Once upon a time, anxiety ruled. It lived in my psyche like an overgrown bush. I was too overwhelmed to cut it down. Like where the fuck do you even start?! A life riddled in self destruction, driven by this beast. What do I do to just feel like a normal human being? The more normal I try to be, the more the beast would start to talk.
“You can’t do this…why did you say that?…you can’t relate to them…you aren’t anyone people want to like.” ah the voices, the analytical, judgmental voices. They like to come in right after a social situation. The voices convince me I have no social skills. Which I probably don’t…but “so what! Who does?” is what my oh so mindful voice would say in response.
I’ve buried myself in the self help books and the shamans, the irresponsible relationships and work to show my world how good I could be. Desperately trying to fix myself and prop myself up so I could get out of the car. All the while, lying and stealing, hiding and drowning in the street drains while trying to appear to be normal.
The weirdest thing is, the chaos of the anxiousness became this strange addiction. I’m an expert at creating the perfect storm to conjure this thing up! Like not paying bills on time can really get the heart racing. Or avoiding creditors phone calls can really be a way to bury yourself in deception. Because it really isn’t about the “right” or “wrong” of the late paid bills, but the way I find nooks to hide out in and bathe in the anxious juices of self sabotage. If I didn’t have my own way to conjure up this capital A, I’d hook on to your monster and feed him a little, so he’d pay me some attention too. So maybe as I reflect on these days that I want to believe are in the past…the truth of it is, maybe I am not so far away from all this as I had hoped.
Ya know, I want to be zen, I really do. I do a lot of things to help curb the appetite of the anxiety monster. And most days I stay true to my diet of feel good and strong in my own skin.
Something just dawned on me… maybe that anxious burn arising in the center of my core, is a bat signal to my soul somewhere hiding out in my consciousness. The ping to the universe….ping…Jennifer. Earth to Jennifer.
Because when I get home alone, and the house is quiet, and my to do list is long and/or my kids are doing the kid things, and I’m full of guilt and anxiety, and all I want to do is watch the Real Housewives or read my tarot cards or smoke weed so I can numb out the call of my soul. Because who is this person anyway? And what the hell does she want? I can’t understand her, she seems so different than what I want to portray. She’s kind of like all over the place, and she doesn’t know what the fuck to do, and isn’t quite sure that any of this matters. And she likes potato chips and herbal tea. She loves people, and would give them anything they needed because it actually makes her feel good. She would rather be an artist than any other job because its way more fun to create than to maintain. She sees herself living like a gypsy or a hippie or a “I don’t give a fuck and I am peaceful about it kind of soul”. But she has no clue of how to actually attain that in this world, I mean she tries, moments at a time. But this full of duality, anxiety driven world we all live in has got her surrounded some days. So she prods me to acknowledge the monster and sit with the burn. To trim back that over grown bush, limb by limb, even if it grows back. She sends out her bat call so I will finally look for the places shes hiding and acknowledge shes there and she wants something. She wants me to know her, to listen to her and to quit acting like there is something or someone out there that is so much more important. She’s tired of that shit.