Anxious
So. This week brought on a full-blown level-nine anxiety attack. Too often in our society, we throw these terms like "panic attack" and "OCD" around like they're free candy samples at the grocery store. But to those of us who have anxiety that will occasionally find itself too unwieldy to control, a legitimate episode occurs.
There really isn't much more that scares me as much as these attacks. Your heart races, your palms get intensely sweaty, you can't focus on any task. Sitting still takes enormous effort, pacing doesn't take any less. Your head spins, edges blur, and you relentlessly repeat patterns of thought, over and over, until you're pretty convinced you've lost your damn mind.
Imagine that you know you're racing out of control and there is feels as if there is nothing to help you calm down, like an out-of-control car without brakes.
I've reflected often on how I've dealt with this previously, because I've only just come to formally understand in the past year that I have legitimate problems with anxiety. Growing up, I was just labeled "sensitive" or "thin-skinned" because of how much certain situations would affect me. I used to have irrational, horrifying fears of our house being burglarized, oftentimes to the degree where I wouldn't be able to sleep in my own room. I think as a kid growing up, I'd end up throwing these explosive tantrums, even through to middle or high school. Meltdowns. I didn't know how to feel all of these terrifying feels, so I'd just withdraw or explode, with little in between at times.
Growing up, my fears didn't go away, they just shifted. What was once a terrifying fear of burglary became an overwhelmingly dreadful fear of flying, for example. As an adult, I learned to "cope" with all of my fears, but only by deflecting. I would release most of my anxiety out on my husband (after all, an explosion at work would get you fired). We would get in the horrible, gut-wrenching arguments over the damnedest things (like how to load the dishwasher properly) and I would become an unhinged maniac, spewing forth torrents of unrelated, and oftentimes hurtful, thoughts. I mean, I don't mean to make it sound like I did this everyday, but it happened often enough. I also don't mean to say this was the inherent problem with our marriage, but it surely didn't help much.
What I have been missing was the awareness that I have a heightened response to certain stimuli, often exacerbated by stress, lack of sleep, or perceived injustices. I never took stock, until now, that I am responsible for my anxiety.
So what happened this week? Enough. But with anxiety it doesn't always have to be the perfect storm. Sometimes my defenses are low, my stamina is depleted, and before I know it the world comes crashing down around me.
Coming back from an attack is slow. Even today, about 48 hours out and therapy session squeezed in, I still feel a tingle in my chest and a slow buzzing in my brain, like a background white noise machine. Its like my anxiety wants to remind me it's still there, just quieter. For now. I find myself stepping carefully, worried that I'll encounter a trigger. It's hard to stay focused and get the massive amount of work backlogged started.
The hardest thing not to do is get mad at yourself, and boy, am I good at that. Being a relentless perfectionist in moments like this only exacerbates my tendency to self-implode. I don't like feeling out of control because I fancy myself as rather skilled at controlling outcomes. I think that this type of anxious, emotional response is beneath me. I am too smart to be triggered by something so stupid.
And that's the truth of all of this: anxiety is about a disconnect between your logical and emotional brain. It's a condition where your emotional side is much slower to understand the true impact of negative stimuli and instead provides a stronger, more instinctual response.
What's ironic about all of this is, even though I perhaps don't feel any closer to tackling my anxiety today as I did when I was eight, seeing shadows creep across my bedroom, I am probably at my healthiest. I asked my therapist this week why don't I have better control over this? Why, now that I'm aware of the problem, why doesn't my logical brain then dominate my emotional response? After a loving pause, she reminded me of the process. The first step of the process is that I will come to recognize the problem. She pointed out that in the episode of this week, I knew what the problem was, I could articulate what my triggers were, and I could verbalize the discrepancies, precisely, between the trigger and my heightened response.
First you have to recognize. Then through recognition, can you manage. When you can manage, you learn to predict. When you can predict, you can make the healthiest choice.
In other words, anxiety doesn't get cured, it doesn't go away. It is a lifelong relationship with myself: a nonjudgmental partnership with the worst side of my personality.
I have to admit, I find no part of that comforting. But then, I think about how my life has grown and changed, and how certain aspects of my fears have been conquered. For example? Although I wouldn't count it among my favorite activities, I no longer consider myself afraid to fly. Through practice and patience, by not avoiding flying, by facing it, I began to manage.
Which brings me full circle: what is it that I'm so scared of now? Well, if this is your first blog read this might shock you, otherwise you know it. I'm 36 and scared to spend the rest of my life alone. This has been one of the lingering side effects of the divorce, shifting my mindset from having a partner to share the rest of my life with to not. And although it's been a fair amount of time since the marriage ended, between that, my relationship this past fall, and seeing how my ex husband has already secured a new partner, I've been putting enormous pressure on myself to "succeed" in my personal life.
This is where I ask any of you to avoid sharing with me the common tropes of relationships.
"It'll happen when you least expect it."
"You're trying too hard."
"Someone as fabulous as you? You'll find someone, no problem."
"You should be happy to be on your own. Celebrate single!"
"You just need to get laid."
I'm not saying any of those things aren't true, but I am saying that it's not helpful to hear. This is the point where I'd like you to know that all of those responses only speak to the logical side, the side that already knows all of that. My job right now is to slowly, gently, and non-judgmentally coax my emotional side over to those truths.
Anxiety is like an insurmountable-seeming wall between what you know and what you feel to be true. My journey has been to start climbing that wall, brick-by-brick, to try and experience life moving more fluidly between that dichotomy. So by labeling my fears, by owning my responses, by making healthier choices, by conquering my perfectionism and self-judgement, I might just be as normal as I like to think you are.
It ain't easy, folks. But then, maybe the trope that "nothing worthwhile has ever been easy" is truly the most appropriate thing to say.
There really isn't much more that scares me as much as these attacks. Your heart races, your palms get intensely sweaty, you can't focus on any task. Sitting still takes enormous effort, pacing doesn't take any less. Your head spins, edges blur, and you relentlessly repeat patterns of thought, over and over, until you're pretty convinced you've lost your damn mind.
Imagine that you know you're racing out of control and there is feels as if there is nothing to help you calm down, like an out-of-control car without brakes.
I've reflected often on how I've dealt with this previously, because I've only just come to formally understand in the past year that I have legitimate problems with anxiety. Growing up, I was just labeled "sensitive" or "thin-skinned" because of how much certain situations would affect me. I used to have irrational, horrifying fears of our house being burglarized, oftentimes to the degree where I wouldn't be able to sleep in my own room. I think as a kid growing up, I'd end up throwing these explosive tantrums, even through to middle or high school. Meltdowns. I didn't know how to feel all of these terrifying feels, so I'd just withdraw or explode, with little in between at times.
Growing up, my fears didn't go away, they just shifted. What was once a terrifying fear of burglary became an overwhelmingly dreadful fear of flying, for example. As an adult, I learned to "cope" with all of my fears, but only by deflecting. I would release most of my anxiety out on my husband (after all, an explosion at work would get you fired). We would get in the horrible, gut-wrenching arguments over the damnedest things (like how to load the dishwasher properly) and I would become an unhinged maniac, spewing forth torrents of unrelated, and oftentimes hurtful, thoughts. I mean, I don't mean to make it sound like I did this everyday, but it happened often enough. I also don't mean to say this was the inherent problem with our marriage, but it surely didn't help much.
What I have been missing was the awareness that I have a heightened response to certain stimuli, often exacerbated by stress, lack of sleep, or perceived injustices. I never took stock, until now, that I am responsible for my anxiety.
So what happened this week? Enough. But with anxiety it doesn't always have to be the perfect storm. Sometimes my defenses are low, my stamina is depleted, and before I know it the world comes crashing down around me.
Coming back from an attack is slow. Even today, about 48 hours out and therapy session squeezed in, I still feel a tingle in my chest and a slow buzzing in my brain, like a background white noise machine. Its like my anxiety wants to remind me it's still there, just quieter. For now. I find myself stepping carefully, worried that I'll encounter a trigger. It's hard to stay focused and get the massive amount of work backlogged started.
The hardest thing not to do is get mad at yourself, and boy, am I good at that. Being a relentless perfectionist in moments like this only exacerbates my tendency to self-implode. I don't like feeling out of control because I fancy myself as rather skilled at controlling outcomes. I think that this type of anxious, emotional response is beneath me. I am too smart to be triggered by something so stupid.
And that's the truth of all of this: anxiety is about a disconnect between your logical and emotional brain. It's a condition where your emotional side is much slower to understand the true impact of negative stimuli and instead provides a stronger, more instinctual response.
What's ironic about all of this is, even though I perhaps don't feel any closer to tackling my anxiety today as I did when I was eight, seeing shadows creep across my bedroom, I am probably at my healthiest. I asked my therapist this week why don't I have better control over this? Why, now that I'm aware of the problem, why doesn't my logical brain then dominate my emotional response? After a loving pause, she reminded me of the process. The first step of the process is that I will come to recognize the problem. She pointed out that in the episode of this week, I knew what the problem was, I could articulate what my triggers were, and I could verbalize the discrepancies, precisely, between the trigger and my heightened response.
First you have to recognize. Then through recognition, can you manage. When you can manage, you learn to predict. When you can predict, you can make the healthiest choice.
In other words, anxiety doesn't get cured, it doesn't go away. It is a lifelong relationship with myself: a nonjudgmental partnership with the worst side of my personality.
I have to admit, I find no part of that comforting. But then, I think about how my life has grown and changed, and how certain aspects of my fears have been conquered. For example? Although I wouldn't count it among my favorite activities, I no longer consider myself afraid to fly. Through practice and patience, by not avoiding flying, by facing it, I began to manage.
Which brings me full circle: what is it that I'm so scared of now? Well, if this is your first blog read this might shock you, otherwise you know it. I'm 36 and scared to spend the rest of my life alone. This has been one of the lingering side effects of the divorce, shifting my mindset from having a partner to share the rest of my life with to not. And although it's been a fair amount of time since the marriage ended, between that, my relationship this past fall, and seeing how my ex husband has already secured a new partner, I've been putting enormous pressure on myself to "succeed" in my personal life.
This is where I ask any of you to avoid sharing with me the common tropes of relationships.
"It'll happen when you least expect it."
"You're trying too hard."
"Someone as fabulous as you? You'll find someone, no problem."
"You should be happy to be on your own. Celebrate single!"
"You just need to get laid."
I'm not saying any of those things aren't true, but I am saying that it's not helpful to hear. This is the point where I'd like you to know that all of those responses only speak to the logical side, the side that already knows all of that. My job right now is to slowly, gently, and non-judgmentally coax my emotional side over to those truths.
Anxiety is like an insurmountable-seeming wall between what you know and what you feel to be true. My journey has been to start climbing that wall, brick-by-brick, to try and experience life moving more fluidly between that dichotomy. So by labeling my fears, by owning my responses, by making healthier choices, by conquering my perfectionism and self-judgement, I might just be as normal as I like to think you are.
It ain't easy, folks. But then, maybe the trope that "nothing worthwhile has ever been easy" is truly the most appropriate thing to say.
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