I was diagnosed with Anxiety in college. I sat in a JMU therapist’s office, thumbing a hackey sack filled with lavender and rice. My therapist was going over the results of some self-report test I took before I came in. She said I had high levels of academic stress, which was normal for a college junior. I also had high generalized anxiety and elevated levels of aggression, likely as a result of the anxiety. I was in constant fight or flight from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep. I hadn’t told her yet that I hadn’t slept more than 3 hours a night for the last 3 weeks. I hadn’t told her yet I was having auditory hallucinations as a result. In retrospect, there were a lot of things I hadn’t – and wouldn’t – tell her.
I have recently gone through a big mental shift. Like huge. I think back to the young woman crying in that tiny office and feel like she is light years away, but also that she is still with me. Like she lives in a tiny diorama version of that office in my brain. I told my therapist that I could feel my Anxiety, like it was a separate entity. It felt like an iron ball behind my sternum, and sometimes it felt like I could just pluck it out. Typing this, I can still feel the space where it used to live.
Notice I say used to.
She would go on to tell me that medicinal intervention was never her first method. (Years later a different therapist would tell me I was not a good candidate for Anti-Anxiety medication anyway, and had I gone on it in college I would have had a rough time coming off it later in life.) She would give me tips on meditation and Progressive Muscle Relaxation. She would give me videos to watch over winter break. She would check in with me every Friday for an hour for 6 weeks, then I would stop making follow up appointments because I was sick of crying about my life every week.
She would also tell me my inner monologue was “too harsh,” and that I should talk to myself the way I talked to a friend. Or, better yet, model the way my friends talked to me. I tried it. It didn’t work. In fact, it made things worse. I would spend the next 2 years trying this method to no avail. It wasn’t until recently that I realized I was missing a key ingredient – grace.
Grace is often used as a religious word. As a Christian, I am humbled by the grace of God. Merriam-Webster has eight definitions under the word “grace.” I won’t list them all for you because if you are reading this, you have access to the internet and therefore the online Merriam-Webster, but I will give you one of them.
disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency
Merriam-Webster
Religious or not, we give grace all the time. When the waiter brings the wrong drink, and we respond with gentleness and understanding, we give them grace. When our friend has a rough day so we bring them an iced coffee on our way in to work, we are showing them grace. When we let go of the grudges and finally forgive that one person for that one thing they did that one time, we are acting with grace. Grace is great! We love to give grace, and we love to receive grace from others.
I said that talking to myself like I talked to a friend didn’t work for me. It’s not that I talked to my friends poorly. I love my friends, and I try to treat them all with grace because of the grace I am given by God. It was more that I could not see the damage I was doing by talking to myself so harshly. I didn’t truly see the problem.
What actually worked for me was getting my dog, Abby. Suddenly I had this creature who didn’t know what was going on half the time, who never listened, who ate my shoes, and whom I still loved with all my heart and would do anything for. Sometimes, I lose my temper with Abby. I grab her collar too rough, I speak too loud, I move too aggressively in her direction. She cowers, as one does when a being larger than you is moving angrily towards you, and I cry at the sight. Instantly. Hysterically. Dramatically. I then approach her softly, tears running down my face and apologize. I hold her and kiss her head, and she forgives me every time by wagging her tail and lapping up my tears. Abby is the most graceful creature I have ever met.
Soon, I realized I shouldn’t treat myself the way my friends do, I should treat myself the way my dog does. Abby doesn’t care if I didn’t send my project at the climbing gym today, nor does she care that I ate too much Ben & Jerry’s when I’m supposed to be eating healthier. She prefers I speak kindly but is quick to forgive when I forget to and gives me space to try again. She is on my heels in the kitchen reminding me that peanut butter toast beats nothing at all, and nudges me to the door reminding me that we need to get some sunlight today. When I am ready to cut the lights and cry while watching 27 Dresses because life is just way too hard, Abby is there to remind me that it can’t be all bad. There is a really cool stick outside we should go play with. No matter what Monday looked like, Abby is wagging her tail on Tuesday morning ready to start again. The past barely dictates her future and yesterday’s mistakes are not today’s concerns.
When I find myself in the cycle of anger/frustration/hurt/sadness with Abby, when I want to tell her she is awful and that I want to sell her, I find myself unable to do it. And if the words do slip out, I find myself quickly taking them back. I can’t look her in her big brown eyes and tell her she is a bad dog and not instantly feel like I’m lying. Because she is not a bad dog. Just like I am not a bad person because I didn’t complete my laundry list of tasks for the 5th day in a row. I thought, “if my dog can have this much grace for me, how come I can’t have this much grace for myself?” And when that mind shift changed, so did everything else.
I say my anxiety used to live behind my sternum. I say used to because I kicked it out the day I decided to actually give myself some space to breathe. I won’t say I’m cured from it. It still pops up when I have to send work e-mails to people who don’t want to hear from me or when I have to do something involved like drive 8 college students 45 minutes away to a Tacoma day trip I planned, but I’m being told that is how anxiety is actually supposed to work. But even so, sometimes I get worked up because I messed up at work…again, and I want to tell myself how terrible I am at everything. But, thanks to Abby, I have learned that with a little bit of grace and a lot of treats I can make it through just about anything.
Catch ya later,
Jess
Editor’s Note: This is a personal account of how I handle my journey with anxiety. If you or someone you know suffers with a mental health issue and utilizes medication, that is amazing and wonderful and we are so here for solving our problems in ways that work for us as individuals. This is not a “medication is bad” essay. Also, if you have a cute dog please drop a picture in the comments. We love dogs.
The Year of the Bear 