OverFlow: Anxiety Got The Better of This Post
My anxiety flares when my brain rightly puts together the truth: It’s not good for me to live in my memories.
OverFlow is what happens when I overthink, overflow, and over-everything. When my feelings have nowhere to go, I write about them.
I sat down wanting to write about my birthday—it was five days ago, on the 11th—but it’s not what my brain wants to focus on right now.
That’s a common problem these days: focus.
I have all the time in the world, but I get anxious and all my plans fall apart before I even make them. Being underemployed with no steady source of income might have something to do with my current inability to function normally, but I’m certainly not going to use that as an excuse to justify not doing anything about the crumbling walls of my sanity.
Is that really true, though? Am I not already making excuses for myself?
During my thesis year in college, I started getting migraines and nausea daily. I mostly ignored the bouts—through the power of caffeine, cigarettes, and painkillers—and believed they were stress-related and triggered by light and temperature changes. When I graduated, they stopped.
Maybe it was anxiety and I just didn’t want to admit it.
Both physical symptoms are back in full force nowadays, with a side order of intrusive thoughts! I’m always distracted by thoughts of worst-case scenarios and feelings of inadequacy. My stomach often feels queasy. When I need to speak to people—from the pizza delivery guy to my mother—my hands get clammy and my heart starts to beat really fast as I struggle to get the words out.
I’m emotional and unstable, and it’s been hell for me and for my husband. There’s nothing and everything to blame for this. Am I still grieving? Am I missing my family back in the Philippines? Am I missing my friends? Am I worried about the pandemic? Am I struggling to find freelance work? Am I having a fucking mental breakdown in the middle of the end of the world?
Yes to all of the above, obviously. It would be easy to just gesticulate wildly at ALL THAT, but there’s no healing and dealing to be found there. Why would I blame outside forces when I need to hold myself accountable for keeping my ego safe and far from the self-work I’ve been doing?
Why am I so sensitive? Why do I believe I’m special? Why can’t I admit that I need therapy or medication? Why do I still think I can handle taking care of my mental health on my own?
Here’s my theory.
I look at the past a lot—photos, keepsakes, videos—because I can’t just tell my friends to come over, can’t just drop by unannounced and have lunch with my mom, can’t just pick up the phone to hear my dad’s voice. Who I am now is a reflection of that past. I’m afraid to let go and change and adapt to what’s happening to me now because I find comfort in what’s already gone.
My anxiety flares when my brain rightly puts together the truth: It’s not good for me to live in my memories.
What I don’t want to confront is that the past loses its significance if it doesn’t inform the present. If I’m not a better person now than I was before, what the fuck have I been doing my entire life? Why would I want to stay the same? It serves no one, not even myself.
Well. At least now I’ve admitted it. Let’s see where this goes.
For now, a promise.
I’ll be here more often, less curated, less censored.
Photo by Stephanie McCabe on Unsplash
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