On Anxiety and Trying

I have struggled with anxiety for most of my life.

For a long time, I couldn't even talk about that fact out of shame, although it was obvious to everyone around me. But now, as I am having a more difficult day than most, I feel the need to be honest about it on the off-chance that someone else will read this, and understand that they are not alone. I needed that when I was younger, and sometimes even now. I know how it feels to be alone in that high-pressured abyss, thoughts whirling in circles, cramps seizing up my stomach. In fact, I am writing from that place right now.

It's the worst feeling in the world, and nobody who has not experienced it can imagine it. It's wanting to hide away in a small room away from everyone, go back in time and refuse to be born just so you won't have to endure whatever small thing it is you are worried about. It's vomiting and crying even when you don't know why. 

In my case, the peak of this behavior was spending New Years Day alone on a bathroom floor, ringing in the next 12 months with the one thing I wanted most to leave behind.

That was my lowest place. 

Looking back, I started showing symptoms of anxiety in elementary school. Even now, my most common symptom is nausea and diarrhea, and it goes all the way back to that time. I remember carrying two Pepto Bismol tablets in my jeans pocket at all times, worried I would get sick unexpectedly. I never took a single pill; the psychological need was fulfilled by knowing that I had the pills there, I had an out, I had an escape. I knew that carrying the pills was making me feel calmer for some reason, but I dismissed this as logical concern over a case of sensitive stomach and thought no more of it.

I started to realize that I had a problem when I reached middle school. I played on a travel softball team and would vomit at every practice behind the dugout, unbeknownst to my coaches or teammates. Each time I went friends' houses, I would vomit beforehand, and the entire time I was there, I was terrified of having diarrhea, which of course gave me diarrhea. I started making up excuses not to see people, and even lost my then best friend after barely contacting her over a summer.

I convinced myself that because I spent the majority of my time not being anxious, I could handle the condition on my own. I purposely avoided events and behaviors that I knew would irritate it by telling myself that I simply did not want to go or partake. For me, anxiety was a series of mood swings going from complacent depression to manic worry. I told myself that because the unlivable periods of stress were more rare than the livable depression, it was okay. I made my anxiety into something that I could pass off as functional, when in reality, it was destroying my life.

Then the final straw broke the camel's back with the incident that I mentioned at the outset. My siblings and parents each had their own parties to go to, and I didn't want to tag along. A good friend of mine was planning to have myself and our other friends over the celebrate New Years. It was sure to be a great time, but I said no, deciding that no experience could be worth the anxiety that going would cause. 

I will never forget how harrowing it was, crying on the floor of my bathroom, able to see myself in a mirror and know how far I had sunk. The feeling was such that it made my life feel like it had been essentially canceled, that I would never be able to go anywhere or do anything for as long as I lived. It was there, on the cold tile, that I decided to get help.

For a long time, and even now, I try not to mention that I take medication for my illness, but I know that there is no reason to feel shame and I have to push beyond that. Shame is part of what helps anxiety keep its hold on you, and I want to put an end to that aspect of it.

I found a doctor I trusted and began trying out medications such as Lexapro and Zoloft. The reason I was prescribed these was that every time I went to my appointments, I would sob uncontrollably throughout, and my physician worried that I was also suffering from depression (which was probable at the time). Lexapro made no dent, and Zoloft made me feel better for a short period, but crumbled under pressure.

Finally, I found Paxil, the medication that changed my life. My family, initially leery of medication, was thrilled at the results. I started being able to go to friends' houses and wasn't sick unless I had the flu. My personality changed; I became more ambitious, less pessimistic. Others were able to enjoy my company, and most importantly, I was finally able to enjoy theirs. I realized that all the time I thought I was functioning fine, I was just denying the truth that I didn't want to accept.

And yet, here I still sit, all these years later, caught in that toxic whirlwind that I tried to leave behind. My stomach is aching, and I haven't eaten in two days, but here I am. There is no perfect solution, but there is a better one. And that brings me to my real point in writing this: to reach out to those who need to hear it,because there was a time where I did too.

You are not a defect or a person who is meant not to live. This is not a condition that is unmanageable or untreatable, and there are options available for you. Never feel ashamed, and know your worth, even when you are at your lowest point.

Just keep trying, because all that you can do is try. Forget about dancing in the rain- pull the tarp over your head and listen to the storm pound on it. Sit there and shiver and endure what you must, because the storm will pass. Other storms will come, that is true, and you will have to weather those as well. But I promise that it is possible for the storms to become shorter, and the beautiful weather longer.

#Thoughts