A love letter and my condolences…
Dear anxious people, my condolences. I’m one of you. I too feel my breath become scarce at a last-minute change of plans; my heart stutters as I realize I’ve forgotten a notebook, a pen, an earring, a task; my stomach plunges when I realize I’m unprepared. I can spend hours in my room with my back pressed against a wall, perfectly still, frantically deciding which decision or last-ditch act of self-care will make this day bearable.
Dear anxious people, I understand. Coping methods don’t constitute a plan. I can use five “phone a friends” to solve an innocuous query, only to circle back right where I started. I can go on runs, eat before drinking coffee (or limit it altogether), and journal nightly only to wake at 3 a.m. to pace, write an exhaustive to-do list, and claw back to sleep.
Dear anxious people, what we lose is time. We’re not running out; we spend it just fine. But the difference between the non-anxious and us is: the time it takes to reach the plane of level headedness where we function best.
Dear anxious people, we can stay in our heads for days, missing out on the beautiful mess that life is, too afraid to fully engage or go off-script to smell the roses. It might take you two coping mechanisms to get where a non-anxious person would be with zero.
Dear anxious people, seek support in any way you need. To be supported isn’t losing some made up game. To need extra steps to reach a non-anxious equilibrium isn’t a personal failing.
Dear anxious people, you’re valued for who you are, not what you can do. So take a deep breath.