I find myself a little more emotionally tender lately than I would like. Simmering below the surface are fears and tears and (milder versions of) the dark thoughts I’ve worked so hard to conquer. I feel the edges of anxiety creeping up, up, up, and I’m having to actively fight a little more to push them back down.
Anxiety is an asshole.
The odd part, though, is that at the same time, I feel and recognize that I am happy. I am blessed in my life, I am enjoying my family, I am lucky to have the things and experiences and people I have. I am loved.
The dichotomy between happiness and anxiety feels wrong. My anxiety, while never welcome, at least didn’t feel as out of place with the unhappiness of last year. It feels even more intrusive knowing that there is happiness on the other side of this bullshit. I don’t want this to be in my life. I don’t want this to be my battle, however hard or easy it is. I just want to enjoy being happy, you know?
It’s back to basics for me: I need more sleep, I need to cut back on caffeine, I need to eat better, I need to exercise, I need to stop reading the news, I need to do the things my therapist has spent a year telling me to do. I got lazy, I got complacent, and now I have to do the work again. Because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the stirrings of anxiety grow into anything remotely like they were before. I’m too happy to let that happen.