blue post it note with I forgive you written in pen and stuck to wall

Dear Anxiety: I'm in Recovery and I Forgive You

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Dear Anxiety,

How quickly you’ve grown.

I remember your birth. I was confused by your arrival yet my mind accepted you – with no input from me. You were an extrovert in the early stages of life: not present during the day but made sure you were home at night.

My pillow became your pillow. I began sharing the sheets with you, less because I wanted to and more because you’d refuse to sleep without me next to you. You were becoming too comfortable and I couldn’t figure out how to ask you to leave — an unwelcome stay which turned my home into a prison and my body into its amusement park.

As you matured your interests broadened — it made things difficult for me, to say the least. I would try to sit down for a minute and relax, but you’d become hyperactive in times of silence. You’d cry for attention if I ever tried to ignore you. In an unlikely moment of clarity, where the fog of your presence lifted, I felt whole again. I felt as if I could remember the importance of caring for myself without also worrying about your needs.

Your need for me became an unhealthy obsession.

Despite you being ever-present in my mind, I never noticed your insatiable appetite for destruction. I always blamed myself for canceling dinners, rearranging plans or for not picking up the phone; I was too frightened of what my friends would think of you. I never stopped to realize you deceived me. Your viscous lies were the catalyst to my downfall but I couldn’t let you go. You were so deep-rooted in my flesh, my veins and my thoughts that you and I were no longer two separate entities.

I always put you first. Why didn’t you ever take me into consideration?

By this point, nothing else had a purpose in my life. You were always around: at work, in the car, in the park and in my bed. It took away all of my energy coping with you, day in and day out; you were draining me of all that was good. I accepted my life would never be “normal” without you in it. I think you knew that too.

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I remember the day when I considered talking to somebody about you. Despite your attempts to dissuade me from ever opening my mouth about our time together, I had to take a chance. I wasn’t afraid of your temper anymore — I could deal with the repercussions, whatever they may have been.

I let the phrase, “I need help, please, can you help me understand…” leave my lips. It felt like barbed wire was being pulled from the pit of my stomach, up through my throat, out through my mouth, cutting everything on its way out.

You, my dear friend, displayed your anger in full force that day. You made sure my heart raced so that my words stumbled in the hopes I would lose my breath and succumb to your rage.

I finally knew who my unwanted guest was. It turned out you have many forms and frequently visit other people to make them feel like me.

All this time, you made me feel alone.

You made me feel isolated and like I wasn’t “normal.” And just like a rebellious teenager, I began ignoring your instructions, I started fighting back — I believed in myself.

The more I fought back, the more I started enjoying “normality,” the less power you had over me. I would put myself through excruciating pain by doing all of the things you prevented me from doing: you made everything difficult for me, but that didn’t matter. Your stay was coming to an end and you knew it.

Over an 18-month period, we wrestled nearly every day but I grew stronger after every throwdown. Confidence began to replace the fear in my stomach, my smile began to replace the tears and the separation between us was becoming a reality. I knew I was worth more and knew you were not forever. I determine when you’re welcome: not you. Not anymore.

It’s funny — as you packed your bags and left, I felt thankful for you. You taught me so much about strength, about appreciating life for what it is and for showing me the courage I never thought I had.

I have no regrets about letting you in; I am not ashamed I looked for help and I’m proud of the experiences we shared together. Without you, my old friend, I wouldn’t be the determined, compassionate and understanding man I am today.

You visit me far less frequently these days and you often only stay the night. The next time you decide to stay, you’ll find this note. A note commending you for your efforts and thanking you for your tremendous ability to bring the best out of me.

I will always speak about you now. I’ll make sure more people know about our time together — the good and the bad.

For now, I’ll end this note with a thank you. You will be remembered.

Yours sincerely,

Ryan

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To the Person Who Brought Me a Milkshake When Anxiety and Sensory Overload Hit

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In the middle of a large mall, surrounded by a group of people, I stood. Words I could barely process echoed into my ears. A flashback entered my brain with a shock. Every negative emotion of my past seemed to wish to bounce back inside of me. My hands shook without my ability to control them. Life was pulling me straight into an pit of emotion. I fought and fought but could not stop the tears from building up in my eyes. Not only was I experiencing a sudden shock of sadness and anxiety, but I also had to deal with my own sensory processing disorder in a loud and frustrating place.

You were there. You witnessed every single embarrassing moment that happened there and still looked at me with empathy and compassion. With everything, you still had the choice of simply walking away without a thought, yet you refused. The sound of my crying already brought attention to several others who only built up the noise around me. Instead of joining them, you did something I never expected.

You turned away. Straight in the direction of a near ice cream shop, you began walking. You joined the line filled with several people and waited.

At the time, my brain had no idea what was about to happen. I had no idea what you were going to do. All I could think about was the emotional pain that suddenly struck me and now would refuse my begs to stop. People came, asked what was wrong, and left me shortly afterwards. You didn’t leave.

You came straight back, a chocolate milkshake in your hand. Stretching out your hand, you showed me the delicious drink. With confusion, I stared, not being able to process the random act of kindness that had occurred. “It’s for you,” you explained. Immediately, I forgot the thoughts that swirled inside my head. I did something only a second before I strongly doubted I would ever do: I smiled. 

“Thank you,” I replied, taking your gift. Still, I doubted you knew how much you really changed my perspective on that day. You made me smile when I thought I’d never smile again. You gave me happiness when negative emotions crowded around my head. You reminded me hope still existed.

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Although it’s been a while, I want to say it again. Thank you, not for only buying me a milkshake but for changing my perspective.

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Thinkstock photo by Jirakarn

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The Importance of Taking Little Steps in Anxiety Recovery

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I can smile. I can laugh. I can be happy.

Now, I do this without having to fake it, without wearing a perfected mask to disguise the truth of my illness from those around me. I do it because it is finally true, and I don’t want to let it fade away.

I had been letting my mental illness suppress my capacity to enjoy things. I was looking through fear-filled glasses, and they would not break. I knew no matter how much I tried to deny it, the fault was in my perspective — a perspective that over the last few years had been shaped into something that meant I saw danger in everything. By changing my view of anything I deemed slightly scary, I opened the door to so much more.

Little by little, I have branched out and I have become myself: a girl who doesn’t always need to worry or live in fear of danger, a girl who knows how to be happy.

The process has taken months of self-help and therapy; I have tried everything. Mindfulness, reflexology, hypnotherapy, writing — anything I could do to diminish the pain I was going through. I had been living in fear of my own fear – of my panic attacks, and the symptoms coinciding with them. I was terrified of what could happen if I wasn’t kept busy enough to shut out the thoughts echoing inside my head. My head became a noisy place, battling with me on my path to my revival. I set myself small goals and took each day as it was. Pressure hurt me. I knew I couldn’t rush this, but I never stopped trying. I knew I wanted and needed change; it was just going to take time.

I learned communication is the biggest help; distance is the worst.

Positivity, patience and praise became the instruments to my recovery, as the weight of my illness no longer fell on just my shoulders. I didn’t need to run away and hide, fighting my panic attacks by myself because someone was always there. They knew my anxiety was not a personal attack on them. I was picked up, supported and brought on a journey — a journey of health, happiness and comfort I never got from being alone.

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After realizing recovery isn’t an overnight process, I knew I could fight my anxiety. Everyone takes a different route, which is never going to be easy. I no longer have consistent panic attacks, I sleep better at night and I don’t constantly worry. I try to see things in a more positive light – I won’t let myself believe any intrusive thoughts I have.

I didn’t control my mental illness, but I certified it couldn’t control me. My anxiety will always be a part of me, but that’s OK. If there are setbacks, I know I am strong enough to get back to how I am. Whatever I go through, I will be OK. I am happy again, and that’s the most important thing.

It was always going to take little steps, but little steps make the biggest changes.

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Thinkstock photo via LeszekCzerwonka.

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My Anxiety Didn't Stop Me From Throwing a 'Crappy' Dinner Party

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Once in a while, my husband, Lee, and I will sit down and do a relationship check-up. Just a couple of questions like “how are you doing?” and “anything you want to do differently?” Kind of like Festivus but without the pole.

Lee brought up that he’d like to entertain more. Like, people in our house entertain. Sounded doable at the time. Yes, let’s entertain more. Great idea. I’ve always loved magazine spreads showing reclaimed wood tables dressed with linens and adorned with flowers and candles. Cheese trays displayed with grapes, artisnal crackers and those fancy curved cheese knives (I have one and use it for my scratch-off tickets).

Then reality hit. He invited a neighbourhood family over.

Immediately I started making to-do lists. Grocery lists. Lists of lists. As the day approached I became consumed with how my house looked:

The kitchen needs painting…too many toys on the main floor…god I hate these chairs…

And as I looked around, I felt nothing was good enough. How could we have people over with so many scruffy baseboards?

The benefit of being treated at a mental-health facility, though, is that they teach you to think differently. What if my house was just fine the way it is? What if I didn’t exhaust myself on the Saturday of the dinner party? Could the evening be less than perfect and still be fun?

Off to Google to search “don’t want to entertain too stressful,” and like a beacon, the top link shone out: “The Crappy Dinner Party.”

Here’s the link. In my opinion, it’s brilliant.

So I decided not to stress.

I didn’t stress out about this:

Photo of deck in backyard with dirt on it

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We dumped the X-mas tree out there. Mess, mess everywhere.

Or the piles of paper here and there:

Counter in home topped with plant, papers, crossword puzzle, and SodaStream bottle

What is a four-letter word for constant mess? Kids! Oooh! A crossword.

But I did use this:

Bottle of Febreeze spray on counter at home

Make the place smell nice.

Lit a bunch of these:

Lit candle

You, you light up my life.

And spent seven dollars on these beauties.

Vase filled with fresh tulips

Tulips on your piano.

The menu was also easy. Recipes I tried out the week before: Crockpot pulled pork on fresh buns, coleslaw and potato salad. Chips as appetizers. Apple pie for dessert.

The only things that are non-negotiable in my world are 1) a clean kitchen and 2) clean bathrooms.

So I got up on the Saturday, read the newspaper, took the dog for a walk, cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms and then had a nap. I had to stop myself many, many times throughout the course of the day when I could feel the anxiety rising. I silently yelled STOP when my panicked mind wanted to take over and cancel the evening. I breathed deeply when my stomach started twisting at the thought of entertaining all night. I certainly did not ask myself “what’s the worst that can happen?” because my mind is capable of catastrophizing even a casual dinner party. So I walked, I breathed and reminded myself that I was in control, not my thoughts. By the time the doorbell rang, I was relaxed and ready to go. The evening was a huge success, and I was able to keep my eyes open past 9 p.m.

I think a few things contributed to success of the evening: our guests were greeted warmly upon their arrival. I actually said “I’m so glad you’re here” because I was; I didn’t need 15 more minutes to make the beds. The food was good; not great, but good. Their drinks were refreshed promptly and there was lots to laugh about.

Plus, when you face your fears and anxieties head on with a successful outcome, it gives you confidence. I discovered that perfection is often the enemy of excellence, and that I need to remind myself of that on a regular basis. I realized that kindness sometimes involves extending yourself outside your comfort zone. Our neighbours had a great time, and I didn’t have the usual fitful night of sleep following a dinner party – wondering if everything was OK. I didn’t have to worry. Our “crappy” dinner party was really, really OK and I’m OK with that.

Follow this journey on Kindism.

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How Living With Anxiety Can Feel Like Walking on a Tight Rope

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There’s such a blessing and a curse involved in living your life with your heart out on display. It’s the biggest blessing when you give love to those around you — friends, family, strangers on the internet. I would be lying if I said my heart didn’t bust at the seams with joy at all the beautiful and amazing souls in my life.

I know I am very fortunate in so many ways. But although most days I feel strong and brave and steadfast in who I am, sometimes my heart breaks.

The danger of walking around with your guts and heart out to give is, it also makes you a target. People can chip away and tug at you more than ever before. Sometimes giving love and of myself to others is ultimately rewarding and keeps me sane. But on nights like tonight, it can crush my soul.

Living life with anxiety can feel like I’m walking on a tight rope, dangerously balancing so I don’t fall off. I sweat and force a smile while I feel watched. Judged. Observed under the lights. Each time someone gives me a compliment or shares their praise, the rope shrinks. Frays. Making my trip across — my act of balancing it all — even more daunting. All while everyone is watching and waiting to see what happens. Most are rooting for me. Others hang on every second, waiting to watch me fall.

I don’t tell you this for any other reason than to show you it’s really fucking hard to be strong all the time. I see so many women trying to do it all and be it all for everyone. We seek solace and comfort in seeing other strong women do what we can not. We feel less than and unworthy when we don’t feel strong and brave.

But sometimes the strongest fall the hardest. Hurt the deepest. Love the boldest. We see triumphs and bravery and success in others and desperately seek it in ourselves. But we have that brokenness, messiness. We hurt. Our hearts break. You often don’t see that, the clean up of the results of a passionate person’s breakdowns.

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Because we take that hurt and use it to give more. Love more. Do more. Be more. We break down. Then we show up. Loving harder than before. The passion you see? It’s fueled by the wreckage. The build up from the breakdown. The work of art they piece back together. Because that’s what we do. And we do it all with a smile.

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Thinkstock photo via GPitman.

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When You Want to Go to the Doctor but Anxiety Doesn't

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For most people, going to the doctor is a simple interruption in their work day or day off. It’s a simple, “I’m here for a checkup.” It’s a boring two-hour period of waiting for a doctor to speak to you for 15 minutes before sending you on your way. For someone with a mental illness like me, it can be absolutely terrifying.

I have been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. For me, going to the doctor means an unavoidable panic attack and my entire day is ruined. Before I got married and got insurance, I hadn’t been to a doctor for over six years. I finally got to see a doctor about two weeks ago. I was so excited for this appointment because there are so many symptoms I’ve been experiencing that hadn’t been addressed. I was ready to tell my doctor about my mental illness and I was ready for treatment. That was, until the morning of my appointment.

When I woke up, I immediately remembered my appointment being in about three hours. For those three hours, I couldn’t sit still. I was going from the living room to the kitchen, aimlessly wandering the house, until it came time to get ready. My head started pounding and my chest felt light, as though all my organs had teleported outside my body. I got in the car and drove to my doctor and on the way, listened to music to cool me down. Unfortunately, this did not work.

My doctor is on a military base, so when I gave my ID to the man at the gate, my hands were shaking and I was sweating profusely. I walked into the facility and was so absent-minded I circled the building several times before finally finding the stairs. When I found the location of my doctor’s office, I gave my name to the woman at the desk and sat down. They called my name: “Cranston. Cranston. Mrs. Cranston?” I zoned out before finally answering “Here!”

The next 30 minutes were torture. Every question the nurse asked me went over my head. I felt stupid. The nurse seemed not to notice, however and left to get the doctor. I waited for what seemed like an eternity, carefully rehearsing what I was to tell the doctor. I sat on that table fidgeting, shaking, sweating. I attempted to do the breathing exercises that had been pounded in my head by previous therapists, but nothing was working. I was starting to have a panic attack and needed to stop it before someone came in and saw it. I took a few more deep breaths and reminded myself this was just a primary care physician and she wasn’t going to do anything or say anything to me I couldn’t handle. My experience with doctors is not a good one, so my nervousness was warranted in my head.

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Finally, I relaxed enough to take a deep breath right as the doctor walked in. She seemed rushed in her examination, but I promised myself not to mention mental health until the end of the appointment. In my experience, when I’ve mentioned having a mental illness early on in the appointment, everything else I say was written off as a symptom of my mental illness and excused as a false symptom. This is the most frustrating experience for an ill person.

She asked, “What types of symptoms are you having today?” I responded with, “I….I…..I have….” before tears began to run down my cheeks. I gasped at my own emotional display and looked to the doctor to check her reaction. She reassured me this was a simple check up and I shouldn’t be nervous. She handed me a tissue, told me to take a deep breath and asked again. This time I answered completely, but forgot half of what I had rehearsed and had to randomly blurt out symptoms throughout her exam. When I mentioned mental illness, she immediately referred me to a behavioral health physician that could help me. Success!

Going to the doctor is not a simple task and it takes a lot of willpower for someone like me. I can’t count how many doctors appointments I’ve cancelled because my anxiety was too overwhelming.

For the rest of the day, I felt defeated, weak and depressed. I try to get my doctor’s appointments as late in the day as possible so I don’t spend all day depressed. It’s difficult to feel achievement or happiness after an appointment, even one that goes very well.

Hopefully one day I will become more comfortable with doctors and will have an experience that proves to me they are not there to judge, ridicule or expect the worst from those with mental illnesses, but as of today, my feelings stand strong. I have another doctor’s appointment next week and I guarantee I will feel the same, but I will survive. Because I am strong and I have all of you to tell me so.

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Thinkstock photo via utah778.

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