I was struck by the line in Sarah’s essay: “Sometimes, I feel like I’m entwined with this anxiety, and I let it define my identity.” Her writing inspired me to explore the roots of my own anxiety.
After my brother died, I fixated on the fact that I hadn’t told him that I loved him. Had he known? I was five years old, and I convinced myself he was gone because I hadn’t adequately appreciated him.
After he died, I started taking inventory of everything I was grateful for. At holidays and birthday parties, I counted my blessings in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I told myself how lucky I was to be so happy, to be having so much fun, to get to eat cake and open presents and play games and have friends. Forcing myself to appreciate what I had felt like a protection against losing it. Even if it didn’t last forever, at least I would know that I hadn’t taken it for granted.
I can’t hang up the phone with anyone in my family without saying “I love you.” Sometimes, it embarrasses me, but I need to say it. I need to say it in case.
I am constantly imagining what might happen: car accidents, plane crashes, falling onto the subway tracks, illness. Before I go away for the weekend, I whisper to my boyfriend, “Be safe,” as if these words might allow me to control the uncontrollable.
A therapist tells me this is an exhausting way to live, in a constant state of agitation and worry. I nod as she says this, imagining all the productive ways I might repurpose the mental energy spent anticipating catastrophe. But I’m oddly attached to my anxiety. I know it’s not rational, but I imagine it as control—as a protection against the worst. I’m still scared of what might happen if I let go of it.