I just had a revelation about anxiety.
Even after all this time, I had no idea that what I experience in making decisions, planning my day, or thinking about upcoming commitments is different, across-a-bottomless-abyss different, from a non-anxious person’s experience.
For instance (from the recent revelatory experience) —
booking flights takes hours, sometimes days, as I stretch thinner and thinner between choices that (as I realize once the booking is made) make no difference.
I obsessively weigh $50 saved in the flight cost against the loss of income if I take an hour off work to leave earlier and the likely costs of extra airport spending during a longer layover;
worry about whether I’ll achieve more relaxation with a few more hours of freedom in a new city or with an afternoon at home before leaving;
search online for Starbucks in the new Toronto Pearson Terminal to decide if that particular flight configuration will give me time for a Lactaid latte or if it would be better to plan a stop at Starbucks at my final destination.
These are the things that burn in my mind, demand attention, and assure me that it matters terribly what I decide, that my life will change radically post-decision, and I’d better make the right choice.
It’s all about the what-if.
Seems to me that what-if should be exciting, the premise for a new story, a dream ready to turn into a reality – not a paralyzing, depressing, energy-sucking dis of my ability.
Most of the what-ifs in my life are much smaller, so small you’d think I wouldn’t even notice them passing by each day. But I do notice, because they aren’t small, not for me, not when they are happening and their gargantuan shadows obliterate everything else.
For instance,
I have to decide what to take for lunch (I might be hungrier, or not as hungry, or not feeling well and want something else),
whether to walk or take the bus when it’s raining (the bus might be late, and then I’m late, and the rain might not turn into more than the sprinkle it is when I’m deciding, so I could have walked),
what to wear (it could be cold at work or warm, and is it going to rain?),
and which project to dive into after work (my course assignments are getting behind, but the story-writing is going so well I don’t want to stop now, and then there’s harp and fiddle. Oh, and make sure to do some yoga. And meditate!)
And, I have to get myself out the door on time with everything I need for the day.
(Where’s my phone? Wait – take an extra reusable grocery bag! Oh no, you forgot the buckwheat pancakes you just made so that you’d have something to snack on at work.)
The horrifying thing about it all is that I didn’t know.
This crazy-quilt black magic carpet I ride with clenched teeth and knotted stomach is not reality. It’s pretending to be my reality, and I’ve decided I don’t like it.
What’s a magic carpet for except to take you to better places?
The magic, I think, is black to my eyes only because my eyes are so fogged and clouded, and everything is dark.
I’m blessed and lucky: there have been enough calm and lovely moments in my life to show me that it’s possible, and I know how those moments came to me.
Meditation, writing, yoga, walking, playing harp, reading are the medicines that open my eyes and clear my clouded vision.
Yes, anxiety screams STOP in red-and-white capital letters every time I begin, no, think of beginning my medicines, but it’s not that difficult, it turns out, to reach up to that rusty old sign and shove until it faces away, until it points at Fear instead of at me.
Then I can start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…
So, I did know how to fix it. Julie Andrews told me when I was six.
(She also told me to think of my favourite things when my starter needs a boost. Not brown paper parcels tied up with string, although I remember that excitement when I was little. I’ve got meditation, writing, yoga, walking, playing harp, reading, and all they want is a word, a thought, a hint from me.)
I’m not going to pretend that not that difficult is the same as easy. It’s not easy, not at first, maybe never.
But it’s possible, and it is truly not that difficult. Sing the first notes and the rest of the song will pour out of your frightened throat.
Myths and Lies Anxiety Told Me!
Myth: Every time I see a notification for a text message, I feel the tight surge in my gut. It’s probably something terribly wrong.
Truth: I know that of the last 50 text messages I’ve received, half a dozen were things I’d rather not hear, and none were about something terribly wrong.
Lie: Loud noises make me jump because they always mean trouble; loud voices mean anger.
Truth: So often, it’s clumsiness, hilarity, deafness, and excitement making things loud–or (even more often!) the noise is not objectively loud at all. It’s just people living life, and my anxious nerves make their own crashing and conflict.
Myth: The constant deep-in-the-gut nagging knotted emptiness is my endless prescient warning that the day has piled up misfortunes to drop on my head.
Truth: Nope. That’s just anxiety, trying to protect me from, well, from everything. Take some slow breaths, note the anxiety, let go of resistance, let it be, and feel calm seep like olive oil through the unraveling knots.
What are your myths, lies, and truths? Your life will change radically as you learn to recognize the difference.