I have been by turns embarrassed and defensive about my chronic anxiety.
There are racks on racks on racks (lol) of articles about what it’s like to live with anxiety.
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But on the off-chance that you haven’t ever read such an article, or that you might find common ground with me and my particular brand of anxiety (yes, anxiety has brands. I like to think I have the Chanel brand of anxiety. Classic, chic, offbeat enough to challenge social norms, ultimately comfy), I’ll provide a little anecdote from a day seasoned generously with “mental illness.”
I drove to the Kroger down the street from my house to grocery shop for my weekly meal prep. I sat in the car for five minutes longer than strictly necessary to gather my strength.
You’re so weird, everyone can tell, if you meet anyone’s eyes they’ll see what a wreck you are. You’re probably gonna forget something important and have to come back which is so awkward, you can’t even handle a simple thing like grocery shopping (how pitiful).
I closed my eyes briefly against the barrage of what specialists call “negative self-talk.” I call it my brain’s evil twin.
“I am an amazing human being. I will meet at least five people’s eyes and smile. If I forget something, I’ll just come back, no big deal. It’s just grocery shopping and nobody is going to judge me. If they do, then that’s they’re problem,” I said kindly to myself.
I even believed it.
I walked into the store, head held high, a spring in my step. No onlooker would have known how much I had to work up to entering the automatic double doors.
And then I saw the middle-aged woman choosing apples with her son.
The worker in the blue smock stocking up on organic vegetables.
The multitude of faceless consumers pushing poorly balanced shopping carts.
I felt a tremor go through the muscle in my jaw. The corners of my mouth turned down almost imperceptibly. My heart squeezed itself into a frightened, walnut sized stone inside of my chest and I felt my breathing become shallow and quick without even ASKING me if that’s how I would prefer to get my oxygen.
I gathered myself again, more weakly this time, the voice of my evil twin’s brain a constant hum of humanity all around me.
The sound of the poorly balanced, poorly lubricated wheels of the shopping cart became as loud and jarring as the sound a fork makes scraping against china.
The fluorescent lighting became as bright as the blaze of the sun striking snow in the North Pole.
All symptoms of the engagement of an overactive parasympathetic nervous system.
In the space of a breath, I had gone from a calm, happy young woman to a frightened rabbit.
Even stranger?
No one could tell.
I made it out of the isles of food, condiments, and fresh produce with all of my limbs intact, no contusions, and nary a broken nail. To my body, this felt like a miracle.
But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I had to check out, which meant more human contact than I had heretofore been forced to engage in. Of course I always do self-checkout (no matter how full my cart is. Sorry, guys) but that annoying Kroger check-out robot lady is literally the most incompetent piece of technology in the world. I ALWAYS have to ask for actual, human help.
I took a deep breath, my shoulders tense.
“Hi, excuse me. Can you help me?”
I gave the lady an eye roll that said, “These freaking machines, amiright?”
Her smirk back said, “I knoooow…”
“The machine isn’t registering my last item, I think.”
“No problem!” She said cheerily as she recalibrated the machine.
“So how are you today?” came the inevitable, let’s-make-small-talk-so-our-close-proximity-isn’t-awkward question.
“I’m great, thank you! How about you? They’re not working you too hard are they?” I said like a moth tryin’ to front like it’s a chill butterfly. I may have fooled all the predators, but I hadn’t fooled myself.
Naturally, you’re probably thinking some variation of “How awful,” dredging up some pity for me and/or nodding your head in empathetic understanding.
First of all, yes, thanks. I will happily accept your pity. Every little bit helps J
But second of all, I just want to say something about my “mental illness.” Something that I hope more people will be able to say in the future.
I’m not sad that I have it. I’m not embarrassed or defensive or even resigned-to-my-fate about it.
I love myself. Objectively, I am a good daughter, a good friend, I’m kind to others, I’m empathetic, I work hard, and I’m a high achiever.
And I truly think that I wouldn’t be as good at any of those things if I were anything else than what I am.
I’ve been realizing this for a while. I’ve started putting metaphorical quotes around the term “mental illness” in my mind whenever I consider the unique ways in which I operate. I might have difficulty with some things most people find easy, but I’m amazing at quite a few things most people find difficult. I’m even good at things that some people don’t even KNOW is important.
Think about Finding Dory.
You watch that movie, and you want to BE her. Quirky, eccentric, exciting. Dory is an adventure. She KNOWS she has a problem, and she deals with it in the most amazing ways possible. Sometimes she beats herself up for it. But in the end, she has friends all over the ocean, she’s unselfishly helped a father and a child be reunited, and she found her parents all the way across the sea.
Not only is Dory the heroine of her own story, she’s the coolest character in the entire ocean.
Who else would you rather be? Marlin?
Um, no.
Finally, the media got it right when they showed what it means to live with mental uniqueness. And whenever anyone who’s brain works in a way that society considers odd starts to feel down on themselves, I hope they remember how much fun everyone has being Dory’s friend.
