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Every day of my life, I’m wrapped in a warm, occasionally suffocating cocoon of anxiety. An itching, skin-tight reminder that I’m a bit of a mess.
Unlike a butterfly, this anxiety doesn’t give me the chance to emerge, freer and more colorful. But I’d never truly realized how used to its weight I’d become until a horrible two-week period where I had nothing to worry about.
My memory of that time is honestly a little hazy, like a bad dream that fades from your mind the second you wake but still leaves you with an inexplicable shudder. It was around December 2014, and I’d recently submitted my application to graduate school. Financially, my husband and I were on track—bolstering our shared savings account and hitting our budget goals. I hated my job, sure, but we were about to move across the country, so that problem was practically solved. In essence, things were looking up.
And I was horrified.
I felt like I was coming untethered—literally. My limbs and shoulders felt too loose, as if my joints and tendons decided they were done doing their job of holding me together. Every movement seemed less stable. When I tried to explain to my husband that I felt like I might float into the air because of this strange lightness that had taken hold, he looked bewildered. Not because he didn’t understand what I was talking about; he just didn’t understand why I was complaining. After all, what I was describing was a marked lack of tension. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Know this: I do not thrive under pressure. With my various mental disorders, founded in anxiety and depression, I’m not built for extremely tense situations. (I often watch “Game of Thrones” crouching behind my couch.) But because of those same disorders, my body and mind are constantly on high alert because I always assume something bad will happen. Couple that with chronic migraines, and I’m the kind of discomfort factory that’s always being sued because its employees keep collapsing from exhaustion.
These feelings have persisted for so long, I’ve forgotten what “normal” felt like. I set a new equilibrium where my shoulders were always tight, and my resting face leaned towards a frown. I started worrying the second I woke up about everything from “What if I never accomplish my dream of being a published author?” and “Will our children inherit my anxiety issues?” to “How mad would Lawrence be if I threw something at his cat for peeing on my stuff again?” There’s a never-ending barrage of concern going on my head.
That’s when I realized: I don’t actually know how not to be stressed out for extended periods of time. A few hours or a day? Sure! That’s a nice vacation. But two full weeks with no stress? I’m a wreck. Feeling forgetful, disjointed, and out of sorts. There’s always something to be upset about, and if there isn’t, then I haven’t looked hard enough. And in this case, when I could confirm I hadn’t forgotten anything, I just felt like I was coming undone.
Thankfully, this didn’t last for long. I had to look for an apartment. And begin the process of moving. And wait to see if I actually got into grad school. And eventually tell my boss that I was peacing out. So I found new things to overwhelm me and correct the awkward serenity I’d experienced.
And yes, I am actually disturbed enough to rejoice in the return of my normal stress levels. Because, much like my cripplingly low self-esteem, it’s what I know! It might not be the best way to live, but I really can’t get behind the idea of changing if it means not even recognizing the feel of my own body. Call me crazy, but where’s the comfort in that?
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