High anxiety
a late-night scribble on being a funny lil nervous wreck
Sign my cast
Anxiety can be a crutch for many situations - that party, that dinner, that chance encounter, that conversation that you can predict. It’s something you can hobble on while out and about, and it’s an injury you can point to when people ask what’s wrong with you.
“Well, I broke it,” You might say, pointing your crutch to your entire…self.
“So, I can’t come.” They’ll look at you and nod in silent understanding. A beat. "You can sign it though! Right here,” you offer brightly, motioning to a place on your anxiety cast, like a weather man. “Just not too big.”
Nowadays, the modern world seems to have normalized the idea of anxiety. It’s perfectly okay to not be okay (read: it’s a universal fact that we’re all actually messed up inside). In fact, it might be a little bit cool and trendy.
As a child, I’ve always felt a deep sense shyness, and with that shyness always came anxiety (or what I now know to be ‘anxiety’). What seems to be thrice as anxiety-inducing now is realizing my younger self really had no words to diagnose those jittery feelings. It’s an anxious situation - knowing you’re feeling horrible, but not knowing where it’s coming from.
Even now, when I think about anxiety - I think, perhaps, it makes me anxious to think about the fact that I even have anxiety.
Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety - the word just feels like it would look like this guy:
Through several bouts of self-reflection, I’ve located different places where my anxiety is born. And I’m here to mostly poke fun at it, in hopes that someone else can relate.
The heart on my sleeve
One of my biggest fears has always been in being ‘caught’ or ‘found out.’ Letting people into who you are, and letting them read you like a book is completely vulnerable and horrifying - at least, that’s what it’s felt like for me during the most anxious eras in my life. Showing people how I really felt - especially when it was a defenseless feeling - like being unconfident, nervous, or stressed - was rated R, horror-movie scary.
For example, wading in the new corporate world after college had me burying pits of nervousness in my stomach to grow into anxious evergreen trees later. Being left out of groups and being perceived as quiet was a nightmare - a nightmare that I understood, but that I hated experiencing while I was awake. And clearly not liking someone I was interacting with, but being forced to hold conversation with, felt like trying to hold my balance on one foot, with a weak ankle. (Joke’s on everyone - both of my ankles are weak.)
It used to be terrifying to think that some people could tell from afar how I feel, especially if it wasn’t a good feeling. Masking became a survival skill - and if I let the mask slip, it truly felt like death.
Anxiety is so theatrical and dramatic like that. It deserves its own broadway show. A little dance and song number with deep Brooklyn accents.
Now, I’m not going to say that fear doesn’t still sit within my chest now and then. It definitely pops a yoga squat, lays on its side, takes a nap in a fetal position, and sways nervously side to side in the quarters of my weak little heart, more often than I’d like it to.
But, when it does - I’ve been learning more and more to not protect whatever mask I feel like I need to wear in front of others. Stifling how I really feel is a form of suffering, at the expense of my livelihood. And it turns out, when they say, “Just be yourself” - ideologically, it puts a lot of the anxiety to rest… That is, when you know yourself, and you’re okay with who that self is.
So, I’ve been just trying to let everything ‘show.’ If you say something unkind, I may frown a little, pause and look at you with a smidge of disdain. If you purposely make me carry the conversation, I’m going to let that tight-lipped, raised-cheekbones, bright-eyed smile sit neatly on my face, nodding at you with a little too much energy, “That’s amazing! So…where are you from originally?”, knowing I won’t get asked any questions back. And if you’re saying something that’s largely untrue to my face, I’ll politely look at you with knowing eyes, or even ask you, “Where’d you hear that?”
On the flip side, if I receive a handwritten note from you that moves me, I will let the brimming tears peer off the balcony of my eyes, and I’ll let you know how much it means to me. And if you’re empathetic and compassionate, I’ll give you a rare hug.
This is not a threat, but a continuous self-care promise to… well, myself - to always just try to actually feel exactly how I’m feeling, and know that it’s okay if other people see it. Because if they do see it, they’re just seeing me for me, and that’s the best thing they could see.
The sweat behind my knees
Look. Something funny about anxiety: from my experience, it even comes when things are going well.
I could be sitting in an interview, where I know they like me, I know I’m killing it - yet, pools of sweat will still gather under my pits, behind my knees, and at my temples. It could be 30 degrees outside, or it could be oven-sweltering heat of the summer; the anxiety will come like a shower of moisturizer I didn’t ask for.
Sometimes, the idea that you’re just being perceived is stressful. I want to be seen, but I hate being perceived.
Interviews are probably one of the most anxiety-inducing places you could find yourself at. They’re often simulations and tests, and they feign themselves as casual and “real” and “just a conversation” - but really, the overtones and the undertones feel manufactured and uncomfortable. I’m not sure whose fault this is. I just think the fact that we all say interviews are conversations, when they’re really off-the-cuff tests of whether someone likes you or not, or thinks you’re smart enough, is just a big ‘ol trick we like to play forever on each other.
Interviews are also places where you’re told to be yourself! But for reasons like needing to pay rent, secure insurance, and just be able to thrive in a capitalist society - one must always consider not being themselves in order to pass the test.
Hence, the sweat.
But, like “the heart on the sleeve” thing - life is too short to pretend you’re not feeling the way you’re feeling, and to hide who you are deep down inside. Being yourself is one of the most difficult life skills to get good at - I’m sure I could add that to my resume? - and I’m learning more and more to let go and let the real me come out to play. Even if in the process of letting go, I still get the sweaty knees.
My grinding teeth
If you’re like me, your teeth are palace-builders when you sleep. The anxious thoughts swirl around in your head like that tornado from The Wizard of Oz, which picks up cows and dogs and houses and people - and all the while, your jaw absorbs the stress.
If you’re like me, you also might wear a mouthguard at night like a football player. Sometimes, it’ll fall out, and then you have to blindly tap your hand around in your bed sheets and on the floor to go find where it went. Kind of like someone with bad eye sight feeling around for their glasses.
And you’re probably like me if you’ve grown to have this grinding teeth problem from dark or stressful periods in your life. You might have weird, reoccurring dreams that reflect those darknesses or stressors. For me, I’m always standing in line somewhere - like at an airport, or at an amusement park - and I have to go back home, and pack (who knows why?), and then logistically get back into my place in line, all before my plane or rollercoaster takes off. Just complete, logistical nightmares.
Can you imagine the teeth palace-building that gets done while those scenarios are playing in my head? At this point, I bet there’s carvings and sculptures in my mouth that would put Mount Rushmore and all ancient hieroglyphics to shame.
Finding peace, ish
I know that it’s progressive of me to put anxiety and peace in the same sentence. But, the secret to grappling with anxiety is probably knowing how to grapple with peace.
In between signing anxiety casts, wearing your heart on your sleeve, sweating behind your knees, and grinding your teeth - there is, and always, will be peace.
Sometimes, it’s hard for me to accept peace when I’ve been enjoying hobbling around with a crutch for most of my life.
Some wise guy with a beard probably said once that peace at the center of the storm is nothing without the storm itself.
Whether it’s a storm, or a path to momentary peace, I will accept both, and I will walk without a crutch, on both feet. I’ll keep the crutch in my car in case I need it though.