I am not my anxiety.

I think we all have that voice inside our head, an inner monologue that narrates our feelings to us. Most people have one that tells it like it is. Mine tries to make me miserable.

I am not my anxiety.

My voice tells me that everyone is judging me, that I shouldn’t do this or that because some horrible, unreasonable thing might happen if I do either of those things.

I am not my anxiety.

My voice tries its best to make my heart race and my eyes tear up. It tries to make me stressed out and afraid. It tries to make me imagine the worst possible scenario, and tries to prevent me from doing anything fun for fear of what might happen if I do that.

I am not my anxiety.

I’ve never been diagnosed by a doctor, but I know the signs. I know what anxiety feels like, and I know that I’ve got it.

I am not my anxiety.

Anxiety is a spectrum. Some people have it so bad that they don’t even want to leave their house, and others have only very mild anxiety. I think I’m somewhere in between.

I am not my anxiety.

It keeps me up at night because I’m worrying about everything I’ve ever said or done. It keeps from doing work or focusing in class sometimes, because I’m too anxious about something that has happened, will happen, or might happen. It makes me question everything, including my friendships and every answer I’ve ever chosen on a test. It makes me wonder whether people I consider my friends are actually my friends, or if they just tolerate me because I hang around them so much.

I am not my anxiety.

I maintain a confident exterior, so that no one can see how self-conscious I really am, so that no one knows how often I feel like everyone is judging me. I don’t let people see how much I stress out about things, or how long it takes me to get up the courage to send one text or one email. I don’t let people see the emotional turmoil I go through when I think about how something I said or did could be misinterpreted. I don’t show people how on-edge I am all the time. I don’t tell people about my irrational fears, for fear that they’ll judge me.

I am not my anxiety.

It’s difficult to overcome this anxiety. Sometimes I break down in tears because I’m so stressed out about things. Sometimes I call my mom crying because I’m convinced something is wrong, even when it’s not. Sometimes I have to force myself to take deep breaths, and keep it together because I don’t want to cry in public. Sometimes this anxiety feels like it’s too much to handle. But I’m slowly learning how to cope with it. I’m slowly learning how to tell that voice in my head that it has no control over me, that I’m the one in charge here.

I am not my anxiety.

I haven’t let anxiety define who I am, and it doesn’t control me.