“Anxiety is love's greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.”
― Anaïs Nin
This is true. And sometimes telling the truth is hard. Harder still on the one being told.
It's Monday and I'm coming off a weekend of kids, which is often hard for me. The Celexa reached it's limit as to what it could and couldn't do for me so unfortunately last night I needed a Devil Pill in order to keep my head from exploding, quiet my heartbeat, and finally (I don't even know when) fall asleep.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Kids are kids. They are loud. They are messy. They go non-stop. My kid tends to be a little less of all of those things because, well, I'm his mother. But for the most part I guess all of that is normal. Only loud, messy and non stop always seem to send me into a panic. I feel like I'm stuck in a tornado. There's no order. And having order is one of my main coping mechanisms when it comes to my anxiety. Always has been. Always will be. When I have order around me I can keep order within me. This is hardly worth mentioning, of course, to anyone that doesn't feel the same way.
Most of the time, I just try to keep out of the way. If I do get brave enough to say...venture into the living room of doom and clutter...there usually isn't even a place for me to sit. So I'll back away slowly, sit in the other room, maybe do something on my computer. I struggle with wanting to feel like I belong in that picture, but also knowing I'm not comfortable there. This is one of those truths that's hard to tell, and possibly harder to hear. It's one of those truths that has no solution. At least not for me.
Becoming a mother did not come naturally for me. Not. At. All. I wouldn't change it, of course, but I'm just being honest. Perhaps is doesn't come naturally to anyone who suffers from Chronic Anxiety. I don't know. Through the initial struggle, I had to learn who he was, and that made the process a hell of a lot easier. It didn't take long for me to realize I had to tell him what we were going to do before we did it...like, going in the car...going outside...changing his diaper. Even before he learned to talk he needed to know what was coming next in order to feel comfortable. He liked order and routine. And that I could understand. I don't have a wild and crazy child. I have a child like me. Mostly quiet, not hyper, sensitive, shy, imaginative, artistic, caring, neat (as neat as an 8 year old can be), and anxious. That, I also understand.
The rest of the worlds kids, however, send me into a fit of panic. Cute as they may be, my brain can't keep up with their constant bouncing around from subject to subject or couch to couch. Their mess thrown all about the floor sends me into hybernation mode and I just want to hide until it's not there anymore. This is really nothing new either. I've pretty much always felt this way so why I decided to have a child of my own in the first place is one of lifes great mysteries.
So, there it is. A piece of my truth, and my next hurdle to try to overcome. Whether it's anxiety or just a personality trait, I'm not really sure. I know sometimes traits clash. It happens. We all are who we are in this world and sometimes trying to mix an odd combination together creates and less than appetizing result.
Hope, who is starting to understand herself again.