Face in my hands, eye rubs, deep breaths, a pill every so often, arm wraps, ultra tight hugs when I go home, visions of beaver tranquilizers dancing through my head.
Life with chronic anxiety really is "taking life one anxiety attack at a time."
Recently, my mother told me that she sees my life as one crisis to the next.
That has bothered and stuck with me like a dumb kid who puts super glue between his finger and his thumb.
It bothers me because I worry that others might look at me and think that.
It bothers me because it's probably true.
It bothers me because it isn't true.
Is that my life?
Is that who I am?
My flair to the dramatic I use for storytelling, but I don't feel things deeply like that.
The thinks I feel deeply, I'm probably not talking about. Probably, those deep feelings are getting subverted into random energy for other stories.
So it's true. And it isn't true.
Those who know me probably think it's true, but they would likely describe those "crises" much differently than I would.
It's the difference between a symbol and a motif.
A symbol can stand alone in a story. It is one and it can be done. Some symbols might "transcend" stories: for instance, a dove in any story can generally be seen as a symbol of peace or of Christ. Its use in a short story, though, can be singular.
A motif is something that doesn't necessarily transcend stories from different authors, though it might in a single author's work. It is a symbol that recurs. It is different than a theme in that its appearance may not be discussed or wholly pertinent to a story's meaning, though analyzing its use assuredly deepens understanding to the story. An example of this is in Derek Mahon's poetry. His use of meteorological terms throughout his poetry is so pervasive that I developed, while in graduate school, a multiple page index of his use. Single spaced.
All my "crises" are varied. Boys. Not fitting in. Eating disorders. Female friends because girls are the worst. Housemates. Parental fights.
The roots, though, are all the same. The deep, scathing, inescapable anxiety.
In all honesty, every single one of my life crises probably has that as its center. I was consumed by my own nature, and I did something weird, socially unaware, or straight up mean. Or, maybe worse maybe not, my body tried to soak up my anxiety before it could do those things and accidentally harmed me. The manifestations of which included, but are certainly not limited to: anorexia, vasovagal synchope, trichotillomania, depression, teeth grinding, gum recession because of teeth grinding, the need for a root canal because of teeth grinding, chronic migraines from teeth grinding, friend loss, boyfriend loss, family conflict, job conflict, panic attacks, being the worst at parties, people thinking I'm a B, coming off as a B, reclusion, crying in Walmart, in Starbucks, on the playground in elementary school, various libraries, various countries, various continents.
Hi, my name is Jamie, and I'm going to tell you a really lively story about going to the post office because I have tubs of aching, crippling anxiety that I have no story for but that are driving me to act out.
I talk. I hate my self for talking. I am silent. I worry people will think I'm anti-social. I can't win, even with myself.
That's my motif.
It's not a very good one, and I'm sure many people in my life would respond with something well-intentioned about Jesus, and I would caution them against that. Jesus is great, but Paul had his thorn too. Loving Jesus doesn't make bad stuff go away. He helps give a path to learn where to gain peace from and give breaths of respite, but it doesn't remove the darkness from my nature.
So yeah. My life is a series of crises. I wish that weren't true. But it is. That doesn't mean it's the whole story, though. Maybe that's why it bothers me.
My life goes through one crisis then the next, it isn't just one crisis then the next.
I am not a crisis. I am a person.
