I picture myself in a daunting situation. There I am, hunched over a porcelain toilet, the remnants of my stomach’s contents swirling in front of me. The bitterness of bile lingers in my mouth as a heavy void settles in my chest.
This is my fault. I am repulsive. I am a hassle. I feel humiliation wash over me. I am spiraling.
What if I choked? Would my child, Leo, be frightened?
I envision it again.
Suddenly, my body collapses to the floor, with parts of me jerking upwards while others crash down. A seizure. My eyes are shut, rolling back uncontrollably.
This is my fault. I am mortified. I am a burden. I am losing grip.
Would I lose consciousness? What would happen to Leo?
I imagine it once more.
I awaken, drenched in blood. The warmth envelops me, but the sight of crimson-stained sheets sends a chill down my spine. I attempt to scream, but no sound escapes. I long to wake my partner, Jason, to share the unbearable news that I already dread: we lost the baby. The miscarriage weighs heavily on my heart, and I hesitate to wake him. I don’t want him to witness the anguish that will fill his eyes.
This is my fault. I must have made a mistake. My body has betrayed me.
Would we heal from this? Would we ever tell Leo?
I visualize another scenario.
I’m driving, the car picking up speed against my will. My foot desperately searches for the brake, but it eludes me. I feel the sensation of losing control, spiraling faster without any way to stop.
This is my fault. I am reckless. I am foolish. I am out of control.
Who would break the news to Jason? Would Leo remember me if I were gone?
I picture another moment.
We’re atop the playground structure when Leo loses his footing and falls, landing hard and silent. I’m waiting for his cry, racing to scoop him into my arms, only to find myself covered in his blood. Tears stream down my face as I scream for help.
This is my fault. I am foolish. I should’ve been more vigilant. Why did we even go outside?
How could I have been so careless? Would he survive?
I imagine it again.
As I turn the corner, I see Jason’s feet dangling off the bed. He doesn’t respond to my voice. Panic grips me as I approach and realize he is no longer breathing. His skin has turned blue; he is gone. I scream, but silence envelops me.
Help me! Help me!
My college professor once said, “Your weaknesses are your strengths out of control.” Creativity fuels my thoughts, allowing me to envision endless possibilities. Yet, this same creativity, when left unchecked, manifests as anxiety.
I take solace in small blue pills and indulgent pints of chocolate ice cream.
How could I explain this to someone? How could I convey the chaos within? I often find myself trapped in a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios, my imagination racing beyond my ability to articulate. Reality becomes blurred as I navigate through a landscape dominated by potential trauma.
I understand why.
Most of my thoughts revolve around one common theme: a profound lack of control. Control is my obsession. I wash my hands repeatedly, shower obsessively, and sanitize surfaces to regain a sense of order. I calculate risks, compulsively search online, and often stay indoors, all in a desperate quest for control.
I know the reason behind my turmoil.
In psychology class, I learned that when a young mind encounters trauma, it is conditioned to expect recurrence.
I find myself in survival mode, perpetually on guard, bracing for the next onslaught, trying to protect myself, trying to prepare. I know I am attempting to seize control.
Yet, despite the turmoil, I continue to imagine.
Several times each day, I spiral into thoughts of vomiting, seizures, miscarriages, and death.
But within this maelstrom, I can also envision something different.
I can picture a life free from the little blue pills. A world where tranquility reigns and contentment flows. I can imagine shedding my obsessions, granting my mind the freedom to embrace positivity and hope. I envision a life where I live confidently, recognizing that control isn’t my sole necessity, that while tragedies may occur, it’s not my responsibility to forecast them, and that I am free.
Though it feels distant and unattainable, I still dare to dream it. I will continue to envision it.
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In summary, while anxiety often manifests as an overwhelming series of “what ifs,” it’s essential to remember the potential for hope and healing. Imagining a future free from fear is not only a possibility but a powerful tool in navigating the challenges of anxiety.