High Anxiety


So, I do not take anxiety well.

I get angry, and panicky, and fume and sometimes softly scream at people.  When it is horrible, I scream loudly and pound the hood of my vehicle.  Always have.

Rage issues?  I guess so.  Deep anxiety, surpressed high explosives.  I really have never known why.  Likely from my upbringing, of course.  I rage in the vehicle when I am in a hurry and get lost, and can’t find my way back on track, and am running out of fuel, and have an important appointment to keep.  When I am finally on track, I try to regain my composure.  Sometimes it works.  Sometimes I am left snappy and short tempered.  Sometimes I am still shaking from the prolonged anxiety.

Sometimes, I now recognize, this is due to PMS.  Low calcium.  When I take my calcium, I improve within an hour.  When I have calcium.  Now that I am old, old enough it won’t matter much longer, I can tell when the symptoms come on, the unreasonable, constant level of negative thoughts and frustration.  I have never found a good way of dealing with it, when it erupts.  In the end, I am left battered and raw and unhappy with myself.

An addiction?  Learned conditioning from my mother screaming at us in her rage and frustration?  Simply an emotional flaw?

I ended up wishing I could just go back to when I was as a child.  Not that life was simpler, but all that I wanted was for everyone to be happy.  They never were.  I already knew I couldn’t ‘make’ them happy, but I hoped maybe if I shared my happiness.  Shared my toys.  Shared my time.  Shared my innocence.  Shared my money.  Shared my acceptance.  Shared my hopes.  Shared my dreams.  Maybe they would find ways to be happy.

But they never were. 

Not my ‘ex-best friend’ who lived hard and angry and looks and moves so much older than her years.  Not my sister or brother, who live together now since they can barely stand the outside world.  Not my mother, who hated herself to death.  Not my husband, who hated us to death. 

Not me, anymore.

Maybe my sons.  Maybe I did better by them than was done by me. 

I hope so.

Maybe I can learn to find the things to share with me that might help me, not make me, but help me be happy again.  Maybe I can do that for myself.  Maybe I truly do deserve to help myself be happy, again.  I wish I could unlearn the anxiety.  I always figured that I loved and hated and worried with the same passion, so my love would be deep and rushing and dazzling.  Maybe too dazzling.

I suppose it is better to imagine that I was too dazzling for anyone to handle, too intense for one small man to figure out how to love, than that I am so easily dismissed and forgotten.

A fine line, between self esteem, hope, and downright hubris.

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