I always feel slightly guilty talking about my anxiety. I'm painfully aware that there are other folks who have it for worse than I do. Who truly can't answer the phone or leave the house or function like they want to.
But the fact that I can pull it together enough to put on the facade of a functional human being doesn't make it any less real. I think it's easy for folks to forget that sometimes.
I was having trouble doing something last week. It was a simple something, like going to the store to pick up milk, but the longer i put it off the further away it moved. A coworker started badgering me about it, basically saying suck it up. I get it. That type of attitude probably works well for her. Sometimes people just need a kick in the ass to get moving. Most times it probably works.
I don't want to be the person constantly bringing up this thing. This invisible thing that steals from me, robs me of the person I want to be. But the "swift kick in the ass" didn't help. I never did pick up milk. And now I have to retrain my brain that it's okay to go to the store at all because it's become linked to this fucking anxiety attack.
It's a delicate balance. Not treating someone like a child, with kid gloves, while understanding the limits they're able to push to. Of remembering that just because I'm not taking off early from work to go visit my therapist anymore doesn't mean I'm cured. I've been wrestling this snake since I was 10, I know it's not going away.
And really, my frustration at my colleague is just a mirror for my frustration with myself. I know I should be able to pick up milk. I know I should be able to go down to the park with my kid. I know I should be able to take him swimming. Everytime I hit the wall and can't climb over and disapoint him again, I die a little inside.
For me, that's the tragedy of anxiety. It robs you of the ability to be the mom, the spouse, the coworker, the person you want to be. That person is on the other side of the wall and you just can't get there. You can't get that back.
