I often write about my anxiety on this blog.
Maybe you’re sick of reading it, or maybe you can relate. Maybe you’re a hypochondriac like me. If you are, share a soothing comment down below; it’s nice to know I’m not the only nerveball out there.
My anxiety has been ragin’ strong over the past year, and I’m not sure at what point I will finally recognize it’s an issue.
Last night, I was afraid to go to sleep because I thought I wouldn’t wake up. That probably should have tipped me off as a problem, but it didn’t.
Going to the doctor’s office last week because I had a 99.3 temperature and diarrhea and having the nurse tell me that I’ve voluntarily been to their office eight times in six months should have sent off a warning signal in my brain.
But it hasn’t.
I just continue to let my fears and anxieties consume me like a person with tape worm at a buffet. It can put me in a bad mood and sometimes it makes me not want to get out of bed.
There is a journal I’ve been noticing more and more lately in book stores and gift shops that encourages writers to keep track of all their anxieties, fears, neuroses and idiosyncrasies. I often think of buying it, but then I think, “Shit, I can save $20 and just write my issues down in a notebook!” But I forget to, mostly because I don’t want to come to terms with the fact that I have a problem that I can’t fix, at least right now.
And it’s not that I’m opposed to therapy; I’ve been before and it changed my life. It’s just, I think I can fix it myself. I think that there is absolutely no reason for me to be anxious, and that I can change it. But the reality is, I can only fix it so much.
What I’ve experienced this year made me realized that I’ve experienced the same thing, off and on, since I was a little girl. That the lying in bed at night, sweating, crying, fearful that someone was going to break in, that my parents were going to die or that I was going to be orphaned is the same thing I deal with currently. But now, I just have a greater understanding of what reality is, and that is what makes me even more anxious. I’m stuck somewhere between childlike fears and adult acceptance.
The more openly I’ve talked about my anxiety, the more I’ve met people just like me- both men and women. There are the ones who are sometimes afraid to go out in public out of fear they will have a panic attack in front of their friends. There are the ones that have gone to the ER or called an ambulance because they thought they were dying. There are the ones who think every ache or pain is a terminal disease. There are the ones who can’t stop worrying, about everything, all of the time.
When you’re friends or family say to you, “Oh, just stop worrying!” tell them you wish it was that easy. Believe us, we’d like to stop feeling like dogs in thunderstorms all of the time too! It’s physically and mentally exhausting. We know that it tests relationships and makes us irritable, depressed or not fun to be around.
I’m writing this because if you suffer from anxiety, you are very much not alone. When you’re going through an anxiety attack or feeling completely hopeless, many of your friends are going through the same exact thing. You’re not stupid or weak for having anxiety.
Life’s tough and scary, even when it isn’t.