The Paradox of Existing With Anxiety

People often ask me for words to describe my diagnosis, the terms that define my illness. I have struggled for years to find such words, to put a definition to my mental illness. I have embraced a few terms, as simplistic as they may seem. Yet they encompass so much.

Broken.

It’s the only way I know to describe who I really am. The people around me don’t see it but the cracks are there, just below the surface, cleverly hidden by my smile and perfectionism. Maybe if I am good enough, do enough, smile enough and serve enough, then my brokenness won’t show. Maybe it won’t be the thing people remember about me.

Although they don’t see it now, I know one day I won’t be able to hide the cracks anymore and they will rear their ugly head. Everyone will know the fraud I really am inside and the horrible things I think of myself, all the while trying to teach others to love themselves despite their flaws. I pour my energy and thoughts into fixing their lives so I don’t have to focus on the thoughts running rampant inside my mind. While I know we are all beautifully broken, I feel as if I’m somehow the one beyond repair, unable to be mended.

Strong.

I am strong. I want to scream it to the world when I’m having a good day, when I’ve overcome an obstacle and feel as if I can do anything. When I am feeling confident, energized, capable and whole. I want so badly for people to understand I am much stronger than they realize and that battling my inner demons may not leave physical scars but the scars are there none the less. Yet, I persist.

I want the world to see that making it to work today was a hard task but I faced it anyway, knowing I am better than this disease. I want them to understand the determination it takes to battle daily with simply trying to exist and deciding I’m not willing to give up, knowing that once my spirit is that broken I will never recover. Instead, I focus on willing myself through another day until the pain lessens, and I find a safe foothold.

I have mental illness, and as a result, I am both broken and strong. The paradox of this statement is not lost on me. I am broken, but this brokenness has produced in me a strong will to fight, to never give up. Although fighting for me might mean having to stay home, avoiding relationships or taking medication, it is what must be done to continue the daily battle for my mind, my sanity.

I wish the world would see although I know the brokenness is there, I don’t let it stop me. Even though there are days when it would be so easy to give up the fight, I know I cannot do so because only then would this illness win. I would rather be broken and strong than simply be defeated.