Since I was a little girl, I was plagued with fear. Not a fear of the dark or scary monsters, but something—well, quite unexplainable. While I walked through life as best as I could, trying to wear a smile on my face, I always knew that something felt wrong. Life was sometimes alright, and sometimes it wasn’t. But neither of these realities mattered. For it seemed that good or bad, there was always something worse.
It wasn’t until I was in fourth grade that, what I didn’t know then, was my anxiety getting the best of me. What I now can’t recall exactly had my panties in a twist; I remember I pleaded with my mom to let me skip days of school in a row. I knew something was wrong, but I just didn’t know what or when shit was going to hit the fan. It was as if the plague had struck me ill. Knocking me down on my bed, paralyzed with no sickness but rather just thoughts. Some potent thoughts indeed. It was unexplainable, and it was frankly scary.
Maybe it was the stomachaches or the chills that ran up my back as I sat among all the people I loved. Or that tingling feeling in my heart that jolted back to my spine while I was watching my favorite show. These were things I loved, and nothing was really wrong; I was safe, and all was in order. But still, there was this unexplainable feeling.
My mom was the one who finally noticed that my little noggin had an affinity for trailing off into the unrealistic. I would make up elaborate plans to get myself out of things I was afraid of. Those weird, unexplainable feelings I had were just anxiety. There was nothing wrong with me, and there was nothing wrong with the day after tomorrow. Life was generally good, and a ten-year-old girl can only have so many battles to fight. But my anxiety wanted me to think the opposite. It told me that I could win all the battles there were to fight, that there were so many evils to keep myself safe from, and those were some pretty big visions. More than anybody else my age seemed to be pondering.
So a fire was lit under my ass to go fight such big bad battles. But when I got there to fight, or at least start preparing for my battle, to my surprise, there was no war to fight. Let alone a dozen of them, but I was a gullible young girl, and when you’re told that you are such a brave fighter destined to go off into battle, you give in. But that’s how anxiety gets you. It tells you something with an ounce of truth, and then before you know it, the rumor your anxiety whispers into your ear turns into a telenovella, not in front of your face, but dancing around and acting as best as it can, all inside your head. You’re paralyzed, and nobody knows what the hell is wrong with that look on your face. Why is a ten-year-old girl frantically pannicking about going to war when there was no real war to go fight? Only she knows.
Once I was familiar, around 9 or 10, with the idea of “anxiety,” I honestly just carried on. Some days, it would get the best of me; others, it would take some odd mantras to snap me back into shape. But it was that weird, unexplainable doom that made me fascinated. I knew that whatever I was feeling wasn’t real. It was just pent-up worries that started to exhibit themselves in harsher ways. And, if you’re reading this now and you have never experienced anxiety, you might wonder what all the fuss is about.
As someone who has anxiety, I don’t really know. But it’s not really worth listening to.
My rational mind, however rational a nineteen-year-old girl can be, has gotten pretty good at talking myself out of this chaotic, Latin drama-filled anxiety state. The power to talk myself out of a conversation with my anxiety became the pinnacle of living with it. Rule number #1 of having anxiety: never try to debate it. Would you debate an asshole that uses every rhetorical fallacy she can get her hands on? Sure, if you’re into that kind of thing, maybe once or twice. But having those debates gets pretty old after a while.
It took me my entire childhood to figure out that what the hell was going on in my head wasn’t really me. I always knew that weird voice telling me that something very likely to go well was going to turn into me dying or doing some very weird shit I would never do—was frankly a lying bitch. But when you hear a voice, inside YOUR own damn head or feel a feeling enclosed inside a body that sends shooting pains running marathons up and down your body, you’re most apt to think that is just you. After all, it’s your mind and your body, so you probably are just this way. Whatever these thoughts or feelings are, they are just you.
But they really aren’t you.
You are your goals. Your favorite memories. Your kindness and acceptance. The favorite song you get lost in or your comfort show. You are the moments of clarity, the ones where everything is right. You are you when everything is wrong, and you tell yourself you are going to be okay. You are that comfortable feeling in your body. The one where your heart beats at the right pace and the way your head falls nicely on your pillow. You are safe. And safety is power. You are the one in power, not anxiety.
You are not you when you listen to the voice calling your name or singing you one of the worst songs you’ve ever heard. You are not a ten-year-old girl being called off to fight in a war that will be the death of all of humanity. You are not that weird spinning feeling in your stomach. You were hungry before that song started, but now, all of a sudden, you’re not. And you have good music taste, so you don’t listen to those shitty songs. Because that’s not you.
You aren’t the spiraling thoughts that want you to fail, nor are you the cause of your seemingly sudden stomach ache. None of that is you.
You are safe, and you are the one in control. That anxiety, though, quite the bitch she is, tells you that you are neither safe nor in control. And that is how she wins. That is how she drafts a ten-year-old girl to go fight in a war. That is ridiculous. And really quite fucking stupid.
Anxiety can be an extremely powerful feeling. Sometimes, it ruins our days, then weeks, then months, and sadly, even years.
While I’ve lived with the natural urge to think that something might always go wrong, it’s taught me that most of the time, things will go right. Disastrously right. And at times when shit really does hit the fan, guess what? You come out on the other side. Strong and in control, just like you were before shit ever hit the fan.
PRO TIP: In case you want more shit to hit the fan than you ever thought possible, just keep thinking about all the shit that is about to hit the fan and how much shit that will hit the fan after that shit hits the fan, and so on. But that sounds like a bloody mess. One that you don’t want to be a part of.
Anxiety is an uphill battle. But it can and will always be won as long as you realize you are the one in charge of that transpiring. I wouldn’t wish a state of anxiety on anyone, but it’s not as bad as it could be.
It took me a very long time to realize that I was the one in control. My thoughts are mine, and thoughts prompted to me by my old pal anxiety were, well, like a bad friend’s take on politics. Why the hell would I ever listen to it? Yeah, it can be quite annoying, and it nags at you like a pain in the ass. But misery loves company.
So when that friend invites you over for a night full of shit talking and poor opinions, its in your best interest to keep your distance. Why would you be friends with this person in the first place? Lord knows. Sometimes, they warn you of important things, like the things that matter. They tell you news about something that makes you worried enough to stop something worse from happening. So hey, that’s why you keep them around. But just because you’re friends doesn’t mean you have to be best friends.
At nineteen years old, I’ve had a million redundant, painstakingly unrealistic conversations with my pal, anxiety. But I know just how tiring and predictable those conversations are and ever will be, so I’ve decided to tune out. My radio doesn’t pick up on that channel too well. Since my radio doesn’t receive that channel too well, tuning in really isn’t worth it. Sometimes, I change the channels on the radio, and sometimes, the channel comes in clear as day.
But since my friend here is quite the broken record, it’s not too enjoyable to stay listening. Sometimes her tune hits the right note, but most of the time it doesn’t. So, even when that channel seemingly connects beautifully,. Her song becomes background noise to the things that really matter—to what I really want to listen to and to who I really am. That song at times keeps playing, sometimes getting louder at times than others.
Tuning into the channel is like having conversations with your one annoying friend. Remember how bad those conversations were with that friend? Yeah, speaking from experience, I dont recommend taking a seat and staying for a philosophical conversation until 2 am in the morning.
However alluring her tune, pitch, or song, or prophetic poetry, she’s bound to break key and stumble on her words. And like a good song on the radio, quite enjoyable and interesting at first, it gets boring, and the sound of it is awful. What could start as a stable conversation between two respectable scholars, sometimes when you talk to long, the conversation loses track. It makes no sense after a while and wears away at your patience. Never attend such a lecture again. And turn off the radio when that shitty song starts to play a little too loud.
The biggest advice I have for anyone who has a friend, like anxiety, is to keep that friend in their place. Sometimes, very rarely, this friend gives you good advice. But this is generally in a fight or flight situation, and depending on your allure to the wild side, you dont really need this advice. If you’re like me and you enjoy simple things and prioritize your happiness, you don’t ever go get coffee or stay for a chat with this friend. Since youre the one in the power, you’re allowed to simply hear the shit opionon and move on. Because you dont have shitty opinions and you have good pitch and listen to good music… You don’t listen to their song or their prophecy; you don’t give in to their drama or their lies. Because she is a viscous bitch. And you’re not.
