What it's like

I can usually tell anxiety is creeping up on me from the tightness I feel in my shoulderblades. That's where it likes to fester: right under my shoulderblades where Phillip digs in with his elbows and worries that he's pushing too hard. Which is impossible.

Then, if I wonder about it too long, or worry about why it might be there, it gets worse. If it stays in my back it's usually manageable. Even at night, when I tend to fixate on the tension and all its meanings, I can usually fall asleep, as long as it doesn't migrate anywhere else.

If it reaches the center of my chest, I start preparing for a long night.

It's a circular battle. Anxiety arrives and you wonder why it's there and when you can't think of a good reason you start to worry, which only makes it worse. I have spent many nights being anxious about being anxious.

It's nice to have a reason, but knowing why it's there doesn't necessarily make it better. Especially if the reason is something out of your control. In that case, I prepare to be anxious as long as the situation is unresolved. Sometimes it feels like you've resigned yourself to being anxious, that you've surrendered, but the best method of attack, I think, is to be okay with it. "Anxiety," you say aloud in your darkened living room at 3 a.m., "cannot kill me." Then you curl up on your couch and see what's stored on TiVo and hope that last week's episode of Everybody Hates Chris will take your mind off things.

Sometimes it does.

It's best to be busy. Anything you can do to distract yourself from your malicious brain chemistry will do. I like the routine of going to work in the morning where I have things to check off my to-do list. The weekends can be bad if I don't have any plans. There's nothing worse than wandering nervously around your house, wondering how long you're going to feel like this. I clean the kitchen, dust, go shopping, invite friends for dinner. One season I baked. A lot.

I've been told that anxiety and depression are two sides of the same coin. I don't think I've ever been depressed, not really. There was that one time my family moved, but I think we were all depressed then, along with all the other families who moved to that base that year. When I think about what depression might be like, I'm grateful my imbalance tips the other way. I might not sleep at all, but I'm glad I don't sleep all day. I still want to see my friends. I still want to go out. Have fun. Having fun is the best distraction.

I'm not grateful I have anxiety. It has made me a better person the way any difficult experience refines who you are. Builds character, as my dad would say. I like those changes, but I don't know that I would go through my most anxious times again. It's mostly horrible. No, it's all horrible. Remember how you felt right before you went on stage? Or right before you had to give your oral presentation? The bad times are like that, only ten times worse and it doesn't go away. The better times are more like the morning of the play. You're nervous and you know you're going to be more nervous later.

I would like to say that the changes are worth it. That my boundless sympathy for addicts was worth that week of not sleeping, but honestly? Wasn't there an easier way for me to learn compassion?

A friend recently told me that a student she mentors was going through some things that reminded her of me. Was her student having anxiety attacks? I couldn't say for sure- my 'attacks' are more like subtle episodes that last until you think they aren't going away, then mysteriously drift off- but I worried. I woke up early one morning and banged out all the things that helped me figure out what I was dealing with that first time. I didn't want anyone else to wonder if they were going crazy, like I did.

I will never feel that way again because I know what's wrong with me. It's brain chemistry. It's also the fact that, according to my most informative anxiety book, I have 9 out of 10 Highly Anxious Personality Traits and I'm sure that doesn't help. The next time I feel the tightness in my back, I'll know what's happening. I won't rush to finish my version of The Bell Jar before they cart me off for my lobotomy.

After a particularly neurotic conversation with my parents, my dad once told me, jokingly I think, that all creative people have some kind of mental instability. It's practically a requirement. I like reminding myself of that. Makes me feel like anxiety serves another purpose besides building character. Something like It was during those sleepless anxiety-ridden weeks that Booker Prize winner Maggie Cheung wrote her dark fourth novel. Maybe then it'll be worth it.

Comments

[lee]

good post.

we're all going mad, you know. i'm coming to grips with that though - it's the only way to preserve my sanity. (catch-22 perhaps?)