I Guess I have Anxiety

In the weeks following Mickey's death, I made myself a busy bee. I feel like most people in my position have restless nights then spend the better part of the day in bed unable to function. This was not the case for me. I would wake early in the morning and fill my day to the brim with endless chores and pointless tasks. I would look up and it was suddenly eleven at night. Before my head would even hit the pillow, I would be out like a light and would sleep so hard.

I was a ball of energy that crashed every evening. Watching television, reading a book, anything that I had previously found enjoyable were just about unbearable tasks. I could only keep busy doing, yet I never felt like I was getting anything done. Then came the physical symptoms. I noticed that I always seemed jacked. My resting heart rate would always be over 100, even throughout the night as I slept. Ninety percent of the day I felt like I couldn't take a breath and eating more than a bite of food was impossible. I began to feel absolutely miserable.

My sister came for a quick visit during this time to check on me. A friend was having a small cookout that we committed to attend, so we went. As soon as I arrived, I felt like I needed to leave and return to the safety of my house. I seemed to feel like this a lot. Going anywhere began to feel so uncomfortable for me and the overwhelming sense to get out of these situations was overtaking my life.

When we got back to the house that afternoon, I looked at my sister and told her as honestly as I could that I thought that I had reached the point, that if living was going to feel like this, I wasn't interested in going on. I didn't want to die and didn't want to kill myself, but at that moment, I felt that I had suffered for long enough. If things couldn't be any better, then I didn't want to do it anymore.

Looking back now, I can see what a bad mindset I was in. I was at my lowest point and thank God I had a great support system that encouraged me to see a doctor and a therapist and figure my shit out. I never wanted to ask for help. I definitely didn't want my family and friends to know how bad the battle in my mind had gotten, but I was left with no choice. Being this vulnerable was very hard for me.

I could always hear my family's concern during our phone conversations and it made me feel guilty to be the one responsible for their worrying. Through therapy I learned that sharing with those close to me was not only good for me but for them as well. I learned that anxiety can be something that I have, but it isn't who I am. It took me a year to process all of the trauma that I had experienced. I look back now and can say that I am happy that I am still here and able to move forward in life while finding my purpose.