Anxiety is my first, middle, and last name — that’s right, I’m Anxiety Anxiety Anxiety. I’ve written about this before, and I’ll pull from this post
to explain it a bit more:
I have had anxiety my whole life. I mean, ANXIETY. I’m not talking about the “oh no I might miss my train” or “ugh, I hope they’re okay.”
No, it is not the anxiety that likely you and your leveled brain may experience, and it certainly doesn’t go away when you say “just relax” or “what’s there to be worried about?”
Nope, but I wish it was. Instead, it is debilitating. It’s more panic attacks than I can count. It’s an ambulance called to my elementary school. It’s “you have an anxiety disorder” and pill after different pill and new pill and bigger pill and smaller pill, all to try to help. It’s sleepless nights and chest pains that last weeks. it’s booking a conference room at work to meditate. It’s starting over with new therapists when the one you loved moves, or you do. It’s being on a first name basis with the walk-in campus doctors because you go so much, worried about this cough or that tingle or this pressure. It’s not wanting to check the news because everything is terrifying, but needing to check the news to prepare yourself. It’s obsessively checking your families flight on apps you’ve downloaded just to make sure their plane is cruising like it should be.
This anxiety ruins things for me and unfortunately, ruins things for other people, especially my loved ones. I will put a damper on anything if I’m worried enough about it. It’s exhausting, it’s real, and for the most part, it’s invisible.
I don’t like that I’m anxious.