Anxiety is what I felt when I held a baby in my arms when I was 8 years old. I visioned my arms turning into jelly, dropping the little girl on the floor, but I faced my fear. I sat on the couch with my neighbor’s daughter, only a couple days old, letting her heavy head rest on my arm.
On the other side of the massive couch were her grandparents, silently staring at me, their faces barely moving. Probably to make sure I wouldn’t drop her right into hell. Instantly, I gave the baby back to her father.
After that, I didn’t hold a baby for years, I said no on every occasion. I convinced myself I didn’t like babies, when I was actually terrified I’d hurt them.
Pick your battles
Fighting anxiety is like raising a baby, if you don’t let it try stuff, it will never learn anything. If you let it do whatever it wants, it will be spoiled and crawl everywhere, without knowing the dangers. You have to let it go but go against it now and then. You have to prove it wrong, tell some white lies, hold it close, comfort it.
For a long time, I didn’t know how to fight my anxiety, so I fed it. I believed it was always right, I rarely tried arguing with it. Why would I if it had already convinced me years ago I wasn’t worth it?
I believed the people in class were laughing because of me. When I had a seat on an extremely crowded bus, I felt like I occupied ten places instead of one. I asked the wrong questions, wore strange clothes. And I would never be a good enough writer.
Anxiety told me not to take risks.
Anxiety told me I was on my own.
Anxiety told me to always listen to it, or I would get hurt.
Anxiety told me I was wrong by standing out, and it praised me when holding back.
And I listened. If I didn’t write, I wouldn’t get criticized. If I wouldn’t hold a baby, it was impossible to drop it. I wanted to be a chameleon. Taking over the structure of every piece of furniture and the colors of the walls. Don’t mind me, just blending in.
Don’t fight it, listen to it
Anxiety is a part of me that I try to let go bit by bit every day. And I’m proud of myself doing a pretty good job.
Sometimes I can still go days feeling out of sync. On these days, something from the deepest corners of my memory wakes up and puts me back on the couch with a baby in my hand. Something is wrong — it tells me — run.
I try not to act, but I also try not to fight it. I listen. And it might take days for me to figure out what it is trying to tell me, but I learned that taking action based on anxiety is anything but fruitful. By slowly taking the feeling apart, it teaches me something about myself again.
How I’m still afraid I will be let down, that people will leave me for no apparent reason. Why I think I shouldn’t apply for that job, or that my writing isn’t worth publishing.
I let my younger self rest and try not to judge it in any way. And then I let it go.
