I’ve always known anxiety.
I was pressed beneath a wave of it from an early age.
And at certain points in my life its been debilitating.
These days it’s no different.
It’s a chess match between myself and panic. A battle. Something that I have to physically fight. I have no idea what the end game is, I suppose it would involve me forcing the anxiety down on bended knee and causing it to somehow scream “uncle”.
Which is completely asinine.
This past while I have come to realize that defeating anxiety and panic is probably not very practical.
It’s too crafty a foe.
Shape-shifting in plain sight to trick me.
Often times, especially when I’m at the peak of stress, the panic wants me to go places — to hit up a burger joint, or get a pizza, or some other object of contention.
It mocks me. Laughing at my tattered tapestry of foibles.
What I’ve come to understand lately is that you can fight this stuff all you want, but for me at least, that fight is unwinnable.
So instead of swinging at the air, trying to force back a foe that is not only invisible, but unbeatable — it’s high time I started looking deeply at that part of myself.
That part that keeps me up nights and makes me feel weak and unsure of myself.
That part of me is just that. It’s a part of me. And I love who I’m becoming. And in the midst of all of that that romance I must begin loving all of me.
Including the anxiety.
Hating it. Fighting it. Languishing in it. These are futile responses.
Time has come to look at it differently, and to adore it — embracing the vulnerable sensitivity that embodies it. Trying to rid myself of these feelings is like pounding nails into the floor with your head. I’ve been doing that for 38 years without making a hell of a lot of progress.
So instead of fighting, it’s time to show myself some compassion.
It’s time to lay down the guns, and embrace a little peace, love, and understanding.
And that’s not anything to be nervous about.