I have anxiety.

Not in an obvious way. Just obvious enough that it makes daily mundane tasks a struggle. And obvious enough for my husband to call me on my shit.

It’s ironic because when I meet people for the first time and I use the word “shy” to describe myself, they think I am bullshitting them. It’s probably not the proper term to use but if you were inside my head during an introduction it would make sense to you. But then get the hell out of my head because I have a lot of thoughts that are probably best left alone in there.

Anxiety runs in my family. My mother’s side to be exact. Growing up she had visions of bad things happening to us. She could actually see us falling over the stair railing if we got too close (not counting the times she probably wanted to push me over it). Driving on a road with a steep drop on one side would bring her to tears. If my dad left the house she thought he was at strip clubs. They don’t have strip clubs where they live…

Although I inherited a certain level of badass from her, she also blessed me with the most beautiful thin hair, the darkest of under eye circles and to top it off I get to go about my days with a little bit of worry for no fucking reason. Thanks, mom.

Mine leaves me physically sick. I get nervous over things that others don’t think twice about. I cried in kindergarten every single day because I was scared there would be a fire drill. I wasn’t scared of a fire. I was scared of LOUD NOISES. My anxiety peaked in grade four and I missed half the school year. I cried and complained every day of a stomach ache. My parents didn’t know what was wrong with me. They thought I was lying because an upset stomach was my “excuse” every day. But I wasn’t lying, it was the symptom my mental state was giving me. I just didn’t understand at the time what I was dealing with.

I knew in my head that everything my mom panicked about was illogical. I knew that my fears were pointless. That is the thing about anxiety. It is not logical.

So one day I decided I didn’t want to be like this. I started pushing myself to do things. To overcome the irrational fear that held me back for so long. I started driving farther distances. I moved away from home without a fucking clue how to adult, like oh my God someone take care of me please! I chose a career that requires me to book appointments which has always been a trigger of mine, and then talk to COMPLETE STRANGERS like some kind of social butterfly?!

I still get a nervous gut ache before a client shows up at my door. I can finally keep up conversation with a person. I haven’t nailed the part where I don’t make myself look like an idiot and I find I put my foot in my mouth a lot more than I’d like, but hey! I’m talking. In fact I’m an oversharer. Ask me anything so we can avoid any moments of awkward silence. I’m unstoppable.

I am fortunate to be able to talk myself down from a lot of my fears. That may not be the case for everyone. My husband is aware of my struggles and knows if my anxiety ever gets out of hand that he can let me know it is time for medication. We might not see it for ourselves and sometimes our anxiety is too strong for us to overcome on our own. Some of the closest people in my life owe everything they have to getting help and that is 100% OKAY. 

I still struggle everyday. Something as simple as finding a parking spot makes me panic. I don’t like pending appointments hanging above my head and having to do things. I’m not always willing or able to overcome my anxiety. You will invite me to your party and I am going to say no. But I STILL want to be invited. Don’t forget about me, you asshole.

I am doing fine. But if you don’t see me for a while, come drag me out of my house and tell me to smarten up.