The hard vintage wood of the dining room chair felt distinctly uncomfortable. The feeling was heightened as one of my dearest friends, Summer, sat across from me, her blue eyes trying to push a truth into mine. I stared blankly back at her.
“Admit it. You’re angry with me,” Summer persisted. “What’s wrong? Let’s talk about it.”
I spluttered. I was frustrated. No, I wasn’t angry. No, I did not want to talk about it. I had no idea what she could possibly mean.
Summer would not let it go. The yellow light of the old chandelier in our rented house fell on us as she interrogated me. It didn’t seem to be illuminating anything.
Summer doesn’t give up easily. She hounded me until I could speak of it. Yes, I was angry, but I was not sure why. We followed this truth and dug its head out of the sand. And then we knew what to repair and how to recover.
It was at this moment that I saw many truths with their heads stuck in the sand. There were many feelings that vibrated here, but were subdued by the weight of the heavy grains.
And then I knew.
This was not about me suppressing one feeling of anger. It turned out that I had been systematically suppressing all of my feelings. Then I’d sent them to a desert wasteland to die and hoped that I would never see them again. Was this why being alone with my thoughts was both boring and scary?
Summer was an advocate of taking care of mental health, and she normalized this for me. I pursued counselling, and this was lovely and enlightening. But since that day of discovering my hidden wasteland of bottled up emotions, I had been unable to slam the door shut and lock it up for good. Maybe this was for the best.
There was a Seinfeld episode called “The Serenity Now,” where Jerry is learning to get in touch with his emotions. At one point, tears well up in his eyes, and he asks with disbelief, “What is this salty discharge? This is horrible. I care!”
Like Jerry’s, my feelings would not listen. They gathered at the door leading out of the wasteland and pushed back. They took up residence within me once more and forced me to fully feel my emotions again. They forced me to face all of those hard truths and memories.
And then while taking inventory of my newfound emotions, I identified an old feeling that had never quite disappeared into the wasteland with the others. A feeling that made my heart race and my palms clammy. My stomach flip-flopped and my jaw clenched. My muscles tightened and my mind would not stop the worrying that was tinged with fear. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just couldn’t remember how to take the full, deep, calming breaths everyone talked about.
Anxiety.
A cousin to worry, on that annoying side of the family.
That feeling that grips your mind and physiologically changes you.
I then started to walk through life with a gaggle of half-starved emotions bumbling along behind me. They were constantly bumping into me, looking over my shoulder and asking for attention. When I abruptly turned to face them in exasperated anger, they took a step back and then burst open with the full force of each emotion. I keenly felt each of these feelings. And my constant companion, Anxiety, was the keenest feeling among them.
Since that time, and after many a talk with Summer, friends, counsellors, my husband, yoga, meditation and time spent to myself, I’ve learned to come to terms with most of the feelings that pursued me. I’ve attended each neglected emotion, made peace with the gaggle, and laid most of them to rest.
Anxiety, though – that quiet stalker that unexpectedly shows up – has been more difficult to win over, and not for lack of trying or experimentation.
Sometimes when it has me in its grip, I may appear outwardly calm and cheerful, and very much in control of myself… perhaps even having a good time.
Although I have come to an understanding with Anxiety, at this time it is a part of my life, and that’s okay.
Unlike Jerry Seinfeld, I am happy to be able to truly understand and relate to my emotions, even Anxiety. For the more I understand, the more power I have over it, even though most times I wish it wasn’t plaguing me.
My personal success is that I no longer cry out in disbelief, “This is horrible. I care!”
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