My Fight with Anxiety

Everybody has problems. Not everybody has to deal with their own mental illness.


All my life I have fought two debilitating forms of mental illness: Depression and Anxiety. You can add to those some lesser maladies: PTSD from what my shrink has called a “horrific” childhood (although I never looked upon it that way), Attention Deficit Disorder, and, maybe, borderline Schizophrenia. I guess mental illness never comes with a single neat label.


I have managed to function, sometimes better than others, sometimes in spite of my best efforts at self-destruction. That I have managed to get this far without destroying myself with ----- (insert your drug of choice)---- is due to the steadfast and sometimes tough love of my wife, to whom I owe more than I could repay in three lifetimes, some beloved friends who came into my life at just the right times, strong medication, and a very good psychotherapist. Too, I guess that maybe I benefitted from a little of what strength of character I possess, beaten and bruised though it may be.


At times, I have attempted self-medication through various forms of drug abuse, alcohol being my main drug of choice. I smoked a lot of marijuana, too. But it is not my purpose to provide what members of Alcoholics Anonymous (“friends of Bill”) call a “drunk-a-logue.” I have listened to far too many speakers at AA meetings to believe there is anything unique in my story. Besides, the details of my story aren't nearly as interesting and funny as some of those guys (and women) are. Seriously, some of them could be professional comedians. I don't know this for a fact, but I've been told the best of them actually get paid to speak, and they go around on an AA circuit, making all the big conventions. If you’ve never heard any of their stories, I urge you to attend two or three open AA speaker meetings or read the stories that make up the second half of the AA Bible, known as the “Big Book.” You will laugh, and you will cry, but in the end you’ll know pretty much everything that goes on in the life of an addict. The only thing unique about my story is that it happened to me and my family and what friends I have managed to make and keep.


I stopped going to AA meetings about twenty-five years ago, after five years of sobriety, when I realized that I was not alcohol-dependent but, rather, had been self-medicating for my mental illness and that the help I needed had to come from professionals rather than peers. Nevertheless, I honor and admire the organization because it demonstrably has helped so many people on the road to recovery, and it helped me stay sober when my life, or at least everything I held dear in my life, was hanging in the balance.


It has been a long battle, and I have by no means won. It is a never-ending battle. I don’t suppose it will ever be won until my body is consumed in flames after my death. In fact, as I am aging, the fight seems to be becoming even tougher. Right now, it seems that Anxiety is in ascendance, although the other diseases are always in contention. 


I don’t think anyone who hasn't suffered Anxiety, even people such as my best friends who are so sympathetic and empathetic, can truly understand what someone who suffers from Anxiety goes through. Even at the best of times an attack is never more than a harsh word or vicious comment away, even if the word or comment is not offered in a mean way. It doesn’t take much. I take prescribed anti-Anxiety and anti-Depression drugs that have done much to help me maintain my grip on sanity, and I do have medication to treat sudden attacks. The medication is physically addictive, however, and, hoping in spite of all experience that things will just blow over, I usually wait too long to take it, . 


Those of you who are of a certain age may remember a comic strip called Li’l Abner, which chronicled the lives of a small band of hillbilly caricatures in Dogpatch USA. It had a large rotating cast of characters, one of whom, Joe Btfsplk, represented doom, misfortune, and general bad luck. Anxiety was never mentioned as one of his attributes, but you can just see the anxiety written all over him. The storm was always on him or just about to break over him. And that is what anxiety is like. Anxiety is an anchor around your neck as you wander through life with this sense of impending doom that you can do nothing to prevent. You obsess over things. You read sinister meaning into any act by any person. Sometimes, your coping mechanisms fail, and you are just overwhelmed with dread. The feeling is more than angst—it is super-angst, and it can be terrifying. You sweat. Your stomach sinks and you feel a fear that is visceral and very real. Your heart pounds and your pulse races as your fight-or-flight response kicks in, but there is nothing to fight and nowhere to run. All you can do is cower, take a Xanax, and wait for the storm to pass. Except it never does, not really. 


That is when anxiety is at its worst, when it spills over into panic or near panic. That’s the way it has been for me...forever, I guess.(I remember a childhood full of anxiety, anxiety that was left untreated because I lacked the language and the courage to tell someone, and, besides, who could I have told? Certainly not my parents, and the people I could trust have been few and far between.) That kind of anxiety doesn’t consume me often, although once is too often. Misery such as this I wouldn’t wish on anybody. 

But there is a lesser anxiety always lurking near the surface. It is never debilitating but it allows you very few truly carefree moments, moments when you can just laugh and forget yourself. You might present a jovial face to your friends or at work—you might joke and laugh and cut up—people might think you're a real card. But then they might start to wonder, can he ever be serious about anything? You might even think for awhile that you’re okay, that you've got this thing licked. But if you let up your guard, you’re done for.

Almost as bad as the near-panic, is the effect Anxiety has on  your relationships. It's hard to maintain normal relationships when you're anxiously second-guessing every interaction with every person. When you have Anxiety, you have a hard time taking personal interactions at face value. You're always questioning gestures, facial expressions, tone of voice--always wondering, "What did s/he mean by that?" and always assuming the worst. If an email or a text message is not responded to, you always wonder what you did to cause offense. Did I piss somebody off? Did I go too far? Did I lose my friend? Your mind tells you that you  can't rely on your friends--what friends you have--despite the fact that every rational part of your brain insists you can. This is what Anxiety does to you.

You read things into every expression, every word, every gesture. You're always thinking that you're barely tolerated, that your friend is your friend out of pity, not because they see anything likeable in you. You become shy, and you hesitate to reach out. You constantly worried that you've said the wrong thing or that what you said will be interpreted wrongly. You hesitate to make even the most natural-seeming gesture, because you're afraid you'll be misinterpreted--and rejected. And you wart them constantly; you'll send a message or say something and then go overboard explaining how you didn't intend to cause offense, and even when you're assured that no offense was taken, you're still left with doubts. So you don't make many friends, and you have trouble keeping the friends you do make. 

You're hard on the friends you make. You're in constant need of reassurance. You're afraid that you bother them too much, that you make too many demands, that they'll get tired of you, that by word or deed they'll tell you to go away. So you're always apologizing, always explaining, always being a pain in the ass. Sometimes it seems as though friendship, solid though it is and that you know it is, is teetering on the edge.

In short, you live your life in fear. This is Anxiety, and you can't get rid of it despite all the evidence that says you're mistaken. This is not rationality. This is poison to the soul.
My wife and some other people--you know who you are-- have been very kind to me, exceedingly kind. They talk to me; they listen to me; they let me cry on their shoulder. I always feel better after I talk to them. I love them and I know they love me. But still, part of my brain just knows that rejection is coming. I hate to ask anything of my friends, even my best friends, out of fear that that will be the one request too far. That I'll be rejected. That I'll find myself without friends. This, too is what Anxiety does to you.

If you've read this far, you're probably wondering how on earth I ever got anything done. I guess I have given the impression that I live my life in a state of near panic. But that's not true. Much--if not most--of the time, I function well, and my symptoms quiet to a general state of unease, sometimes even to something approaching happiness. It is possible to experience periods--even extended periods--where  life seems almost normal. Prayer helps. Most days. I arrive at work by 6:30, and I spend fifteen minutes or so praying both aloud and silently. I don't ask God for anything; I just try to open myself and prepare myself to respond to God's call leading me down the best path for me each day. It helps, usually. And I know--I believe--God is right there with me, feeling my pain, sharing my burden. I have had two, possibly three, direct encounters with God, and when I think of those I can almost believe that all will be well. 

I started this blog post thinking I would write something poetic and moving—something with power and impact. I find I have been unable to do that; I have been unable to even come close. There is no way I can match the eloquence and moving qualities of some of the things I've read. But this is my story, and this is my way of telling it, flawed though it may be. I have been honest.  I have tried to tell you what it is like--not all the time but sometimes. 

In return for my honesty, I only ask that you be kind to me. I may be smiling and joking, but be kind to me anyway. And be kind to everyone you meet, for you know not what battles they may be fighting.