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Worry
I grew up in a tumultuous home. My mother was a single mom, raising three
kids on her own, trying to do the best she could. I have vivid memories of her sitting at the
dining room table, crying over her checkbook.
I didn’t understand what that meant then, all I knew was that she was
hurting - so I’d run to her, put my head down in her lap, and ask if she was
okay. She’d always reassure me that she
was okay - shielding me from any understanding over her financial struggles.
I don’t think of myself as having grown up
always being an anxious child. I don’t
remember ever having to worry about shelter, clothing, or where my next meal
would come from - we were poor, but very fortunate in that sense.
We moved a few times from the time I was in
Kindergarten till I was in 2nd grade. - From Arizona, to California, then finally
settling in Florida. I will venture out
and guess that’s when the worry and anxiousness started. My mom and stepdad had separated. I started 2nd grade at a new
school, in a new state.
I recall struggling a lot in school that
year. - Never wanting to do homework, or
classwork. - Having to keep a daily
reporting notebook that went home to my mom every day with either a smiley face
or sad face depending on my behavior that day.
I don’t remember ever having that much trouble in school after that year
though.
My mom had a ridiculously bad temper, and an
extremely abusive, hurtful tongue. Her
words hit much harder than her fists did.
She and my brother fought so much.
He was 4 years older than me, very stubborn, and very strong
willed. He was just like my mom in so
many ways - which is probably much of why they fought so often.
Middle school was a turning point for
me. My stepdad and my mom had tried to
work things out several times over those 3 years but finally separated for good
after my 6th grade year. I
had experienced a lot of personal trauma during middle school that I wasn’t
dealing with - nor was I allowed to speak about.
By high school, my brother had landed himself
in prison. I was barely speaking to my
mom, and she was blaming me for everything that was going wrong in our lives on
a daily rotation.
I was told every day that I was a failure, the
biggest disappointment of her life - and if I failed anymore, she threatened that
she would kill me. After hearing that every
day of my life over a couple of years' time - I eventually started to believe I
was as big a mess up as she proclaimed me to be and thought that I might just be
better off dead.
I’m pretty confident that’s when my worry and
anxiety manifested itself into actual signs any healthy individual could
pinpoint and seek help for. With the
close of my freshman year approaching, I attempted suicide. I was institutionalized for several
months. - I received a lot of therapy
and counseling but I remember spending the whole time worrying about how my mom
was going to treat me after I was released and free to go home.
From then on, I think I managed to survive
the rest of high school purely by flying under the radar. - Speaking only when
asked specific things. - Respectful, but
short answers. I never offered up any
other conversation. I quietly refused to
share any personal thoughts or feelings with her. I didn’t trust her to receive them without
judgement.
Still to this day, I believe my inability to
communicate effectively when I’m emotional - or in a fight with someone - spurs
directly from never being able to say what I was feeling to my mother when I
was hurting. As an adult in my early
forties, I still have difficulty articulating what I want to say when the
conversations are emotionally charged topics.
I get tongue-tied and completely frustrated to the point of crying
because I can’t find the words that I want to say.
Looking back on my time at home with my
mother, I can see now how my anxieties were manifesting themselves. I struggled with constipation all throughout
middle and high school. It wasn’t till I
moved out that I realized people were supposed to poop at least every other day
- if not every day.
I struggled with patches of red raised bumps
on my tummy. My family physician called
them “stress bumps”. I had no idea
things like that - a product of stress - could physically show up on your
body.
My sleep schedule was erratic. I barely slept for weeks at a time. - Then all I’d want to do for several weeks
was sleep.
Shortly after I had my daughter, I began a
long journey of self-work. I dove
head-first into therapy. I had always
known I struggled with depression, but the thought of suffering with anxiety
never registered on my radar until later in my adult life.
I remember worrying over driving, accidents,
dying myself, or my kid dying in a car accident. - Vivid pictures in my head of those things
happening. - Of my daughter being
abducted. - Held hostage in someone’s
house. - Being forced into doing things
no child should be doing. - Again,
vivid, disturbing images in my head.
Worry - anxiety specifically - this was how
it was all manifesting itself in my life as an adult. I decided to speak to my doctor about
it. I was prescribed an anti-depressant
with an anti-anxiety medication combined.
It’s helped but I still struggle with incessant worry.
I now have 2 kids. - And I’ll be the first to admit, that I have
worried over the same things with my son that I worried over with my
daughter. - Accidents, death, abduction,
sex trafficking. - The whole gambit of
twisted and gory details no parent wants to see of their kids.
In addition to all those crazy things, I
worry like crazy over the normal stuff too.
- Bills, money, finances, Covid,
how Covid is going to affect the world - my job - my career - my kids - our
town - our legacy. I worry every day
about my son’s nutrition - his disability - my shortcomings as a mom to a son
with special needs. The only visual I
can give someone of what my worrisome thoughts look like in my head is
this: Picture the biggest plate of
spaghetti you can imagine - Extra saucy and piled high. - That is my brain full of unhelpful
worrisome thoughts - all day long.
It’s a struggle to say the very least. A few things that help me are as follows:
I meditate a lot. I have several meditation apps on my phone
that help me redirect my anxiousness when I need to, so I don’t spiral myself
into a full-blown panic attack.
I pray a lot too. I do bible studies geared toward anxiousness
and worry every week. One of my recent
bible studies had this to say, “Worry is our inability or unwillingness
to trust God.” Ooof. That felt like a sucker punch in my gut when
I read that. It affected me so deeply
that I had to share it with my friends on Facebook AND
write it down on a sticky note to have on my vanity mirror as a daily reminder.
I grew up in church. I was extremely active in my church youth
group. I’m still very close to my youth
director. I consider her my other
mom. I remember having conversations
with her in high school about worry. She
basically said the same thing back then about worry being your lack of trust in
God.
A little sidebar discussion for any readers:
I know I’m not the only person who struggles
with trusting God. I was taught - or
told - that I should think of God as a Dad.
- As my Heavenly Father - My Dad in Heaven - Daddy God, If you
will.
- I was also told in the same breath that
it’d be hard to trust “Daddy God” because I didn’t have the greatest examples
of what a dad or father should be here on Earth. - But I was never given the skills,
knowledge, or instruction on how to close that gap either.
If you don’t have the experience of trusting your
Earthly father, then how do you trust in a God you’ve never seen? This is something I still struggle with
daily. If you have any pointers on this,
please find me on socials and let’s discuss.
I believe in
God.
I believe in the
power of meditation and prayer.
I believe in
medicine.
- All of which
have helped me live with the incessant worry and debilitating anxiety I have
lived with for most of my life.
Healing and becoming
a healthier version of yourself is a lifelong journey.
What I’ve
learned is that it’s okay to misstep, backtrack, start over, or even try
something completely new.
It’s okay to
fall flat on your face - I’ve done this so many times - but if you just get up
and keep moving forward - it's all considered progress. If you learned something from it, then it
counts as a win, and it all should be applauded. One foot in front of the other, Friends.
Written on 12/7/2020
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