The Insidious Nature of Anxiety

                Let’s talk about anxiety. It’s an insidious and amorphous part of living with mental illness and/or trauma. It’s very difficult to ignore the expected spikes of anxiety – like right before a test, performance, or interview – but there is a cause and, in most cases, there are coping mechanisms to help ease the tension such as studying, practicing, or coaching. Then there are the unexpected spikes of anxiety – panic attacks, unpleasant surprises, and bad news. These spikes often have fewer coping mechanisms associated with them, but they are still very difficult to flat out ignore.

                The anxiety that I’m focusing on, though, is the creeping, background anxiety that rests in the back of your brain and broils in the pit of your stomach. It’s the anxiety that quietly chips at your confidence and makes you question your very word choice. For me, it’s the anxiety that causes me to pick at my cuticles and facial blemishes. It’s the anxiety that pushes me to use overly authoritative tones, regardless of their actual usefulness for the situation (thanks, academia!). It’s the anxiety that leaves me feeling lost and edgy when I am providing work without a clear set of expectations, like submitting job applications or navigating unfamiliar bureaucracy. It’s the anxiety that tells me that I’m too loud, that I don’t grasp social situations as well as I think I do, that I’m plain and uninteresting, that my perspective isn’t worth sharing.

                The main problem I have experienced with this anxiety is that it has always been a part of my inner monologue. There was never a time, as far as I can remember, where I didn’t question whether I was likable or smart or funny or interesting. I’ve always responded to anxiety very aggressively, so I focused on what I felt I could control: how smart I am. I adopted a matter of fact tone, read, studied, and developed some very staunch opinions. I increasingly “managed” this constant, low level anxiety with a jam-packed schedule; an academic tone, tempered with sarcasm; and squishing myself into a very specific archetype. These gave me a very clear structure to work within. I knew exactly how I was supposed to behave in each environment, what was expected of me, how to shock and awe without giving too much of “me” away. I never had to stop to think about who I was, nor did I have to consider what the stress from the anxiety and my schedule were doing to my body.

                One of the most important things I’ve done for my mental and physical well-being is listening to my friends who were concerned about me. It wasn’t until a very close friend said that she saw the light in my eyes going out that I realized how tense I was, how fearful and escapist I had become. When I realized what I was doing to myself and I stopped to think about why I was doing it, I knew I needed to change something. I was managing my depressive episodes (this stage was years before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder), but I wasn’t handling my anxiety, at all. Even the stuff in the first paragraph. I just plowed through and controlled my entire environment so I could convince myself I was ok. The problem with this tactic is that I never had a moment to realize I was anxious. I started with trying to understand on my own, but it wasn't until I sought the help of a therapist I trusted that I was able to find a new "normal."

                I’m lucky, in that anxiety is a symptom of my mental illness and trauma. While I experience anxiety on a level higher than many people, I do not have an anxiety disorder. My anxiety is largely mitigated by managing my mood disorder, avoiding specific triggers, and lifestyle choices. Thankfully, my anxiety has improved dramatically over the last 10 years, but it wouldn’t have been possible without stopping and taking the time to understand it. It’s a terrible thing to face, but 100% worth the trouble.