This thought keeps smacking me in the face at the most inopportune times.  Sometimes it really is like a slap; It catches me off guard and brings me to attention like the crack of a rifle very near.  Other times it is more like a seductive caress creeping in through the corners of my thoughts.

“You need to organize your time as well as space. You are accomplishing much less than you are capable of. Stop cheating your loved ones and the world at large by letting life overwhelm you and paralyze you.  Figure out what matters most to you, and focus your energy where you will get the returns that matter most to you.”

Damn, if that doesn’t make perfect sense.  My inaction is almost never borne from apathy.  Rather, it is my perfectionism manifesting in a self-sabotaging way.  If I can’t do something knock-it-out-of-the-park well, I’d really rather not do it.  I don’t know if this is simply the fear of failure, or if I am just someone who needs to reassure herself that I am valuable through success.  Honestly, I don’t care, except that self-awareness breeds empowerment to change ineffective behavior.  I just want to live better.

I want to feel confident again.  I don’t mean about my looks…that is a whole other post.  I mean about who I am, the decisions I make, the good I can do…what I contribute to the world, both in the smaller scale with my family and friends and humanity as a whole.  I want to feel like I can handle whatever life throws at me.  Anxiety has been robbing me of parts of myself for years, but confidence is the thing anxiety took from me that I miss the most.

So, I am going to start living purposefully.  They say the best way to become something is to act like you already are.  So I’m figuring out my goals, and making a plan for getting there.  I’m tired of letting my life run me.  It’s time to run my life.

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It is next to impossible to explain anxiety to someone who has never experienced it.  I’ve tried, repeatedly, with very disappointing results.  Variations have included:

• The feeling you get when you hear nails on a chalkboard or whatever sound has that kind of effect on you.
• A swarm of bees inside you, getting more and more agitated as they creep toward your brain.
• An elephant on your chest, sinking further into you every time you exhale.
• An overwhelming feeling of unease…like something REALLY! FREAKING! BAD! is going to happen if you can’t get out of your own skin RIGHT! THIS! SECOND!
• All the air being sucked out of the room, or, conversely, so much air being pumped in that the pressure being exerted on you feels absolutely bone crushing.

None of those are exactly right…but I think the sense of desperation is clear.  In that moment, I am nothing short of desperate to make the feeling stop.  Eventually it does stop, and I am swept with feelings of hopelessness, guilt, and a new sense of desperation, this time, to just be normal.

I wonder what it is like to be able to just decide to do something on a whim…to be able to face large groups without the inevitable meltdown that precedes every family function…to be able to cope when the myriad of little things that will inevitably go wrong do, in fact, go wrong.  I know that at one time, I didn’t have anxiety.  I wish I could remember what it was like, but all I can connect with it is the fleeting feeling of freedom when I am driving alone in my car with the windows down and the radio up.

I know it is hard for my family to live with me.  I know I am moody and I react badly to being disappointed.  I am impatient and I expect things to be MY way.  Sometimes I get so angry because I have explained over and over what I need from my family to help me control my anxiety but they don’t take it seriously, and I lash out, saying or doing things I regret. I don’t want to be the mom that the kids tell stories about and their friends make comments about how awful that must have been.

*Photo credit: amber10_75 on Flickr*

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