Looking back, I have always been an anxious person. It wasn’t until I was in my forties though, that I had the language to put a label to the traits that I presumed were personal to me. By the time I realised, I wasn’t too concerned. After all, I was reaching mid-life, the time when, as I was led to believe, you leave all of your insecurities behind and start to give less fucks. I’m disappointed to report that, at least for me, this has not been the case. No, I am decidedly still anxious.
Voice
I was listening to a podcast the other day. Nothing unusual there, I listen to a lot of podcasts, I learn a lot from them. The guest on this particular episode was an expert in her field, interesting, knowledgable, cool. I liked her. But, she spoke super fast, which left me feeling jittery, to the point that I detached from the message she was delivering and had to switch off. I’m not sure why she spoke so fast. Maybe she was nervous. Perhaps it was a manifestation of her excitement about the subject matter. Either way, I didn’t like the way it made me feel.
I’m self-aware enough to know that this said more about me than it did about her. I understood that she reminded me of me. Because I have spent years working on slowing down the speed in which I speak. And I thought I’d done a pretty good job of it too. Then I had a thing recently where I completely lost control of my voice.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with my voice, dating back to childhood. A throwaway comment from a school friend, who probably wouldn’t even remember the conversation (or me), left me with the idea that my voice sounded weird. My childhood brain, as a way to protect myself, told me that speaking quickly meant less time for people to notice this anomaly. So I spat my words out like rapid fire.
Anxious
Before I understood that I suffered with anxiety, I thought that the way my brain worked was similar to everyone else. Turns out most people aren’t totally freaked out by the fact that we are all going to die. And that we have no control over how or when. Nor do most people see the worst case scenario as the probably outcome of every situation. Or attach to a subject matter to the point of obsession. They don’t believe that they have the power to keep the world spinning if only they don’t drop the ball. Or that they can stop bad things from happening by controlling everything, and everyone, around them.
Some times are better than others. There are periods where I can be almost (but not quite) easy going. But other times, like the last couple of months, it feels as though I am crawling out of my skin. Then, anxiety is running the ship.
Anxiety is not depression. I’m not depressed. In fact, I am feeling every emotion; more so than I ever have before. Sadness, deep joy, fear at the state of the world. Even anger, an emotion that I have historically struggled to engage.
I thought that the worst of my anxiety was situational, but this anxiety is thrumming around my body without reason. The last time I felt like this was before I left my job in 2022. But then, my life looked very different to how it does now.
My job was full on, I’d lost three of my people in two years, and I’d just found out I was perimenopausal. The panic attacks, which at times robbed me of my voice completely, could easily be explained away. Then I started HRT and my time became my own, and all of that melted away. The panic attacks disappeared and I could trust in my voice once more.
Unhinged
Then I had the thing. An interview for a short-term role that wouldn’t interfere with my writing. A job that I was overqualified, and over experienced for, and could do in my sleep. The nerves, for weeks beforehand, were disproportionate, but no matter what I tried, I couldn’t will them away. And despite being more than prepared, with notes on hand should I need them (it was a virtual interview), I just couldn’t get out of my own head.
To say it was awful was an understatement. I spoke at ninety miles an hour, the panel couldn’t keep up with, or make sense of, my answers, and a panic attack left me grasping at words through the black fog that descended over my mind. I was unhinged.
Although rejection is never nice, I wasn’t upset that I didn’t get the job. Honestly, I’d have been more surprised if they had hired me. What I did feel though, was shame. Shame not only at my failure in the moment, but that I had reverted back to a version of myself that I thought I had outgrown. This saw me spiralling deeper into anxiety, unsure if I’d ever feel comfortable speaking in public again.
Still broken
I thought HRT had balanced my fluctuating hormones. I thought, for the most part at least, that I was fixed. But now I’m wondering if I just put a plaster over my anxiety when I removed myself from a stressful job. Am I now so fragile that any hint of stress will see me trembling at the knees?
Will anxiety follow me, like an unwelcome shadow, throughout the rest of my life.
I’m aware there are times when I don’t help myself. When my daily habits feed into the anxiety. Obsessing over the scary news. Endlessly scrolling social media. Not getting enough sleep or eating the wrong foods. Not writing.
Sometimes though, those things seem so much easier to do than engaging the habits that I know will fill me up. Who really wants to exercise at 6.30 in the morning, or meditate twice a day, or eat only vegetables (you know what I mean)? Even if you know you’ll feel better when you do.
Paying attention
I like how Glennon Doyle explained her own anxiety. She said that (I’m paraphrasing), maybe she wasn’t broken, she was just paying attention. Because when you really think about the fact that we are all going to die, and that we have no control over how or when, who in their right mind wouldn’t be anxious? And that maybe, some people are just better at detaching themselves from the fact than others.
Part of me likes that I’m paying attention. That I am anxious because I love so much. But there’s a part of me that acknowledges life would be so much easier if I didn’t pay attention quite so much.
