It seems like these days, everyone has anxiety. Not just anxiety, but frustrating, life-altering, capital-A ‘Anxiety.’
I hear the word used a lot. I hear it in different forms – ‘I have anxiety,’ ‘I have social anxiety,’ ‘I am a super anxious person’ – and when I do, I want to tug on that person’s sleeve and ask, “Really? Do you really? Are you really an anxious person? How anxious? When you say that, what do you mean exactly? Can you tell me about it?”
Here’s the thing; on one hand, hearing other people talk about their anxiety makes me feel like I’m not alone. Considering how many people talk about it, it almost makes me feel normal. I mean, everyone seems to have it. Maybe everyone does have it to some extent.
On the other hand, sometimes I feel like a lot of things get lumped into the anxiety category when they probably don’t belong there. I mean, sometimes I’m reluctant to do something, but that doesn’t mean I have anxiety about it. Sometimes I’m nervous about something, and that also doesn’t mean I have anxiety about it. In my case – and I can only speak to that, because everyone has different experiences – anxiety is a different beast to either reluctance or nerves or fear or pure unwillingness. It feels different.
When my laziness makes me disinclined to do something, it usually sounds a bit like a petulant teenager. It grumbles, and sighs, and mutters things like, “Yeah, no. I don’t want to do that,” or, “Uhhhh… yeah I’d rather stay home and watch something on Netflix. Imma do that instead.”
When my nervousness makes me disinclined to do something, it sounds a bit like a frightened child. It makes high-pitched noises only dogs can hear, and groans, and whines things like, “But do we haaaaave to?” or, “What if the other kids don’t like me?”
My anxiety doesn’t say anything. My anxiety doesn’t sound like anything. It feels. It feels like my soul is digging its heels into the floor and refusing to budge. It feels like my heart is a hummingbird. It feels like my throat has suddenly shrunk to the size of a plastic straw and getting air is a conscious effort. It feels like I need to vomit, even if the only thing I’m able to bring up is bile. It feels like my mind is either at 0 or at 100; either blank with panic, or piling worry on top of worry on top of worry until I can’t see over the top to the horizon of normality.
It feels like flying down a steep hill on a bicycle with no brakes. It feels like when you’re on the stairs and your foot misses a step. It feels like waiting for results you know are going to be bad. It feels like cold heat flooding your body.
It’s a deeply, deeply unpleasant feeling.
Thankfully, I don’t feel this steamroller, flat-out, full-force version of anxiety too often. When I do, I try to push through it. I don’t take medication*. I don’t wonder if I’m dying. Instead, I tell myself that it’s not real, that I’m in control, and that my brain is being (excuse the language) a dick. I tell myself that emotions are constructs, and that it will pass.
And you know, it does. Eventually. Somehow.
So now tell me, do you feel anxiety? If so, what brings it on? What do you do about it? How do you manage it? Inquiring (and anxious) minds want to know!
*I have nothing against taking medication and have often considered it, but the potential side-effects have always frightened me more than the idea of just dealing with the anxiety.