It's the beast that burrows into my chest and makes my shoulders ache, making me want to scream in frustration as it restricts my breathing. It makes a home in the back of my mind, telling me that every bad thing that happens in my family is somehow my fault, or that I'm a burden and waste of space living at home while I finish school even though mom has assured me that it's fine. It plays out every worst-case scenario that could happen in any given situation, showing that the risks are not worth the benefits of trying something new.
My anxiety is the little monster sitting on my chest, looking me in the eye and telling me that no one will love me if I am honest and share how I feel. She gains strength from secrecy and shame: No one wants to invest in someone who is such an emotional burden, she says. If you want to people to love you, just stay quiet. I shy away in obedience, believing she has my best interest at heart.
It's the physical symptoms she keys into the most. Some days I feel constantly on edge, like when the music builds before a jumpy scene in a scary movie. My skin feels too tight for my body and I wish I could claw it off and escape into the cool air. She knows these feelings normally mean danger, so she deems any place I feel such discomfort unsafe. If I'm in public, I subconsciously eye the exits and plot a quick escape route should some sort of danger or embarrassing situation actually arise. She wants to be proactive, so she jumps to conclusions to prepare me for the worst.
Your heart is starting to race a bit. What if you have a panic attack and pass out? I don't think you want anyone else to see that grand spectacle, right?
Right, little monster, right
On good days, I can rationalize what she tells me and remind myself that those destructive thoughts, while prominent, are untrue. Even as my throat begins to tighten in times of high-stress, I can stay calm and recite my favorite affirmation to myself: "fear and exhilaration have the same physiological response, your mind just processes them differently. You are excited, not scared." Sometimes, I manage to string a few good days together, giving me the confidence to be able to shut her out before she has the opportunity to chime in on any "dangerous" situation.
However, any incident that reminds me of the small chance that she might be telling the truth is enough to undo weeks worth of progress. Some nights I toss and turn, unable to get a full breath of air, my hands shaking as I reach for a pillow to punch to try relieve the burning in my limbs long enough to be able to fall asleep. Her voice echoes in the back of my head: You have no control.
That's where I know she's wrong, I do have control. Not in the sense that I can control what I physically feel, but I can control how I respond to it. It's difficult to convince myself of that fact sometimes and today, despite her best efforts to make sure I don't let others in on my secret, I've decided to do it anyway: I struggle with anxiety, and I know I am not the only one fighting this battle. Anxiety is normal and exists to keep us from doing things that can potentially harm us, but in some cases, those voices that are meant to protect us are just a little too good at their job.
My anxiety is my high-strung companion who only wants the best for me, even though she believes “the best” is to avoid anything that has any potential for embarrassment or disappointment. She notices the physical discomforts that come with anxiety and tries to to protect me from them, but no amount of worrying about what may happen will stop it from happening. I can’t will those feelings away, but I do have control over whether I let her voice dictate my future.
Today, I take back control: I will not let my little monster rule my life anymore.
