It is 3 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. I have to be at work in six hours, but I’m busy weighing the pros and
cons of hanging wallpaper in my bathroom. I’m letting my anxiety speak out of turn and I’ve chosen to
In a weird way, my anxiety has made me a better, more responsible person.
I am rarely late, my home is always tidy, my calendar is up-to-date as to never miss an appointment or birthday, and I think of all possible outcomes of any decision before I make it. I’m a high-functioning adult, thanks to my debilitating anxiety. Yay?
For the last three years, I’ve chosen to forego any medications that would help ease my anxiety. That stuff makes me not care so much and when I don’t care so much, I let my bathroom get dirty and I start forgetting to delete unwanted e-mails from my inbox. I’m okay with this accountable, un-medicated woman I have become.
It’s all worth it.
It’s worth it when I’m silently having trouble breathing at work because of a sudden panic attack. It’s worth it those times I’m smiling on the outside, but on the inside my body is screaming. It’s worth it when my anxiety causes my brain to fog so badly I can barely say my own name.
I am a masochist. I have chosen to put my mental health aside in order to be the responsible adult I
want to be, that I should be.
The truth is, I won’t ever be the person I want to be. That person doesn’t exist. I made her up a long time ago and I’ve been chasing her all my life. This Prozac-free version of me is just another trap I’ve set to catch her.