I was really adulting like a bozza today!
I had my power suit on.
My boots were walking.
I was killing it.
Until, I wasn’t.
Until a pigeon pooped on my pep parade.
A clammy hand fastened its grip around my throat.
Another clenched around my heart.
My breath was stolen by some invisible ghoul.
My eyes began blinking like a possessed strobe light.
I wanted to vomit.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to curl up and die.
I wanted someone to notice.
To just tell me things were going to be alright.
To just breathe.
That it would pass.
That I had this.
I wanted no-one to notice.
I wanted no-one to see how hard I was pretending.
I wanted to disappear.
And then came the crushing guilt.
Who the hell am I to be anxious, to panic?
I have a wonderful, privileged life.
I have a great job, a wonderful family, a beautiful house.
Who the hell do I think I am?
Millions of people deal with huge stresses every day, make life and death choices.
My husband calmly negotiates multinational deals on top of dealing with all the minutiae of our household – bond payments, school meetings, car repairs and all the other stuff.
I can’t buy groceries.
Let’s put that into perspective.
Living with anxiety is a silent nightmare.
Think Pennywise in every storm drain, around every corner, in every shadow waiting to make you come and play.
It makes no sense.
It is not rational.
It is desperately lonely and isolating.
I whisper over and over, “I am not alone in this. I am not alone.”
So, if you, like me survive living with some form of anxiety or panic disorder, repeat after me: “I am not alone.”