Dealing with the Ashy Spaces of Life
I first met Anxiety years ago in a Walmart checkout where too many people were talking, moving, yelling and pushing. Why I now wear headphones while shopping and back when I was heavy on Twitter I tweeted “I think I just had a panic attack.” A follower showed concern and asked me how did it feel. I replied it felt like I couldn’t move or breathe; like everything was crashing on top of me and I just had to eat it. “Sounds about right. Glad you got out of there.”
Up until that point I didn’t know I was fighting anxiety — just a constant bout with worry. My grandmother was a trained worrier. She would stay up late, scuttling around the house worried about food that was busy cooking, commercials being too loud, people coming in late even with advanced warning. She would sit in her chair and rock until everything was right in her eyes, then find something else to worry about. I for a long time embodied that trait. Then I learned I can’t live like that. I dismissed the worrier but Anxiety came to play.
I’m tempted to give myself an out for being this way. Tell about all the people I need to care for. The many I’ve told myself and have told me they need me at all times. But in this I hold up my own mirror before anyone else can reach for theirs. I know I’m terminally helpful and attentive. I put my needs after the fact because a.( guilt-laden upbringing b.( “you’re so strong and so easy to talk to” c.( one of many other reasons because rule of three for writing.
No outs given today. I need to quench my aches and rub out the ashiness of these thoughts that lead to Anxiety. So here goes:
I want to talk to no one and yell at everybody. Close myself off while remaining open for time. “I’m fine”, I sing fully aware I’m hanging on by a thread. And this is the ache. This is the ashiness of Anxiety.
And I say I am not weak. Bruh I’m not weak. My mind leaps ahead light years, conjuring up evil scenarios and heartbreaking what-ifs to the tune of “wouldn’t this suck if this happened? Think hard until it does, okay?” By then I’ve lost control. And Facebook doesn’t help. With the evil sliding down my timeline from the latest black person killed to Drumpf to racial angst to “let me tell you everything about you even though I only know your IG name”, all I see and process is fear and rejection. Anxiety and mental ashiness thrive in those conditions. You don’t know it’s happened until it’s too late; that seed has been planted deep and you’re stuck with folk asking “what’s wrong with you?” to which you have no straight answer. There’s a reason why fighters rest between rounds.
This morning I woke up and read after scrolling Tumblr which seemed to be on my wavelength. A bevy of posts about surviving depression and anxiety mixed with the simple notes by people who wake up to it sitting on their chests each day. They look bright, vibrant, still thriving despite D&A trying to run them ashy. I got up and did some yoga, a ritual I forget to turn to during tough times. I exercised. I forgot to eat after I showered but I cover myself in coconut oil, shea butter, a frangrant concoction I created at Shakoor’s and affirmations. Afterwards I put on my belly chains radiating rose quartz and gold.
“I love myself. I am worthy. I plant seeds of love. I’m not who I thought I was. I am more.”
Negative Cognitive Schema be damned. I leave home headed to the water with books and water to drink. I will eat. I will breathe. I will not let this world and the evils within make me ashy.
