After nearly three decades, I’ve finally become somewhat adept at expressing my anxiety. I can describe the sensations of my skin crawling, the constriction in my chest, and the overwhelming urge to maintain control over every aspect of my life.
I don’t aim to be neurotic or compulsive. I recognize that this is a mental health issue, and I understand that my thoughts can be irrational. Yet, despite knowing that many of my emotions are unfounded, they remain very real to me. These feelings persist, often with a weight that feels unbearable.
I find myself writing and rewriting lists for events that may never occur. I meticulously track budgets, ensuring that all bills are covered and there’s enough for groceries before the next payday. In my mind, I rearrange the furniture of my thoughts, hoping that a shift in perspective will bring me peace in my own surroundings.
I’ve even mentally prepared for the possibility of losing my partner. I think about where my children and I would live and how we would cope without him, even though he’s perfectly healthy. This form of worry extends beyond him to my parents, sister, and even my two kids.
These are feelings I can articulate, but when it comes to asking for help, I struggle. I wish I could express my urgent need for support while secretly hoping someone could come to my rescue.
“I’m so tired. I was awake all night again.” I lie in bed, my legs tense and my body drenched in sweat. I’ve tried everything—changing clothes, cranking up the fan. Nothing seems to work. I attempt deep breathing exercises, which momentarily ease my chest, but the instant I lie back down, my mind races uncontrollably. I yearn for sleep to quiet my relentless fears and guilt.
“I’ve been feeling nauseous again.” My anxiety has escalated to the point where my stomach is in a constant state of turmoil.
“I could use a girls’ night,” I think to myself. I long for an opportunity to share my absurd thoughts over some diet soda and snacks.
Then comes the familiar phrase: “Let me know if you need anything.” At that moment, I shut my eyes tightly, tears slipping down my cheeks. “I am,” I silently scream within. “This is me asking! I need something. I just don’t know what.”
“Thanks, I will,” is all I can muster in response. After all, you have your own responsibilities, and I can’t bear the guilt of imposing on you. I know I can be overwhelming, and it often feels like a burden.
But the truth is, I do need help. I just haven’t figured out how to reach out for it.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the complexities of anxiety and the difficulty of seeking help. While the author can articulate their feelings of worry and fear, they struggle to reach out for support, emphasizing the internal battle many face with mental health.