You crept into my life when I was very small, too young to know the words for my mysterious and nearly constant fear. The silly, strange, scared five-year-old in the picture above was sort of blindsided. No one gave you a name. For so many years you were just called “that weird thing that happens to Caroline”, or “Why can’t you just be normal?” Even then you were a part of me, growing into the mind of a potentially carefree child. You were invasive but not malignant.
Dear Childhood Anxiety,
Dear Monster Under My Bed,
Dear Gnawing Dread In My Stomach,
Thank you for making me resilient. Thank you for forcing me to learn how to patiently rebuild myself when you tear me down. When you give me waves of nauseating panic, I can cultivate them into creative energy. I can channel my malfunctioning fight or flight response into peals of goofy laughter and good grades. I feel so deeply, empathize so intensely, because I grew up in your shadow.
I could stay angry with you forever. I could grieve all the happy moments you stained, all of the sunny days I spent tense with fear. You threw a wrench in my eating habits and stunted my physical and social growth. You stole a large portion of my innocence, my trust, and my ability to feel safe. I could be furious, but what good would it do? Without you I would never appreciate the simple joy of being OK.
Believe me, clusters of soul bruising, exhausting panic attacks are not my idea of a good time. The people that write off anxiety disorders as attention seeking fads probably also like to tell concussed athletes to “walk it off.” If I wanted attention I doubt I would have developed my Oscar-worthy “I’m Totally Fine” act that somehow convinces people that I am not desperately trying to shut down a wild internal panic party.
I am not proud of how I freak out when someone throws up near me, or when I get stuck in traffic on my way to work. I wanted to face palm myself into another dimension when I shook noticeably on dates, even when it was hot outside. These things are draining and shameful, but I am proud of the way I have survived them. I cherish the little triumphs. I do not take any of it for granted, especially my miracle of a support system who I will never be able to thank enough.
To my lifelong anxiety, from shaking in the elementary school cafeteria to crying in the dorm stairwell in college: I do not thank you for the hopelessness and self-loathing. Nor do I thank you for the opportunities I missed when I could not quite break the hold you had on me. I hate you and sometimes myself for the countless times I could not just enjoy life. I cannot go back in time and fix that, but I can thank you for showing me that I can thrive despite you. Thank you for helping me realize that no part of me is a mistake, and that even when I am deeply tangled up with you, I am still me.