This
year I have battled with much higher levels of anxiety and depression than I
feel that I ever have. I have always struggled with anxiety, but my general
anxiety has been WAY worse this year and I have had to be medicated for it. For
the later part of the year I also dealt more with despair and depression than I
have in the past. I have theories of why, but that is all they are. A while ago
I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder. This means that I have a lot of
anxiety, but it is not really tied to anything specific. This year it seemed to
get much worse and some specific things have become bigger triggers for me. I
never know from day to day how I will feel or even hour to hour. I am a
planner, I do not like to do things last minute, but there are things that I
avoid planning (and even doing) because I just don’t know if I will be able to
handle it when that time comes.
This
year my body has been doing much better as with the help of an endocrinologist,
I am on the right combination of medications to balance out my health issues,
however I wouldn’t say the same for my mental/emotional health.
I
found an article written by someone who also has anxiety issues and it so
accurately describes my feelings on the subject. Some days are worse than
others and I often feel like I am being weak or childish, but I don’t have a
lot of control over it. These are some of my favorite parts of the article:
“Anxiety
is an Invalid Excuse”
Anxiety
is an invalid excuse. I fear having to tell people I’m on medication because
the second I do, I see my fears written across their faces. The fact that I
have to take a dose of something with an unpronounceable name twice a day just
to make me feel like I’m residing on some middle ground that makes me capable
of mandatory human function immediately sets off alarms that I am a lesser
person, lacking independence and radiating unpredictability. All of a sudden
I’m the crazy, mentally unstable girl completely incompetent and incapabe of
any mundane task in front of me.
Anxiety
is an invalid excuse. In the eyes of others, it makes me a liar. Lazy.
Inadequate. Delusional. Crazy. I can’t say I have a diagnosis because everyone
I tell is conditioned to think I’m either a deranged psychopath or I’m faking
it because I’m simply too fragile to face life like a normal person;
underwhelming unable to walk through a typical routine without having an upper
to keep me stable. Do they think I pity myself so much to induce a self-hatred
strong enough to keep myself so far from mental catharsis? Do they think I find
this fun?
Anxiety
is an invalid excuse. They say there’s a science behind it. That it’s just how
I work. They say it’s a sickness, real as cancer. But how am I supposed to
believe it when I can’t convince myself it’s not self-induced? How am I
supposed to survive an illness I’m not convinced even exists? How am I supposed
to love my mind if I constantly doubt its ability to decipher reality from fiction?
It’s
a bittersweet sentiment knowing my flaws are beautifully misunderstood in a way
that allows me to pretend they don’t exist while someone is watching. I thrive
in the precious moments I spend being normal. I cripple in the instances I must
try to explain the place I’m coming from, the place no one will ever truly
understand until they feel their heart stop beating in their chest only to
accelerate far past a normal rhythm, blood rushing to their head until the
whole world fades away to a crystallized screen of silent white. I’m sure the
letter sent to each of my teachers makes them think I’m just a student with low
self-esteem who whines and pouts my way through life, looking for shallow
excuses to half-ass my work. But I want to succeed. I want to live. To live
comfortably. That's my dream.
Anxiety is an invalid excuse because I can’t
convince myself I’m not insane. I can’t get over the possibility that every
trigger, every panic, is rooted deep in my overactive imagination who happens
to be a spiteful little bitch that likes to see me squirm. It’s in the calm
moments I feel it most. When I’m finally content and that sharp jab of terror
hits the sweet spot in the middle of my throat, closing in until I’m choking on
invisible tribulations. It’s so vivid I can see the muscles contracting,
turning purple as I fear…what? What is it that I fear? It’s the imaginary evils
that sneak up and get me in the moments I least expect it. It’s the seconds of
doubt that turn into gut-wrenching reservations and claustrophobic convulsing
that drive me right back under my sheets until a glimmer of light breaks
through the stitching. It’s the darkest days and the brightest nights because
sleep is the only time I can fully escape it.
I
love sleep, I always have, but lately it has become the only thing I want to
do, mainly because I can escape from my life and in my in my dreams there
is no anxiety or depression, no loneliness or despair, everything works out
when I sleep. My hopes and dreams are realized and there is no such thing as
depression. This past year I have learned a lot more about anxiety and
depression and a lot about my coping mechanisms. It is hard when I just can't handle something but people look at me like I am being a baby or a wimp, or even just
looking for an excuse to get out of things. I make myself do a lot of things
that scare me or make me anxious, but I just can’t make myself do all of it
without imploding.
