What Anxiety Means to Me
Anxiety is the monster under my bed, with claws tapping ominously in the middle of the night when I wake up with a gasp and a nightmare I can’t quite remember.
Anxiety is merging onto the highway in front of a semi truck, with distrust in your engine’s ability and a terrible image in my mind.
Anxiety is the inexplicable stab of pain in my stomach in the middle of the day, motivation waning as I struggle to remember every task on my to-do list.
Anxiety is looking at my medication and wondering if the game of “side effect roulette” is worth the minor relief for my racing mind and palpitating heart.
Anxiety is trying to explain to my loved ones that I don’t want to sit on my closet floor, but it’s the only place that I don’t feel like the world is collapsing inwards on me.
Anxiety is tapping my foot as I sit in the waiting room for my next doctor’s appointment with hope in my chest, but I’m not sure what for.
Anxiety is the awareness that recovery isn’t linear, that there are good and bad days and I sometimes don’t know which it will be until I’m hiding in the bathroom at noon.
Acceptance is befriending my anxiety and knowing that it’s OK not to be OK, and having faith in my ability to heal.
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Thinkstock photo via jetFoto