It’s two in the morning. Instead of sleeping, which is what I should be doing—I have to get up at 6 in the morning for work and that’s only four hours away—what am I doing? I’m thinking about one time in high school when I did something stupid in choir class. High school was more than five years ago, but here I am. And now I’m thinking about how tired I’m going to be tomorrow, and how I’m probably forgetting something that I was supposed to prepare, and oh my goodness, I’m going to be so busy on Saturday, and down I go. Back down the rabbit hole that is my mind.
The first time someone suggested to me that I may have an anxiety disorder, I had to try not to laugh. And then, as the pieces fell into place and I realized that maybe, maybe they knew more about me than I knew about myself, I had to try not to cry. I remember sitting in the cafeteria with my friend and considering it. Could I really have a problem with anxiety? I was social, I had a lot of friends, I definitely wasn’t nervous about interacting with people! Well, as long as I knew them already, or had someone with me who knew them or knew what to do (I was never able to go to the bank by myself when I lived back in the States). And if there was any chance of disappointing another person, then whatever needed to happen just…wouldn’t.
My suspicions were confirmed with a formal diagnosis that same summer, and the journey to understand the shape of my anxiety began. I learned that my crippling stage fright, something that I had always thought was normal and something I couldn’t change, was connected to the idea that I wouldn’t be good enough for the people watching, that I would just waste their time. I slowly found ways to complete the things that I needed to do—like going to the store alone, or making a phone call! Man, making phone calls is still the worst! I was able to finally put a reason to some of my actions. My friends were super-supportive, and even though we’re still learning how to work around it, my family is making huge efforts. I’m getting to a point where I can deal with it. Control it? Overcome it? I don’t know if there will ever be a day when I can say that. But I can deal with it, and that’s good enough.
Everyone’s anxiety has a different shape. Some are like daggers, sharp and cruel. Some are blankets, or weights, or chains. Mine is like a loaf of sourdough bread that sits in my stomach, heavy and always present. The only way to get rid of it is to lie down and sleep it off, or to just continue with my day feeling awful. I’ve done both, and each time, I get the same result: I disappoint people, and then I’m stuck. The bread gets heavier, and I go further down the rabbit hole.
I will always be eating bread. Some days, it will be light and fluffy and go down easily. Others, it will be so heavy and awful. It’ll sit in my stomach and hold me down until I either give up or work through it. But knowing what it is, and how to fight back, is so freeing. And slowly, slowly learning the shape of my anxiety has helped make me more accepting of it.
