Anxiety is a fickle bitch.
But so am I.
Anxious has pretty much been the main component of my internal personality since the moment my mother decided she wanted to be a mom, making my existence an inevitability within the reality I occupy. Though, it took me 29 years to be able to admit and name it.
I kind of had this belief everyone lived in a perpetual state of trepidation that something horrific would happen for the simple act of daring to breathe when they don’t deserve that air let alone a roof let alone *gasp* joy. Mmmm… apparently, a healthy percentage of the population doesn’t wake up thinking, ‘huh, again?’ Wild. Mentally stable people are real and live among us. I’ve even met one or two.
I, as a human, am not completely devoid of intelligence—though, there is loads of proof to the contrary. I’m also incredibly rational. Anxiety could not possibly compete with my capabilities for logic and analysis. Jk lol smiley face. My anxiety also possesses a finesse for semantics and strong predilection for emotional manipulation.
Even as I write this, I keep thinking, “Is this too dark? Will anyone read this? Am I being relatable or psycho? Am I funny? Is this even well written? Do I need to quit my job and live in a tent beneath an overpass?” The reality is. I’m not writing this for you. I’m not writing this for her. I’m not writing this for them. I’m not writing this for anyone. I’m writing this for me. For whatever fucking reason, some people read this and send messages saying pretty words just frequently enough for me to know putting my inside thoughts not just outside but on the internet—of all places—is doing some good. I’ve turned my deepest shames and anxieties and fears and guilts and traumas into a little, tiny career for myself.
Some days, it feels like writing and publishing helps. A lot of days, it feels like it’s a facade of a sacred act to waterboard myself with all the pain I’m already drowning in. Why the fuck do I keep doing this to myself? Is it fucking worth it? Is feeling like this helpful to me, myself, and I? Am I better off because I look my most painful moments in the eye every goddamn day?
Anxiety says: no. You just like the attention.
Logic says: Yeah… super fun being known as the girl who got raped over and over and over again. I know how many hugs I’ve given. I know how many tear stained shirts I’ve washed. I know how many stories I’ve been the first person in the world to hear from someone who had felt as alone as I did so many years ago. I know I’m not alone anymore. I know the joy of celebrating justice for another. I know the joy of holding space for people to break and put themselves back together again. I know that I am living a life I could not have dreamed to hope I would live to see. I know if I hadn’t spent the last thirteen years writing, I would not be okay enough to be where I’m at, let alone really chasing the joy I’m chasing.
My best friend is also a frenetic ball of anxiety. One day, we were going back and forth with the things creating anxiety in our souls. I typed, “My brain…” and autocorrect changed it to, “My Brian…” Honestly, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that myself. Personifying and gendering objects and feelings male with basic bitch names has been something I do for a long time. It’s really easy to tell a frustrating appliance or ill-founded anxiety/depression to fuck right off. Pyoter, the Rumba, is yelled at quite often around the house. Being the raging lesbian woman I am… women are rational, while men are testosterone, I mean, aggression. So, I followed the autocorrect miss-send with a “From now on our anxiety brains are Brian.” Oh boy, we talk shit about Brian.
Dealing with anxiety has gotten easier. Not really because life has gotten easier or the anxiety has lessened. At 32, I know, I’m going to be okay. Because I am going to be okay. I’ve been through quite a lot. It hasn’t always been good, but I’ve gotten through. I’m not great, but I’m doing okay. I’m in a really good place. I have people who love me and I love in return. Not a single person in my life gives me a single brick of foundation for anxiety. I just got back from Australia and Cambodia, and I’m heading down under again a lot sooner than expected. My bills are paid. I have food in my fridge. My dogs are safe and happy and healthy. My credit score went up last month. I haven’t had a serious suicidal ideation in over a year. I’ve made some really amazing new friends in the last year, nine months, even three months. Every day, I have some real, tangible joy. So, when the anxieties about life, love, people, money, travel, health pop up, I have a lot of anecdotal analysis to prove: It is getting better, and I might actually like this life. Maybe, one day, I’ll even deserve it.
So, Fuck Brian. That dude sucks.
