A Sobering Realization

Those who know me may or may not be surprised to know that I have anxiety.  It’s never been diagnosed (outside help? in this economy?) but I feel that I’ve done enough research on my own and, you know, lived my life long enough to know what I’m dealing with.  And I’ve always taken pride in and been relieved that whatever is going on in my head is not enough to keep me from living my life.  Now I’m not so sure about that.

I had a long conversation with a coworker today.  This conversation has been coming for a while and was one of those times when everything that has been bottled up for too long comes out.  We went over all the ways we’ve clashed in the past months and tried to explain our very different viewpoints.  I admit that I went into the conversation thinking I was the only wounded party, but I hope I’ve moved all the way past that now.  But even as I was trying to defend myself without excusing myself, I realized that my explanations for my actions all went back to anxiety.

I don’t communicate well with others because it makes me anxious if I think someone is upset or angry with me.  I imply that I don’t trust others because I really don’t trust myself.  I do things myself because it’s easier than asking someone else to do it and maybe having to confront them.  All these things—most of my failings at work, in fact—come out of my attempts to protect myself from that sick feeling in my stomach, from the tightness in my chest, from the frantic racing of my thoughts.  And it makes me wonder what else in my personality is formed by the fear that is never far from my mind.  Do I write letters because it’s the easiest way to reach out to others?  Am I so eager to make it as a writer because the only safe job seems like one in which I can stay home?

It’s a hard thing.  Everyone wants to think that they’re in control of themselves, if not of their whole life.  And it’s miles easier to blame others than yourself for your problems.  But I can read over my arguments in the texts—and yes, this conversation happened over text, which is also telling—and I can see the repetition for myself.  Everywhere that there was a problem, it came back to just one thing.

It’s disheartening, and it scares me a little bit.  I do think that good things come out of my anxiety—it makes me sensitive to others, and it teaches me to be careful.  Too careful?  Too sensitive?  Maybe so, though I never thought so before.  But what worries me most is, does having so much of myself built by a weakness, make me weak, too? 

I hope not.  I’m learning as I get older that the more one knows oneself, the more positive of an impact one can have on the world.  I’m hoping that this is just one more step in my education about myself.  I’m hoping that having seen the faults in my own personality, I can tread more carefully and work around them.

I have a prayer for this that I’ve been repeating more and more as time goes by.  It’s very simple: “Let my words and actions be governed by wisdom, not weakness.”  And it has helped me, a few times, to do the right thing when it would have been easier not to.  I still have a long way to go, of course, but maybe if I keep at it, I can build up a part of myself that isn’t touched by fear.