Monday, December 17, 2012
There are certain times when a horrible experience turns into the fondest memory. When it turns into the thrilling kind of terror, like Halloween. But only after you have peaceably come out of it, alive but with scars. Not ugly scars, just the pale kind that make your skin a little lighter. I notice myself gazing at those scars, dwelling on them with a hint of indulgence. For some reason, loving to remember when I was not careful what I wished for. Relishing in the rubbish of a nightmare once morning has come to save me from it. When I was younger, I thought it was cool that I had anxiety. I felt so uniquely sinister. Even though I hated the dr. visits, and all the days I never went to school, and all my days of disbelieving, I secretly loved it just enough that it never went away. Now I am a grown woman, trying to be a responsible, attentive wife and preparing to be a mother. Soon, I'm not going to have the luxury of pacing around the dining room every time it hits. I can't have my children looking into my eyes one day and detecting my "save me, save me" plea, because I want to teach them to save themselves, just as I'm learning to do. My history of anxiety has been long, complicated, and pathetic at times. I suspect there are even moments when I willed myself to make it worse just so the people around me would believe it was real. I have felt desperate in my aloneness, unable to convey the vague, biting fear that fills a body and soul with doom so dark that nobody else can see it. "It's just a feeling" they have said to me "that is all in your head." And when it's put like that, I tend to feel like I'm failing this battle, because I'm not thinking the way I'm supposed to. I get very defensive, convincing people who never even asked, how hard I try. And then I read things that say to not try at all, and it will go away. Trying to not try is the hardest thing I have ever tried.