couple holding hands and drinking coffee

Thirty years.

Of tying up my shoes.

Of lacing up my gloves.

Of giving myself pep-talks.

Of building the best “team” possible, to remain ever-steadfast in my corner.

Ready, once more,

To go head to head with this relentless, seven-letter beast.

Going round, after round, after round,

Until I am too exhausted to fight anymore.

Taking a break.

And then preparing, yet again.

Literally living in limbo.

From fear to fear.

Worry to worry.

Panic to panic.

Always guarded.

Always preparing.

Always building that next “false” bridge.

While the one trailing behind crumbles to pieces.

For others like me, those living with chronic anxiety, our entire existence is about preparing ourselves for, pushing through and then, subsequently analyzing, those same “what ifs,” hiccups, speed bumps and mountains that for most, are simply shrugged off. For those able to embrace a more lighthearted and relaxed existence, it may be difficult, or even impossible, to understand what it’s like for someone struggling with day to day anxiety. Not to mention frustrating, exhausting and discouraging.

Believe me when we tell you, we understand. Because, how you feel about my anxiety? If there was a way to multiply that feeling by infinity, then you might possibly have a small glimpse into our hearts and minds. Into our daily battle. Through our latest “round.”

For those on the front lines with someone living with anxiety, those heading the charge hand in hand with a loved one against this ruthless and unyielding monster, there are two simple requests we have of you. Two tiny acts, that in the “heat” of the moment, are the perfect ways to show just truly how much you care.

1. Please, don’t ever dismiss me.

To you, it might be the most minuscule thing to worry about in the world, but to me it is greater than any mountain imaginable. To be told I am “silly,” “crazy” or what I am worried about is “nothing,” is completely heartbreaking. When you have anxiety, those “nothings” are everything. When you do dismiss me, it only causes an even more intense bottling up of worries and emotions, racing on a closed circuit track through my mind.


2. Please, don’t ever humiliate me.

Oh, how much this one hurts. I understand. What I might be anxious about might seem absolutely ridiculous to you. But to me? It is totally and completely “real.” It has persona. It fills my mind to the brim. Every waking second of my day. To make me feel ashamed for this, only makes me want to throw in the towel. To retreat. To forfeit the battle and pull away from my life even more than I already have.

When it feels like things have become “too much,” and you are not sure you have it in you to stay around, please know each of these battles are new and different for each of us. Each “round” of its own kind and likeness. Each one caused by a different or possibly recurring trigger. We sometimes have absolutely no knowledge, no control and no prediction of when this ogre might sneak back in again.

Your support means the absolute world to us. However, your unkind words, when you feel the need to unleash them, are the most hurtful of all. Together, we have learned just what this thief is capable of doing and of taking from “us.”

More than anything in the world, please understand, even if you can’t identify with this emotional rollercoaster ride of daily anxiety, even if in no possible way can you relate, even if you loathe it as much as I loathe it, there is nothing someone struggling with anxiety wants more than to have someone stay with us, through it all.

As encouragement.

As support.

As a companion.

And as a friend.

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Mental health problems can do many things to a person: bring feelings of shame, embarrassment, stop you stepping outside your front door. Most of all, it makes me lose a sense of who I am. It stops me from doing things I want to do, from saying what I want to say. But only if I let it.

It is time to regain my voice, to speak out against the feelings of doubt and fear that make it seem impossible. Here are some of the things I wish I could say to the people around me.

Dear Stranger,

Thank you for looking the other way as I sit on the station platform, a table in a café, a bench in the park, with my head in my hands, foot tapping incessantly on the floor while I breathe deeply. In these moments, I would love nothing more than to disappear, and you turning your head allows me to do just that — to remember that what is happening to me is not a big deal helps me fade into the background, feel normal, feel like part of the world.

Dear Friend,

Thank you for not judging me. Thank you for taking me away from triggering situations and getting me to a safe space. Thank you for noticing when something is wrong and asking if I’m all right, seeing past my pathetic response. You know just what to do to make me laugh, to make me realize a phase of bad anxiety is exactly that, a phase, merely another bump in the road. I would have forgotten all the good in life without you, all the things I love and new things to learn to love. If I don’t want to do something because I am not well, you understand and do not question it. Even if I don’t want to talk, knowing you’re there should I need to is more than enough. It’s like having an army behind me.

Dear Mum,

Thank you for helping me piece my life back together – until you helped me do it, I didn’t realize how broken it was. Thank you for pushing me to stand on my own two feet while still being there behind me to support me if I take a step back. Thank you for teaching me it’s all right to fail and that I will get to where I want to be so long as I try hard. You’ve helped me in ways you wouldn’t even understand, and for that I will always be grateful.


Dear Dad,

Thank you for trying to understand, even though it involved changing your whole outlook on life. Thank you for knowing when I didn’t want to talk about it and that a simple hug was enough. Thank you for looking after me and showing me there are decent people in the world who can understand if they try hard enough,

Dear Family,

I know it was difficult to grasp what was happening at first with so little information. I won’t lie, your first attempts at help made me want to punch myself in the face. You tried to lecture me about my own problems as if you knew my mind better than I did. But you realized you were wrong. Thank you for making an effort to understand, and cater for my needs. Especially you, Grandad. Thank you for standing up for me and letting me know I’m not the only one to go through these situations. It has made us all the closer.

Dear Boyfriend,

You didn’t know me before this all started. I used to sometimes think I wish you had – you’d see how different I was, going about life in my slightly odd but care-free manner. I probably wouldn’t even seem that different – I still sing to myself when I walk down the street, I still watch embarrassing TV programs, I still really want to have the perfect slow dance. But a lot has changed, not that you would necessarily notice – it’s all on the inside, most of which I try to hide from you. Except, because of you, I know I don’t need to hide it. Thank you for teaching me to acknowledge the traits of my anxiety make me who I am. You tell me you love those parts of me, that they make me kind and caring of others. And I’m slowly starting to believe it. Thank you for holding my hand when I didn’t even know I needed it and never letting go. Thank you for walking beside me and encouraging me to take steps I never thought I could. But most of all, thank you for staying when so many others wouldn’t. Knowing you’re there makes me want to be better, for us and our future.

Dear Anxiety,

Thank you for making my life difficult because you have taught me to fight for what I want and never stop until I have it. You make me accomplish that little bit more than everyone else in getting there. Thank you for telling me not to do things because it makes me want to do them even more. Nothing feels as amazing as proving you wrong and showing I can do whatever I want. Thank you for making me overthink things because you allow me to put plans in place to keep you at bay and take control.

Thanks to you, I’ve learned who I am and more importantly, who I want to be. You’ve made me realize what I love about myself and what I need to change. You’ve made me realize who I am grateful to have in my life and who is not worth my time. You’ve made me remember why I wake up every morning and fight as hard as I do – for everyone around me.

A last final thank you – you’ve given me a voice to say what I’ve always wanted to. I hope you can do the same for others.

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Thinkstock photo by adisa

In 11 days, I will be 24. In four and three-quarter hours, it will be midnight. The sun falling from view in a dozy 30. Five minutes and 52 seconds are left ticking by before my playlist switches tracks. There’s one cup of cold coffee on my bedside table.

Today was the first. It’s been 41 days of being inside, looking out. A spectator, not a participant. Somewhere in my 23 years and 354 days, I lost my admission pass, dropped my ticket stub. I twisted up the receipt until it was just a balled mass of black on white.

Somewhere in those years, I gently, and all-at-once, let go of my mind, and it’s strange. It’s strange how we are the puppeteers of our own thoughts, able to pull cords and tie knots in our own supplies of blood and air. How we have the ability to do everything and nothing, to live and breathe, to give up and let go.

It’s strange how your own mind can play tricks on you. How it can become a separate entity, detached and able to make you believe in the unnatural, the irrational, the inescapable.

It’s terrifying when you begin to realize how your mind can push you. To dread sleep for fear of not waking. Yet, it can dread being awake because every second is like the last, plagued with irrational fears conjured by your own Machiavellian creation.

Where food is poison. Sleep is impossible. Minutes seem infinite. Shaking is constant. You don’t want to cry. Yet, at the same time, all you want to do is cry. Your eyes are open, but the nightmare doesn’t stop.

Yet, today was the first. Forty-one days. Behind layers of glass and brick, letting my eyes live the life I want. Watching the raspy pull of branches billowing above the footsteps of neighbors. Trapped behind a window with envy for their life, their purpose, their simple ability to leave their home.

Yet, today was different. Today, the windows didn’t magnify the world. The glass didn’t encase me like a snow globe’s orb, rooting my body thickly in place in plastic and ceramic and dull glitter. This time, I wasn’t a motionless figure watching the outside dance in endless pirouettes, sixes and eights of tulle passing me by like the mist of affection in the arrivals lounge of an airport.


It’s been 41 days of the ordinary seeming impossible. Of rooms feeling smaller. Tastes being clumsy and mismatched. Days where love feels claustrophobic. Support feels like failure. Where life feels like a trap. Forty-one days where someone else’s mundane was my Everest.

I experience anxiety. I don’t “suffer” from it. It’s dripped into my chromosomes, melted into my blood and built up in the pigment of my eyes. I accept it as part of me.

Today was the first time in 41 days I felt able to leave home on my own again, and it was strange. Like stepping onto ice, and learning how to swipe your feet. My shoes felt odd. My arms didn’t know how to swing. I didn’t know where to look, and the sun seemed brighter than it should. Yet, I was outside, and I was alone. Surviving. Breathing. Overcoming fear.

In 11 days, I will be 24, and I’m still learning. How to live inside the body I have grown. How to shake someone’s hand firmly enough. How not to cry in public and how to turn around on a busy pavement when you know you’re walking the wrong way. I’m learning how to live with the thoughts that manifest in my head when something gets to be too much.

If I have to accept that the next 11, 20 or 50 days are spent learning how to cope and start again, then I will. Our feelings are fluid. Our experiences eternal. Memories can be lost, but the muscle remains. I’m training myself to live in a world that is evolving faster than we can see.

Anxiety makes you believe the unbelievable. The impossible. The bang-your-head-against-the-wall silliness. Yet, to you, it can seem as real as anything, as routine as a heartbeat. If today I experienced my first steps again for a second time, then I’ll learn how to start again.

I’m not ready to give up before my new chapter has even had a chance to begin.

This post originally appeared on The Huffington Post.

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“Worrying is a sin.”

Yes, I would agree to an extent. As a Christian, I also believe it is important to trust in God rather than spend your time worrying. The majority of Christians would say worrying is simply not trusting in God, which is sinning. We always need to trust God, even when it’s hard. Yet, talking about worry this way can actually be devastating to others.

As I said earlier, I, too, am a Christian, and I think it is important to trust in God. When I am anxious and tell my Christian friends about my anxieties, they tell me I just need to trust God. They tell me that this will solve my problems.

Here’s the thing you might not realize: My brain does not work the same way as yours. I have anxiety. My brain likes to tell me there’s always something to be afraid of. My brain tells me I am always in danger. My brain constantly tells me I am not important.

When I am told worrying is a sin, I feel like a bad Christian. This only worsens my anxiety. When I am going through the worst of storms, when depression causes me to feel hollow inside and anxiety makes me feel like I’m being burned alive, I don’t get told how much Christ loves me. I am told to “just stop,” and “Depend on God and it will get better.”

Yes, God heals. Yes, God redeems. Yes, God restores. Yes, it is not good to worry about the trivial things. Yes, it is good to depend on God. However, do not assume everyone’s worries are like that.

Some people, like me, have no choice. Some people want more than anything to have their anxiety and depression to just be whisked away. God also brought therapists and counselors to this earth to help me and to help those who can’t just pray their worries away.

If I am being honest, then there have been several times when I have not gone to church or have skipped out on church events because of this exactly. I don’t like to go to church. Why? Because church makes me feel like I’m being a bad person. I don’t need to add more blame to myself when I already blame myself for every single problem in the world.


So, rather than accuse someone of not being a faithful follower of Christ, listen to their story. Ask them how you can help. Pray for them, and be patient. Help them through their storm in life.

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At the age of 38, I started to stutter. I was homeschooling my young son at the time, and every day saw us seeking out opportunities to socialize, venturing from the safety of our home to the outside world. One day, my words stopped coming. I could see them in my head, but they refused to travel the short distance from my brain to my tongue. And when that happened, I did something I swore I would never do: I decided to try medication.

Admitting you have a problem is one thing, but asking for help is another animal entirely. And medication? Even the thought of it made me feel like a failure — like maybe I just hadn’t put enough effort into the fight.

Then I remembered anxiety had been with me from the very beginning and had stuck around throughout the years. He was a mouthy, noxious devil hitching a ride on my weary shoulder. Years of therapy, meditation and deep breathing had done little to throw him off my scent and I was out of ideas.

I told my doctor everything and he agreed because nothing else had helped — it was time to take the next step. “Don’t think of medication as a crutch,” he said, “think of it as giving your brain the chance to breathe a little easier.”

After filling the prescription, I went home to my journal and wrote down how my body felt pre-pill. The list included depression symptoms like “irrational irritability,” “feeling tired all the time” and “no motivation,” along with anxiety symptoms like a hypersensitive fight-or-flight response, the occasional panic attack and anxiety-induced stuttering. The last of which liked to rear its head exclusively in social situation — the times I needed my words the most.

Reading over the list was a kick-in-the-teeth reminder of why I had made the difficult decision to try medication. But while the list helped ease my feelings of failure, swallowing that first small, salmon-colored pill still took every bit of willpower I could muster.

I did it anyway, shaking but determined and the next morning I woke up feeling … fine. OK, even. I was myself, only a little more settled, a little more at ease. Once I found the just-right level of medication, the volume knob of the anxiety slowly wound down, dimming the usual static into tolerable white noise. Through it all, I stayed just me.


This was the biggest revelation for me. I thought the medication would turn me into a dazed and disconnected version of the woman I used to be, but it didn’t. It just made it easier for me to talk to people. To get out into the world. To think things through in a logical way with less panic and less catastrophizing.

It shouldn’t work that way, should it? Anxiety is decidedly illogical. It doesn’t consider; it doesn’t examine. It is the moment, amplified — a million unnamable and irrational fears converging in the space of a skipping heartbeat and quickening breath.

But on medication, I became aware of the skewed logic of my anxiety. I was able to see through the lies the devil on my shoulder liked to spout off in an anxious moment — that everyone hated me, that I looked ridiculous, that I sounded incompetent –and focus on the big picture: what I was trying to accomplish and the best way to get there.

The medication doesn’t erase my anxiety; it still occasionally knocks me overboard. But I am able — finally! — to see through the storm and swim my way toward shore, where the words come easier and life, in all its beautiful chaos, awaits.

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Steve Austin's Self-Care Manifesto

I am worthy of love.

I am not my diagnosis.

I will not wall myself in.

Shame no longer gets a vote in my life.

I will not ignore my symptoms.

I am alive. I will not forget how important that is.

I will look at the now and not the next of a situation.

I will trust in a God who is constant, not anxious.

I will find my reason for getting out of bed each morning.

I will find what I love and do that with all my heart.

I will respect my limits, take deep breaths, and not cause my anxiety to increase.

I will fight through distractions, busyness, and bullshit.

I will focus only on things that make me better.

I can’t change it; I can live through it.

The opinions of others will no longer control or define me.


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