rolling his eyes, and running out the door. “Good talk,” I think, admiring my own forced humility. “We’re really growing over here.”
All of this is to say that after living with anxiety for almost two decades as an adult, and even longer living with anxiety before I knew it had a name—Who didn’t see that one coming? What with my appliance fixation, after all—I have no answers, no tried-and-true cure.
Maybe it’s brain chemistry? Maybe it’s genetics? Maybe it’s God’s way of taking me off my high horse once in a while. Or maybe it’s why I know I will never be an astronaut. Whatever the cause and whatever the cure, honesty and transparency seem to be the best way to live with anxiety, or really, to cope with any hard but true thing in life.
Because in talking to others about what’s real, I’ve found that 99.9% of people have hard things going on in their lives, or their families’ lives. And if you’re in the 0.1% who doesn’t, congratulations for sticking around instead of merrily skipping on your too normal way right past this blog post.
But, if you are like me—completely and utterly flawed (in the best sense)—you’re welcome here (and, you’re welcome).
