It's Not What You Think

I've put off writing about this topic because it's a tough one to even know how to articulate. I always try to find the humor in every day circumstances, but sometimes, there isn't any to be found. Musicians play, dancers dance, babies cry and writers write. Even when it hurts. Even when there's no clear way to end the words. As with anything in life, I've learned that it's about the process- and even more about the discipline- than it is the finished product, although the artist in me still strives for perfection every single time. And every single time, I will fall short. It happens.

There's a quote from a song I like that says, "Life perfect, ain't perfect if you don't know what the struggle's for." For four years, my struggle has been against anxiety. It's true that life wouldn't be nearly as precious to me now if I hadn't had to fight to find my identity and my own degree of normalcy since 2006. Since then, there has rarely been a day that I don't wake up on the front line of a continual war against- well, me. My own body. My racing mind. The subconscious circuit of lies and "what ifs" that are on constant replay. I liken it to being tuned into a bad radio station with a bunch of negative talk and static. Often, there is no volume knob or dial to tune into something different. Not too long ago, I had a painful realization that I had begun to accept this as "the way of life" from here on out. This revelation scared me more than the panic attacks themselves. But having already spent thousands of dollars on counseling, psychotherapy, and refills of Klonopin and Xanax (which, thankfully, I don't need to take anymore), I had begun to have expectations of little more than obtaining a mute button for my own back-stabbing mind. Realistically, I still don't expect the negative voice to go away. I can only hope to muffle it until one day, it just quits trying.

It's not what you think.

I don't need to go and sit in my car by myself and do deep breathing. But sometimes, it's the only way I feel safe. It may never have crossed your mind while standing in the Kroger check-out lane that you have. to. get. out. But I think it every single time I'm putting groceries on the belt. It takes everything I have in me to make myself stay because for so many years, I've trained my body to simply run.

It's not what you think.

I may try to look put together, but don't be fooled. Each time a panic attack hits, I turn into the woman who weighed 120 lbs and was a few steps away from being hospitalized. For a few minutes, I become the wife who almost lost her husband before she ever made it to her first anniversary because the stress was almost too much for either person to handle. People find it funny that I don't leave to take the trash out without a dab of concealer and some lip gloss (and it's true), but it's less because I'm a girly girl and more because I've learned to hide behind the makeup.


It's not what you think.

An introvert I may be, but I still want to hang out with my friends. But if I begin to feel anxious, I'll make up reasons to not be able to see them. I know I have a choice, but it never feels that way to me at the time.


It's not what you think.

Whatever excuse I gave you for needing to leave, it's probably a lie. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've made a habit out of lying to the people I love so that this "thing" is never what they think it is. It's never the truth. Even when I know that the only person it truly hurts is me. Sometimes, I hope I'll start to believe the things that I make up because those realities seem easier to live with.

What is it about saying, "I'm scared" that's so hard? So many times I've wished I were afraid of heights or planes or spiders. I tell myself if I could only see it, just put my finger on it, I could kill it and move on.



But then I think, this thing that has a grip on me- perhaps it's not what I think it is either. Perhaps it's actually nothing but a bully, sucking all of it's energy and ego by preying on all my truths and twisting them around until they're unrecognizable. I watch my daughter's reaction when she doesn't get her way. Her face turns a reddish-purple, the inevitable high pitched wail that could peel the paint from the wall follows, something is usually thrown and then she crumples into a dramatic ball on the floor. A tantrum, in it's most classic form. (I can't wait for that to happen in Target one day). So it seems that my mind has become quite adept at throwing it's own tantrums, vying for my attention, which I've been all too willing to give it over the years.

It's not what you think.
"How will your daughter ever know what strength looks like if she always sees her mommy run?"
It's not what you think.
"And you thought you should have another baby? How will you be strong enough for them both?"
It's not what you think.
You're never safe.
It's not what you think.
The ending is already written. You can't change it.
It's not what you think.



Maybe, just maybe, It's not what I think, either.