Keys I Haven't Lost Yet: Who Am I Without My Anxiety?
“Isn’t that what most of this is
about? Something painful in our past? Something breaks or something dies and in
living with the pain, we begin to live with ghosts. And by our choices, we
either ask the ghosts to leave or we help them make a home … Maybe we begin to
ask the ghosts to leave when we begin to ask some other folks to join us in our
haunted places. In the broken parts of our stories. Our messes and our
questions. To meet us, to know us, to help, to care, to listen.”
—Jamie Tworkowski, If You Feel Too Much
Learning to let go is one thing. Digging deep within yourself to find answers to why you are truly feeling the way you are feeling is another thing. But once you think you’ve finally reached some common ground between you and the voices in your head, where do you go from there? Better yet, once you’ve come to demand honesty from the person staring back at you in the mirror AND you’ve finally started to figure out how to let go of insecurities and anxieties that were never doing you any good, who are you? Anxiety has been my best friend for so long that I almost don’t know how to live without it. But, like everything else, I’m trying. And, just like everything else, it is hard.
I’ve never been a patient person. Literally never. I blow up and freak out over the tiniest of inconveniences and the tiniest of details going awry, and I’ve done this for as long as I can remember. I remember once my parents had friends come over who brought their kids, and after not even a full thirty minutes of playing in our basement with me, they both asked their parents when it would be time to leave. Don’t get me wrong; the feeling was mutual. Not only have I never had any patience but I’ve also never had any tolerance for people who don’t fit the anal retentive mold I carved out for myself in the world. But everywhere I turned, these feelings were put down or invalidated. I should have started taking count of how many times I’ve been told to lighten up in my life. My parents, try as they might, desperately wanted me to stop being so uptight and so tightly wound because not only was it just not suitable or presentable for a child such as I was to be like that, but clearly someone could see the writing on the wall for how it would be for me if I didn’t “knock it off” while I was young—that person just wasn’t me. It would be years before I would finally be able to differentiate obsessive-compulsive personality traits, and legitimate obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Hell, I’m still learning. I tried so hard to not be like that. Some would tell me I was doing it for attention, which always led me to ask myself if I truly was being uptight and impatient for attention (I wasn’t). To this day, it bothers me when someone refers to something as “their OCD” when a fridge magnet is out of place, or chairs are misaligned, or some other banality that is more just a preference for tidiness than anything else. It bothers me that such preferences also correspond with legitimate symptoms and quirks of those with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Maybe everyone is a little OCD; who knows. Everyone is bound to have their own idiosyncratic ways of doing things that were probably ingrained in them from one source or another as children. But the line between a personal preference and a true inability to leave well enough alone—to the point of developing obsessive thoughts, unbreakable patterns of behavior, and a level of impatience and unease that can sometimes trigger an emotional breakdown on the spot—is a very fine line.
A lot of it is personality. Impatience, unease, obsession with organization, and making sure everything is perfect is really chipping away at a fear of ambivalence—which are all characteristics of a Type A personality. Some people are truly just like that. We’ve all seen, laughed, and understood Monica Geller on Friends and her incredibly rigid obsession with order, rules, organization, and tidiness. But Monica’s real fear is that of ambivalence—and rather than deal with what might really be causing her to become so “OCD” over the appearance of her apartment, she develops these ticks and these rituals instead because they are easier to control. Ambivalence is the gray area—an area of true uncertainty. And in case you haven’t already noticed, life is one great big gray area of uncertainty. Life is ambivalent. That’s why Type A people like me and Monica have such a hard time existing in the world, and in order to make it easier, we develop these tendencies to exert control in a world where we otherwise have none. And my guess is that we very often develop these quirks and these rituals as children because we indirectly realize, very early on, that there is very little in life we can have absolute control over—and that makes us anxious. But instead of accepting or validating those anxieties, we’re told to lighten up or let it go and to stop being so uptight. Well, here’s your reminder that that’s the definition of easier said than done. It gets worse as you grow up and realize that these compulsive rituals and somewhat permanent state of impatience and unease can very easily transform into an inability to rest and an obsession with time management. If I wasn’t patient as a child, lord knows I’m certainly not going to be patient as an adult when it comes to my ambitions or my relentless pursuit of the vision of “how things should be” that has been a blurry, unclear image in my mind for most of my life. But rather than openly discussing that we live in a world full of ambivalence and the anxiety that creates for some people, we’re left to figure it out on our own—and the road to accepting that ambivalence and those anxieties is a long and tiring one. I think I’m finally there.
It’s interesting to me that, when my open romance with anxiety began a few years ago, I believed I had never felt that feeling before. I didn’t realize that the constant state of unease I felt was something I had been feeling and fighting my entire life—just in different ways. I didn’t make the link between the meltdown I had over my Lego pirate ship falling apart during a family gathering at our house when I was seven and my emotional outbursts over being an obsessively perfect student when I was eighteen. Our primal instinct as humans is to always blame something we’re feeling on someone or something else, or a thing that has happened to us that we ultimately have no control over. I suppose both of these things do occasionally have their merits, but for me, it was a complete waste of time blaming my problems on a heavy workload or merely a rough transition from childhood to adulthood. Those things may have been real and true, but my issues were mine and mine alone to figure out. But since that was all too often scary and uncomfortable to face, I retreated into things that had always brought me comfort in anxious times—order, organization, routines, and rituals, now with a shot of obsession with time management, and notoriously intrusive thoughts and spirals. Eventually, I reached a point where I felt everything was falling into place—I seemed to be able to defuse anxieties over the future, and tried my best to enjoy life in that moment since I was just so tired of being unable to relax every day until I solved every question mark in my life; but as any adult can tell you, Rome was not built in a day. I hadn’t yet learned that. I still believed I could have obsessive-compulsive rituals that brought me comfort, an unresolved obsession with being perfect, some money in the bank, and continue to be free of anxiety for the rest of time. Needless to say, I was a damn fool.
When I fell into a deep depression about a year ago, part of the reason why I felt more depressed whenever I tried not to feel that way was because I truly could not understand why things that had brought me comfort in the past and assured me everything would turn out okay—rituals, compulsions, obsessive thoughts—were no longer working. These were things I had held dear to my heart for most of my life. They were the only things that could convince me everything would be okay in an ambivalent world I had no control over. The key to letting go of those things and bringing myself out of that depression was realizing and accepting that those rituals, compulsions, and obsessive thoughts were even there to begin with. I’d known them for so long that they’d become so commonplace and so natural to me, I didn’t even realize they were there anymore, nor did I even remember how or why I developed them in the first place. I just knew I needed them to get through whatever I was going through at that point, and I ignored the warning signs that told me they were only making me worse because I couldn’t see the signs. It was like there was a deep fog and the fog only cleared once I’d gotten to the other side, so I only saw the warning signs once it was too late. It was as if I suddenly thought I had become allergic to my medication to make me better—rituals, compulsions, obsessive thoughts—when in fact I’d been allergic to it all along. Needless to say, I was—once again—a damn fool.
I quickly figured out that, in order to live, I had to plot ways to outsmart my anxiety. And at this point in time, I think I’m doing a damn good job. Many have asked me what the inciting incident was to realizing it was time to let go of my compulsions, insecurities, and anxieties and it was honestly just a series of moments I started having earlier this year where I would wake up in the morning and think, I’m so tired! I’m so tired of being at war with my mind and I’m so tired of having to go out of my way to please the voices in my head. It was from there that I realized if I started to truly let go of compulsive behaviors rooted in insecurities and anxieties that I had continued to carry over from childhood, maybe things would start to get easier. And they did, and they have. It felt like the weight that was on me during my depression last winter was finally being lifted. It was then that I started to realize that a lot of the time I spent feeling anxious and not knowing how to solve it was because the anxiety was being intensified by things I had not yet dealt with from my past. It’s honestly a mystery to me that people can successfully transition from childhood to adulthood without airing out their psychological dirty laundry. I know not everyone is Type A or has a history with obsessive thoughts but I’m willing to bet that anyone who struggles with anxiety—or has even just FELT anxious once in their lives—will start to have a bit of an easier time if they start to dig deep within themselves and demand answers and honesty. It’s worked wonders for me, but that doesn’t mean my struggles with anxiety are over. I don’t think they will ever be over and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Part of what made my fall into depression so rough was that I’d convinced myself that the periods of intense anxiety I’d suffered in the years before were finally over and gone forever. That’s not realistic. I try to go easy on myself when thinking back to that time since I wanted so badly to believe my anxiety was gone forever since I was so tired of feeling that way, but it still wasn’t realistic. As long as you have honesty with yourself and the proper tools to continue dealing with yourself, I think you’re set. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to continue on with an existence that feels anxiety-free when you’ve felt anxious for practically your entire life.
I still want everything to be perfect. I still think that if only there was something I could do to make everything perfect, then everything would be okay. But I’ve had to learn that life does not work that way. I’ve learned that life is ambivalent. I’ve learned that you have to somehow accept that ambivalence or you are just going to be swallowed whole by the world. And even though I’m trying and like to think, on most days, that I’m doing a good job, it’s hard. I still think that if only I could take out a bunch of books from the library and read them all as fast as I can, I will feel productive and finally start to feel worth it. I still think that if only I could find the perfect song I will never get sick of no matter how many times I hear it, everything will be okay and I will feel worth it. I still think that if only I could buy all of the seasons of that series on DVD to have on hand in the event I need to watch something comforting, I will be okay and so will everything else. I still think that if only there was something I could do that other people would understand and commend me for, then I would feel worth it. Worthy of the oxygen I breathe. Worthy of the time spent trying to be perfect. I still think that I’m unwanted if a person doesn’t answer my text. I still second guess everything I say to other people in fear that something I’ve said will make everyone hate me. I grew up not fitting in and thinking, under the surface, even people who were nice to me were doing it out of pity. I still think that if only there was something I could do, something I could say, something someone else could tell me to quiet the overwhelming sense of uncertainty that I’ve had within myself forever, that I would finally feel fine. I would finally feel happy. The hole would be filled. And despite the fact that I’ve now learned the hard way that life does not work like that, it’s still the only thing that drives me. And even when I tell you that I know now that it’s not that deep, who am I when you take away the anxiety that has pumped through my veins my entire life? Well, it’s not all gone. There are still good days and bad days. There are still days where I feel myself falling back into bad habits and wondering if I’ll ever change, since we ultimately cannot help who we are. But as a whole, I feel as though I’ve finally moved beyond those bad habits. I know that they do not define me. I am not my anxiety and I am not my obsessive thoughts. I know I can fall back into a spiral of obsessive thoughts and won’t be able to leave the dishes dry on the counter overnight, because the stress feels so much stronger than I am. But I know that I can exist outside of those things. And honestly, who has the time? Who has the time to be plagued by anxiety and obsessive thoughts to the point of it ruining every day? Who has the time to wait around for life to be perfect? Life is too fucking short. Let that shit go. I know I’m still worthy of the oxygen I breathe if I don’t read three books in three days, and I know I’m still worthy of the oxygen I breathe if I take a break and do absolutely nothing all day. Despite what my mind still tells me on a daily basis, I’m worthy and deserving of a break. I wish I still knew when I felt I needed a break, because I truly can’t tell anymore. But I do know I’m not a machine just like you are not a machine. We all deserve a break when we think we need it. We are all just doing our best with what we are given, and since that in itself is just more ambivalence, it’s all we can really ask for.
“Keys I Haven’t Lost Yet” is a phrase near and dear to my heart. It’s from a keychain that my grandmother, my Nanny, carried on her keyring for as long as I can remember. I remember not yet knowing how to read and sounding out the words on the bright orange keychain—the phrase might have singlehandedly been the first thing I ever learned how to read. When my Nanny died, that keychain was one of her things given to me to keep and I’ve carried it on my own keyring ever since. As I’ve continued to grow up, the phrase has taken on different meanings, and I now think of it as a reminder that I’m still here. I haven’t lost my keys. But even if I did, that would be okay. Keys, for the most part, are replaceable. I haven’t felt like I’ve lost my sanity today, but even if I did lose it, it’s okay. I can get it back. It might be hard, just as it might be hard to replace your car keys, but I can do it. You can do it. We’re all just trying our best. Maybe I’ve already lost my keys and have found them over and over again with a little help from others, and myself. But I haven’t lost them for good. Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
“Unfortunately, having a fine life doesn’t exempt anyone from existential angst. Maybe it should. Maybe if we were all perfect people, we’d wake up in our nice warm beds, appreciate that we’re not waking up on concrete under an overpass, and cease fretting about our hopes and dreams, because if our basic biological needs are covered—food, shelter, water—what else could be so bad? Perhaps if I were homeless, I wouldn’t give a damn about things like professional satisfaction or personal fulfillment, because my greater concern would be not freezing to death. But I know damn well that once I had food in my belly and a roof over my head, I’d start thinking about those things again. The horizon of needs and wants never actually gets closer; it’s an illusion, a trick. We can always want more. We can always perceive some need.”
—Mary Laura Philpott, I Miss You When I Blink
“We are all a people in need. We are not perfect. We are not machines. We make mistakes. We need grace. We need compassion. We need help at times. We need other people. And that’s okay.”
—Jamie Tworkowski, If You Feel Too Much
(Recommended listening for this essay: “It Was in Me” by Avril Lavigne, “My Kind” by Alessia Cara, and “Bloodline” by Ariana Grande)
Follow It's Not That Deep on Instagram — @areyouthereanxiety — and listen to my playlist of mental health songs on Spotify and Apple Music
—Jamie Tworkowski, If You Feel Too Much
Learning to let go is one thing. Digging deep within yourself to find answers to why you are truly feeling the way you are feeling is another thing. But once you think you’ve finally reached some common ground between you and the voices in your head, where do you go from there? Better yet, once you’ve come to demand honesty from the person staring back at you in the mirror AND you’ve finally started to figure out how to let go of insecurities and anxieties that were never doing you any good, who are you? Anxiety has been my best friend for so long that I almost don’t know how to live without it. But, like everything else, I’m trying. And, just like everything else, it is hard.
I’ve never been a patient person. Literally never. I blow up and freak out over the tiniest of inconveniences and the tiniest of details going awry, and I’ve done this for as long as I can remember. I remember once my parents had friends come over who brought their kids, and after not even a full thirty minutes of playing in our basement with me, they both asked their parents when it would be time to leave. Don’t get me wrong; the feeling was mutual. Not only have I never had any patience but I’ve also never had any tolerance for people who don’t fit the anal retentive mold I carved out for myself in the world. But everywhere I turned, these feelings were put down or invalidated. I should have started taking count of how many times I’ve been told to lighten up in my life. My parents, try as they might, desperately wanted me to stop being so uptight and so tightly wound because not only was it just not suitable or presentable for a child such as I was to be like that, but clearly someone could see the writing on the wall for how it would be for me if I didn’t “knock it off” while I was young—that person just wasn’t me. It would be years before I would finally be able to differentiate obsessive-compulsive personality traits, and legitimate obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Hell, I’m still learning. I tried so hard to not be like that. Some would tell me I was doing it for attention, which always led me to ask myself if I truly was being uptight and impatient for attention (I wasn’t). To this day, it bothers me when someone refers to something as “their OCD” when a fridge magnet is out of place, or chairs are misaligned, or some other banality that is more just a preference for tidiness than anything else. It bothers me that such preferences also correspond with legitimate symptoms and quirks of those with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Maybe everyone is a little OCD; who knows. Everyone is bound to have their own idiosyncratic ways of doing things that were probably ingrained in them from one source or another as children. But the line between a personal preference and a true inability to leave well enough alone—to the point of developing obsessive thoughts, unbreakable patterns of behavior, and a level of impatience and unease that can sometimes trigger an emotional breakdown on the spot—is a very fine line.
A lot of it is personality. Impatience, unease, obsession with organization, and making sure everything is perfect is really chipping away at a fear of ambivalence—which are all characteristics of a Type A personality. Some people are truly just like that. We’ve all seen, laughed, and understood Monica Geller on Friends and her incredibly rigid obsession with order, rules, organization, and tidiness. But Monica’s real fear is that of ambivalence—and rather than deal with what might really be causing her to become so “OCD” over the appearance of her apartment, she develops these ticks and these rituals instead because they are easier to control. Ambivalence is the gray area—an area of true uncertainty. And in case you haven’t already noticed, life is one great big gray area of uncertainty. Life is ambivalent. That’s why Type A people like me and Monica have such a hard time existing in the world, and in order to make it easier, we develop these tendencies to exert control in a world where we otherwise have none. And my guess is that we very often develop these quirks and these rituals as children because we indirectly realize, very early on, that there is very little in life we can have absolute control over—and that makes us anxious. But instead of accepting or validating those anxieties, we’re told to lighten up or let it go and to stop being so uptight. Well, here’s your reminder that that’s the definition of easier said than done. It gets worse as you grow up and realize that these compulsive rituals and somewhat permanent state of impatience and unease can very easily transform into an inability to rest and an obsession with time management. If I wasn’t patient as a child, lord knows I’m certainly not going to be patient as an adult when it comes to my ambitions or my relentless pursuit of the vision of “how things should be” that has been a blurry, unclear image in my mind for most of my life. But rather than openly discussing that we live in a world full of ambivalence and the anxiety that creates for some people, we’re left to figure it out on our own—and the road to accepting that ambivalence and those anxieties is a long and tiring one. I think I’m finally there.
It’s interesting to me that, when my open romance with anxiety began a few years ago, I believed I had never felt that feeling before. I didn’t realize that the constant state of unease I felt was something I had been feeling and fighting my entire life—just in different ways. I didn’t make the link between the meltdown I had over my Lego pirate ship falling apart during a family gathering at our house when I was seven and my emotional outbursts over being an obsessively perfect student when I was eighteen. Our primal instinct as humans is to always blame something we’re feeling on someone or something else, or a thing that has happened to us that we ultimately have no control over. I suppose both of these things do occasionally have their merits, but for me, it was a complete waste of time blaming my problems on a heavy workload or merely a rough transition from childhood to adulthood. Those things may have been real and true, but my issues were mine and mine alone to figure out. But since that was all too often scary and uncomfortable to face, I retreated into things that had always brought me comfort in anxious times—order, organization, routines, and rituals, now with a shot of obsession with time management, and notoriously intrusive thoughts and spirals. Eventually, I reached a point where I felt everything was falling into place—I seemed to be able to defuse anxieties over the future, and tried my best to enjoy life in that moment since I was just so tired of being unable to relax every day until I solved every question mark in my life; but as any adult can tell you, Rome was not built in a day. I hadn’t yet learned that. I still believed I could have obsessive-compulsive rituals that brought me comfort, an unresolved obsession with being perfect, some money in the bank, and continue to be free of anxiety for the rest of time. Needless to say, I was a damn fool.
When I fell into a deep depression about a year ago, part of the reason why I felt more depressed whenever I tried not to feel that way was because I truly could not understand why things that had brought me comfort in the past and assured me everything would turn out okay—rituals, compulsions, obsessive thoughts—were no longer working. These were things I had held dear to my heart for most of my life. They were the only things that could convince me everything would be okay in an ambivalent world I had no control over. The key to letting go of those things and bringing myself out of that depression was realizing and accepting that those rituals, compulsions, and obsessive thoughts were even there to begin with. I’d known them for so long that they’d become so commonplace and so natural to me, I didn’t even realize they were there anymore, nor did I even remember how or why I developed them in the first place. I just knew I needed them to get through whatever I was going through at that point, and I ignored the warning signs that told me they were only making me worse because I couldn’t see the signs. It was like there was a deep fog and the fog only cleared once I’d gotten to the other side, so I only saw the warning signs once it was too late. It was as if I suddenly thought I had become allergic to my medication to make me better—rituals, compulsions, obsessive thoughts—when in fact I’d been allergic to it all along. Needless to say, I was—once again—a damn fool.
I quickly figured out that, in order to live, I had to plot ways to outsmart my anxiety. And at this point in time, I think I’m doing a damn good job. Many have asked me what the inciting incident was to realizing it was time to let go of my compulsions, insecurities, and anxieties and it was honestly just a series of moments I started having earlier this year where I would wake up in the morning and think, I’m so tired! I’m so tired of being at war with my mind and I’m so tired of having to go out of my way to please the voices in my head. It was from there that I realized if I started to truly let go of compulsive behaviors rooted in insecurities and anxieties that I had continued to carry over from childhood, maybe things would start to get easier. And they did, and they have. It felt like the weight that was on me during my depression last winter was finally being lifted. It was then that I started to realize that a lot of the time I spent feeling anxious and not knowing how to solve it was because the anxiety was being intensified by things I had not yet dealt with from my past. It’s honestly a mystery to me that people can successfully transition from childhood to adulthood without airing out their psychological dirty laundry. I know not everyone is Type A or has a history with obsessive thoughts but I’m willing to bet that anyone who struggles with anxiety—or has even just FELT anxious once in their lives—will start to have a bit of an easier time if they start to dig deep within themselves and demand answers and honesty. It’s worked wonders for me, but that doesn’t mean my struggles with anxiety are over. I don’t think they will ever be over and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Part of what made my fall into depression so rough was that I’d convinced myself that the periods of intense anxiety I’d suffered in the years before were finally over and gone forever. That’s not realistic. I try to go easy on myself when thinking back to that time since I wanted so badly to believe my anxiety was gone forever since I was so tired of feeling that way, but it still wasn’t realistic. As long as you have honesty with yourself and the proper tools to continue dealing with yourself, I think you’re set. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to continue on with an existence that feels anxiety-free when you’ve felt anxious for practically your entire life.
I still want everything to be perfect. I still think that if only there was something I could do to make everything perfect, then everything would be okay. But I’ve had to learn that life does not work that way. I’ve learned that life is ambivalent. I’ve learned that you have to somehow accept that ambivalence or you are just going to be swallowed whole by the world. And even though I’m trying and like to think, on most days, that I’m doing a good job, it’s hard. I still think that if only I could take out a bunch of books from the library and read them all as fast as I can, I will feel productive and finally start to feel worth it. I still think that if only I could find the perfect song I will never get sick of no matter how many times I hear it, everything will be okay and I will feel worth it. I still think that if only I could buy all of the seasons of that series on DVD to have on hand in the event I need to watch something comforting, I will be okay and so will everything else. I still think that if only there was something I could do that other people would understand and commend me for, then I would feel worth it. Worthy of the oxygen I breathe. Worthy of the time spent trying to be perfect. I still think that I’m unwanted if a person doesn’t answer my text. I still second guess everything I say to other people in fear that something I’ve said will make everyone hate me. I grew up not fitting in and thinking, under the surface, even people who were nice to me were doing it out of pity. I still think that if only there was something I could do, something I could say, something someone else could tell me to quiet the overwhelming sense of uncertainty that I’ve had within myself forever, that I would finally feel fine. I would finally feel happy. The hole would be filled. And despite the fact that I’ve now learned the hard way that life does not work like that, it’s still the only thing that drives me. And even when I tell you that I know now that it’s not that deep, who am I when you take away the anxiety that has pumped through my veins my entire life? Well, it’s not all gone. There are still good days and bad days. There are still days where I feel myself falling back into bad habits and wondering if I’ll ever change, since we ultimately cannot help who we are. But as a whole, I feel as though I’ve finally moved beyond those bad habits. I know that they do not define me. I am not my anxiety and I am not my obsessive thoughts. I know I can fall back into a spiral of obsessive thoughts and won’t be able to leave the dishes dry on the counter overnight, because the stress feels so much stronger than I am. But I know that I can exist outside of those things. And honestly, who has the time? Who has the time to be plagued by anxiety and obsessive thoughts to the point of it ruining every day? Who has the time to wait around for life to be perfect? Life is too fucking short. Let that shit go. I know I’m still worthy of the oxygen I breathe if I don’t read three books in three days, and I know I’m still worthy of the oxygen I breathe if I take a break and do absolutely nothing all day. Despite what my mind still tells me on a daily basis, I’m worthy and deserving of a break. I wish I still knew when I felt I needed a break, because I truly can’t tell anymore. But I do know I’m not a machine just like you are not a machine. We all deserve a break when we think we need it. We are all just doing our best with what we are given, and since that in itself is just more ambivalence, it’s all we can really ask for.
“Keys I Haven’t Lost Yet” is a phrase near and dear to my heart. It’s from a keychain that my grandmother, my Nanny, carried on her keyring for as long as I can remember. I remember not yet knowing how to read and sounding out the words on the bright orange keychain—the phrase might have singlehandedly been the first thing I ever learned how to read. When my Nanny died, that keychain was one of her things given to me to keep and I’ve carried it on my own keyring ever since. As I’ve continued to grow up, the phrase has taken on different meanings, and I now think of it as a reminder that I’m still here. I haven’t lost my keys. But even if I did, that would be okay. Keys, for the most part, are replaceable. I haven’t felt like I’ve lost my sanity today, but even if I did lose it, it’s okay. I can get it back. It might be hard, just as it might be hard to replace your car keys, but I can do it. You can do it. We’re all just trying our best. Maybe I’ve already lost my keys and have found them over and over again with a little help from others, and myself. But I haven’t lost them for good. Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles.
“Unfortunately, having a fine life doesn’t exempt anyone from existential angst. Maybe it should. Maybe if we were all perfect people, we’d wake up in our nice warm beds, appreciate that we’re not waking up on concrete under an overpass, and cease fretting about our hopes and dreams, because if our basic biological needs are covered—food, shelter, water—what else could be so bad? Perhaps if I were homeless, I wouldn’t give a damn about things like professional satisfaction or personal fulfillment, because my greater concern would be not freezing to death. But I know damn well that once I had food in my belly and a roof over my head, I’d start thinking about those things again. The horizon of needs and wants never actually gets closer; it’s an illusion, a trick. We can always want more. We can always perceive some need.”
—Mary Laura Philpott, I Miss You When I Blink
“We are all a people in need. We are not perfect. We are not machines. We make mistakes. We need grace. We need compassion. We need help at times. We need other people. And that’s okay.”
—Jamie Tworkowski, If You Feel Too Much
(Recommended listening for this essay: “It Was in Me” by Avril Lavigne, “My Kind” by Alessia Cara, and “Bloodline” by Ariana Grande)
Follow It's Not That Deep on Instagram — @areyouthereanxiety — and listen to my playlist of mental health songs on Spotify and Apple Music
Comments
Post a Comment