Anxiety feels like I’m falling apart. It’s as if there’s a void beneath my ribs, and I’m desperately searching for a way to piece myself back together. It turns my skin inside out, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. Usually, I’m my quirky, generous self—calm and present as a parent. I know I’m fortunate to experience stretches of tranquility before anxiety crashes the party again.
But then it sneaks in like an unwelcome guest. It wraps around me, worming its way through my thoughts and tightening around my throat. Anxiety is tangible; it quickens my heartbeat and churns my stomach. I never invite it in, yet it always seems to show up at the worst times—my child’s first day of preschool, when my partner is away, or in the quiet of night when I start to worry about bills. It even interrupts my moments at the park, where I should be enjoying my son’s laughter.
I plead for it to leave. It might retreat for a moment, only to return, reeking of smoke and filling my lungs with dread. Anxiety constricts my breath and locks my jaw, convincing me that calmness is a distant memory, and that it’s all I’ll ever know again.
Anxiety complicates my role as a mother. My toddler, Max, resists putting on his T-shirt, and instead of finding the humor in it, I feel a weight in my chest, as if his cries are extracting my heart. It makes me want to cry over something trivial like not finding Rice Krispies, but instead, it keeps all my emotions bottled inside, leaving only terror to race through my mind.
When my older son, Jake, excitedly explains the latest in his Minecraft world, I struggle to focus on his words. Anxiety distorts my perception, amplifying my stress and making me question my ability to parent. When they ask for another bowl of cereal just moments after finishing the first, I feel overwhelmed—not with anger, but with a crushing panic about my own shortcomings.
This time, I refuse to be courteous. I won’t wait for anxiety to leave on its own. Enough is enough. I’m done with its nonsense. You don’t define me, anxiety. I want you out of my life, out of my mind.
I’m staring you down. I’m allowing myself to feel whatever I need to feel, even if it means crying or expressing my rage. I’m taking hold of you and blowing you away like a puff of smoke. I have two wonderful children, a loving partner, and everything I need to live a fulfilling life.
There’s no real threat here. If there were, I would handle it. But you make me feel like the world is perpetually on the verge of collapse, and that’s simply not true. I’m not interested in your worries anymore. You can go bother someone else. I’ve had enough. Goodbye.
For more insights on handling anxiety and navigating parenthood, check out this resource. If you’re also exploring the journey of artificial insemination, consider learning more about Cryobaby’s kits, which provide excellent support. For detailed information on genetics and fertility, this Wikipedia page is a fantastic resource.
In summary, anxiety can feel overwhelming and isolating, but it doesn’t have to define who we are. We can reclaim our lives and assert control over our thoughts and feelings, especially as we navigate the challenges of parenthood.