On Anxiety, Amirite?

Anxiety is a bitch. Seriously. Like the mean girl in the cafeteria who convinces everyone not to let you sit with them for no apparent reason at all, but even though you know you didn’t do anything to deserve this, you still wrack your brain trying to figure out what you did wrong, because it much be something.

I wrack my brain daily. More than daily. Hourly. As soon as that chest tightening feeling starts to occur and my breath feels a bit more shallow than normal, the brain goes into overdrive trying to figure out what I did to mean Ms. Anxiety.  Sometimes I think of concrete possibilities, “did I turn off my hair straightener this morning? Surely, I would know by now if my house has burned down…should I have said that slightly off-colour joke the other day? Have I gravely offended someone past the point of repair?” Yes. This is all one fluid thought, and I experience something to this affect several times each day.  The problem is, Ms. Anxiety is actually me, so it’s not just a simple matter of cutting her out of my life and moving on. I’m the one metaphorically convincing everyone to shun me.

What all of this means, is that I am treating myself the way that mean bitch in high school would have treated me. The old cliche is to treat people the way you would like to be treated, but I wouldn’t inflict on my worst enemy what I do to myself. Furthermore, I would probably have more compassion for my worst enemy than I do to myself. I beat myself up, then I beat myself for beating myself up. It’s a cycle, it’s vicious and I’m trying my damndest to break it. Stay tuned.