Dearest Anxiety: Thank you

I credit my anxiety for bringing writing into my life. 

Somehow when anxiety was at its most crippling, when I couldn’t seem to get anything done, a pile of eclectic notebooks suddenly began to stack up.  It wasn’t always my words that filled their pages. Sometimes it was other people’s words—paragraphs, poems and passages copied out in my most careful penmanship. Though my dark, racing mind couldn’t always grasp any meaning, their words landed on my frazzled nervous system like feathers. I remember the ease of my turquoise pen gliding across the page.

Anxiety brought journaling back into my life. On sick leave from teaching, I’d drop my daughter off at school and stumble into the coffee shop. Completely depleted from the morning and terrified about my future, I’d open my journal and write or draw or stare out the window. 

And then, rather than writing to what felt like the abyss, I began to put down words with an audience in mind. I started to see my own story as something that might one day be of service to others. I chiseled out a little meaning in my invisible suffering. This can’t be for nothing.  Writing this way made me feel a little less powerless. Besides, I was sick and tired of only hearing stories about folks who had triumphed over anxiety thanks to [insert the newest sure-fire cure here]. There were no stories that matched my reality. Writing gave me purpose and hope. 

Today I write about (my) anxiety, about coziness and about going slow. I write lists of what’s in my kitchen cabinet, or of words that start with the letter S. I write down what my daughter says and does and about the way my dad makes coffee. Writing slows me down and lets me notice the delicious details of my life. The very act provides a space to process, helping me let go of pain. 

Writing is a tool to record, learn, escape, and minimize my anxiety. It can also just feel like coming home.