My Anxious Life: Part 1.

I’ve always been very private about my anxiety, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just a little different from most people, and there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, my anxiety has provided me with the motivation and drive that has made me so successful and happy in life. However, my life would have been considerably easier if the anxiety had been diagnosed earlier.

I know my parents feel guilty for not recognizing my anxiety when I was a kid. They recognized early on that I was very smart, and they did their best to encourage my intellectual development. They knew I was different, but they figured the anxiety-driven behaviors were just side effects of high intellect. I actually think that might be true to some extent. Everyone I know who has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder is extremely intelligent, so maybe there is a correlation.

I wish I could have explained my anxiety to my parents when I first became aware of it at the age of three. However, even an intelligent child usually doesn’t have the self-awareness or real world perspective to recognize what the hell is going on when they have anxiety.

“Mom. Dad. Certain shit has come to light, and I think I would benefit from seeing a psychiatrist.”

I wish it would have been that way, but it wasn’t, and I don’t blame my parents for not understanding something they had probably never had any experience with. I plan to write a series of blogs about my experiences with anxiety. Maybe you’ll recognize some of these behaviors in the children or adults in your life and be able to help them identify the source and seek some help. Maybe you’ll just become more aware of generalized anxiety disorder, a condition that affects millions of Americans. It’s also possible that you’ll just find the stories entertaining, and that’s ok too.

My earliest memories of having anxiety are from my first year of pre-school. It was blanket anxiety stemming from the fact that the other 3 year olds stressed me the fuck out. They couldn’t sit still. They were loud. They were unpredictable. Sometimes they threw tantrums. They slept during nap time, which was probably the only thing they did that didn’t scare me. I would lie awake quietly during nap time, savoring the silence and wondering when I would be allowed to “wake up” and read.

I told my parents that I didn’t like school because I didn’t like the other kids. A discussion immediately ensued between the two of them about my socialization (or perhaps lack thereof) with other kids my age. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I could tell that they were troubled by the situation. Soon thereafter, I had a couple of play dates with other kids my age. These play dates were slightly less stressful than school since there was only one crazy kid there, but they really weren’t enjoyable for me. I immediately learned to refrain from complaining about school.

Since there wasn’t any help coming to save me from the anxiety I felt as school, I had to figure out some way to alleviate the anxiety. I would bite the inside of my mouth because that seemed to take my mind off of the situation. I could focus on my throbbing, bloody lip instead of the kid who was running around screaming “POOP!!!” Unfortunately, that didn’t always work. Sometimes there were several kids running around screaming, and on those days I needed a more powerful antidote. I started biting my hands and arms whenever I went to the bathroom. I didn’t bite them very hard, just hard enough to distract myself. The marks went away within minutes, and I felt considerably better.

Then there was a day I can clearly remember when about 10 kids shit their pants. Someone must have put laxatives in the apple sauce. The whole place smelled like the inside of a port-a-potty. The kids who shit their pants were crying. The kids who didn’t shit their pants were crying on account of the smell, and who could blame them? I couldn’t take all that noise and shit stench, so I bit the hell out of my arms during the next bathroom trip. I bit them too hard. The marks didn’t go away.

The teachers didn’t notice, but my parents did.

Mom says: “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARMS!?”

I think: Uh-oh. She’s mad. This isn’t good.

Mom says: “JENNIFER, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”

I think: I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth.

Mom says: “ANSWER ME, JENNIFER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

I say: “Someone bit me.” True, but a lie by omission of key details.

Mom says: “WHAT!? WHO?”

I think: Shit. ShitShitShit. Think fast.

Mom says: “PLEASE ANSWER ME.”

I say: “Michelle.”

Michelle was the biggest bully in the pre-school, and was always inflicting injuries on the other kids. I didn’t want to lie. I really didn’t. I’ve always hated lying, but somehow, I knew that the truth would fuck me over way more than the guilt of the lie in this situation. I still feel bad about the lie to this day.

Michelle obviously denied everything, but they didn’t believe her because she was such a horrible kid. The truth is, she didn’t get into much trouble. They just told her that she couldn’t keep beating up on the other kids, which I’m pretty sure was already part of the regular bi-weekly lecture she was getting for socking kids in the stomach. I never hurt myself again because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling another lie, or worse yet, getting caught in the truth.