I have anxiety. I would say I suffer from it, but I don’t really, not anymore. Thanks, medication! I only started taking something for it about 10 months ago. Before that, I just figured it was something I had to live with. Me, and everyone who lives and works with me.

I’ve always had anxiety, although back then it would be referred to as “having bad nerves”, or, better yet, being “high strung”, like an over tuned violin. I suppose I inherited it, as my mother was and is the longest reigning drama queen of the civilized world. Also, I had a difficult childhood (see above). As far back as I can remember, I carried around an incipient sense of dread, a feeling that if I wasn’t the best at everything, at school, at home, at work, if I wasn’t the prettiest, the funniest, the smartest person in the room, the house, the world, then everything would somehow … collapse. And that it would be my fault.

Anyone who has anxiety knows that it comes with its good pal, depression. Anxiety and depression: the Piglet and Eeyore of the emotional spectrum. So when I wasn’t spinning like a top trying to be the best at everything, I would be weepy and despondent. Exhausting for everyone involved (cue husband and children nodding sagely).  Of course I tried therapy. I tried lots of things. Some good, some bad, some healthy, some less so, and for the most part I managed. Until late last spring, when I went to see my doctor for a regular check up, and she asked me how were things, and I was going to say fine, they’re fine, everything’s great, but instead I burst into tears. Big racking sobs, actually. Runny nose, ugly, blotchy crying face, the whole shebang. The doctor was completely unperturbed. She asked me a few questions about my family, my job, my kids, my marriage. I explained that my father was suffering from dementia, my job was going nowhere, my youngest son was leaving home to go to school overseas, my family was reeling from a long buried secret, my dog was probably going to die, and … and  … at this point I started hiccupping. The doctor passed me the Kleenex and wrote me a prescription. “Here”, she said, “it sounds like you’re suffering from life”.

So now I take a crumb of anti anxiety medication every day, less than the recommended dose, but who’s counting? My father died last July, mercifully and peacefully. I quit my job and found another, happier one. My son left home, but he’s great, and coming back soon. Asta is still alive and doing just fine. Piglet and Eeyore still show up from time to time, but so does Tigger, and Tigger’s a wonderful thing. I’m not saying meds are for everyone, but they work for me. As for the long buried family secret, it will have to wait for another blog post. Stay tuned. And enjoy the ride. I know I do.

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