Anxiety, I have learned, can ratchet up so slowly that you don’t even realize how bad it’s gotten until you are drowning in worries- about anything and everything! Or, it can hit you full on like a linebacker. I think both stink, but the first is the most insidious to me because you aren’t even aware it’s happening- not really, anyway.
I have always been a worrier. I think that most of my worries are normal- I just take it to the next level for some reason. For example, I have jokingly (not really) been banned from webmd because I have convinced myself I have some terrible disease on more than one occasion (brain tumor, anyone?). I am so over-protective of my kids that it’s a wonder they ever dare to leave the house (I have offered to pay future therapy bills; it seems like the least I can do). I always jump right to the worst-case scenario because then I can try to mentally prepare myself- even though it likely won’t happen ( and my rational self knows that). Fairly normal worries, right? When we moved down south, I googled all the poisonous insects and snakes that I needed to watch out for- and then didn’t dare to leave the sidewalk for a long time. I also googled crime rates and what to do in case of a tornado. Google is my friend; it gives me answers that I need when I need them. Once, I even googled what makes a good friend….because I needed some and couldn’t seem to make any ( and this is where my anxiety has a field day- in social situations). As it turns out, you have to actually leave your house and make eye contact with people. Houston, we may have a problem.
I always thought that as you got older, you started to care less about what other people thought of you, like some sort of right of passage, you know? I seem to be going in the opposite direction. I am in a constant state of worry about what people are thinking about me. I make self-deprecating jokes all the time because I’d rather cause people to laugh at me than have them do it of their own accord. It’s a revolving door of thoughts and questions in my head every…single…day. Did that person just give me a funny look? What did it mean? Does that woman think I look ridiculous in this outfit? Are my neighbors judging me as I walk the dog because I’ve put on weight? Did I say something stupid to my colleague? What is that student’s parent saying now? Is admin wondering why my data looks like it does? Am I working hard enough? Why is she so much smarter? For as long as I can remember, I just have never felt good enough. I’m not smart enough, thin enough, funny enough, friendly enough, pretty enough- you get the idea. I try not to be noticed, but at the same time, I am constantly measuring myself up to others and falling short. That’s a lot to chew on, right? My self-esteem is currently sitting somewhere around the basement level- and I know it’s been a long, slow descent. As pathetic as all that sounds, things got even worse.
For months before my diagnosis and my happy pills, I constantly replayed texts, emails, and conversations in my head to see what I said or did that was wrong- or to be sure that it was right. I just cannot have people be angry or upset with me; it literally makes me panic. So, if I texted something to someone, for example, and they didn’t reply right off, I worried that I said something wrong and they were mad- and I’d send another text to clarify…and then fret over that one. On my drive home from work, I would go over every conversation I had that day and analyze it. I would iron clothes and make lunches while continuing to analyze. I would half listen to my family as the analysis continued. All the while, on the outside, I appeared to everyone to have my *bleep* together. IT WAS EXHAUSTING!! Not only was it exhausting, it was chipping away at what little self-esteem I had left and made me want to crawl into a hole and never leave- and it also left me crying at the drop of a hat. Things were heading south quickly…and that’s when my pal, depression, moved in.
I have always been a doer. I love to be outside doing anything. I love to putter around the house. I love to read. I love to scrapbook. I love to be with friends and play games. What I typically don’t do a whole lot of is watch TV. About four months ago, I found myself not wanting to leave my house more and more. I’d go to work and put on my “normal” face, but I couldn’t wait to get home, put on my pj’s, and watch TV. That was all I wanted to do. I wanted to shut the outside world out and just hole up at home. My son and husband would want to go do something, and I would prefer to stay in my safe zone. People would invite us places, and I’d make excuses as to why we couldn’t. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was crying nearly every day- I mean full on, snot flowing, curled in a ball with heaving sobs kind of crying. My poor husband. He literally had a basket case on his hands and was constantly talking me off the cliff, figuratively speaking (he will be up for Sainthood upon his passing). Home was normally my safe and happy place- only I wasn’t happy there anymore, either. One day, my husband looked at me tearfully and said, “You’re always just so SAD. What can I do?” I finally looked at him and told him that I think I needed some help. I was in a tailspin of epic proportions and didn’t see a way out by myself. I called the doctor the very next day- and I am so very glad that I did! My head is still a scary place to be at times, but I see light where before there was only darkness.