The Same Old Bedfellow
Anxiety has been my friend again, lately.
It’s sent me to the doctors twice in a week.
It made get another EKG and a holtor monitor.
It’s back to sucking the joy out of things that should be joyful.
It distracts me until I find it hard to function.
It frightens me until I cancel regular activities to appease it.
It corners me in a place where my biggest fears reside and it antagonizes me like it’s the Ghost of Christmas future or something.
And, I withdraw because somehow it seems natural. I can’t explain it. It’s like I’m a wounded animal trying to find some cavern or den into which I can retreat to lick my wounds until the storm passes.
There’s always a sign things are heading south. I guess that’s the best thing about 18 months of therapy, I’m now able to spot the anxiety further out now so I can’t get as far down that particular rabbit hole. That particular rabbit hole is dark and scary and crowded and uncomfortable and limiting. It’s ruinous.
I chant the same things like a mantra “Everything’s fine. I’m okay. Take my meds. It’s just my mind. It’s just my awesome imagination. What are the odds? Everyone has this happen to them. It’s normal. It’s benign. It’s nothing.”
I’m not an illogical person. I am not. Oh, sure, I still cling to that fanciful imagination I’ve always had and I think one of the things I love the most about myself is the root cause of a lot of panic/anxiety. My imagination makes things so vivid and real and convincing that my logical mind doesn’t stand a chance.
Poor logical mind. Poor logical Big Daddy.
Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about! Oh, but the more you try to stop the more you go. You can’t slam on the brakes, no matter how hard you try. It’s demoralizing. The panic breeds more panic and the cycle is harder to break the further it goes on.
THankfully, a few weeks have gone by and while I’m not yet 100%, I’m better enough to be able to hope the worst of this episode is behind me.