Anxiety is back
and this time she means business
My first thought on waking up in the early hours of the morning about a week ago, heart thudding, unable to catch my breath, thoughts racing was ‘I don’t know if I can do this again.’
Anxiety is back. And she’s not messing around. Not content with waking me up in the morning, she’s been hanging around for whole days since, tapping me on the shoulder every time I relax, reminding me of her presence, making sure I don’t forget to worry and worry and worry. Actually, it is less like a tap on the shoulder and more like her hands are around my throat. There’s no ignoring her then.
I have history with anxiety. She’s been an unwanted companion (on and off) since I can remember.
My first recollection is of when I was sent to Sunday School alone, aged 7 or 8 years old. Week after week, after being dropped off at the chilly, cavernous church hall on a Sunday afternoon, I would look down at the rotting wooden floorboards, while no-one spoke to me, until it was time to go home again. I hated it so much I would screw my eyes shut for the duration, willing myself to be anywhere else, hoping to transport myself home, like a character from Star Trek.
I began to worry about Sunday’s as soon as school finished for the week on Friday, leaving me a whole day-and-a-half to fret, unable to eat or think about anything else until the ordeal was over for another week.
It never occurred to me to tell anyone how much I despised being sent to that dusty, musty smelling church - I’d already learned by then that any sharing of feelings was unwelcome in our house - so I sucked it up, week after week, until eventually the anxiety got so bad, I began to vomit every Sunday morning.
It’s amazing how loudly the body will shout when no-one’s listening.
