I have anxiety.

Specifically, I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD.) Those words exist in a digital file somewhere, along with Bipolar II, and a handful of various other “traits” that don’t neatly fit into a diagnostic box.

True anxiety is a hard thing to explain to someone who is fortunate enough not to have it, especially in this world of toxic positivity and snappy edicts like, “Don’t worry, be happy.” A lot of people think that anxiety is simply excessive worry. But worry is to anxiety the same way that sadness is to depression. Sure, it may play a part, but it is just the tip of the iceberg. There is also over-the-top nervousness, a sense of doom, panic, catastophizing, over thinking, immobilization, intense fear… plus a whole host of physical symptoms like a racing heart, shortness of breath, nausea, sweating, shaking, and feeling like you’re going to pass out. To me, anxiety doesn’t so much feel like something bad is going to happen as it does that something bad is currently happening, and that I am powerless to stop it. Fight or flight mode is kicked into full gear, as though I’m under immediate attack.

Lewis Capaldi (who I love) has a line in his song, How I’m Feeling Now, that says, “No sense of self, but self-obsessed. I’m always trapped inside my f****** head.” I don’t know what he was thinking of when he wrote it, but to me it speaks so succcinctly to anxiety. Trapped inside my f****** head.

There doesn’t have to be a reason for anxiety either. I’ve been asked so many times, “What are you anxious about?” And while there are some things that tend to trigger it – driving and just about any social situation are two big ones for me – the vast majority of the time there isn’t a reason at all. It just… comes. Out of nowhere. Like an unwanted visitor. Except instead of knocking, it kicks the whole damn door in.

SSRIs are often prescribed for people with anxiety, but they don’t generally play nicely with bipolar. I do take a PRN when it’s very bad, or when I have a full-on panic attack (and they work incredibly well), but I’m very mindful about how often I take them because 1) they have the potential to be addictive 2) the more you use them, the less effective they are, and 3) like any pharmaceutical, they can have adverse long-term side effects. So most days, I deal on my own. I went to therapy for a long time, and it helped immensely. I was also a pysch major, so as long as I was paying attention, I learned some tricks of the trade through that as well. I practice good self-care. I read a LOT. I self-reflect a LOT. I am a constant work in progress, always learning new ways to live with, and thrive with! this hand I’ve been given. Most days, I do okay.

Some days I struggle.

The worst part of having anxiety though is seeing that I’ve passed it down to my kids. 3 of my kids also have anxiety, to varying degrees. (If you’re new here, that’s 75% of my kids). One is on medication, one is in therapy, and one I’m…. watching. Carefully.

My own mental health issues were inherited too, and while I don’t harbor resentment for that – it’s a roll of the dice, not something you can help – I AM still trying to come to terms with the fact that they let them go unchecked, and untreated. Mental health was simply not discussed when I was growing up. Had that not been the case, I likely would have gotten help so much sooner. I was in my 40’s by the time I finally said, “Hey, I think I need help with this.”

I want something different for my kids. So we do talk about it. We talk about it a lot. They know there is no shame in saying it out loud, and no shame in seeking help. They know that I will understand, that I will believe them, that I will support them, that I will fight for them.

I try not to feel guilty about the fact that they got these squirrely genes from me, but I’d be lying if I said the guilt didn’t slide in when I let my guard down. I hope they don’t hold it against me.

Mostly though, I hope they can look at me and see a person who doesn’t just struggle with her mental health but lives with it. Someone who does the work to stay well. Someone who treats herself with kindness. Someone who is gentle with herself, not down on herself.

Someone who is neither defined nor ashamed by this particular trait. It’s not ME, it’s just a part of me.

And it’s not them either.

I am so incredibly proud of my kids, for this and so many other reasons. I see them doing things that scare them every day, and my heart nearly explodes. They are doing the damn thing. They take on new challenges, they try again when they fail, and they continue to show up. Day after day after day. And as someone who spent most of my young years afraid to do, well, everything, I so admire that. I so admire them. So yeah, we share this thing. But they won’t let it hold them down. And when they hit a rough patch (and they will hit a rough patch, because we all hit rough patches) and life does knock them down? I don’t doubt for a second that they’ll get back up.