I woke today with my wall of anxiety awaiting me. It’s a feeling that overwhelms me, some days more than others. The feeling has been with me my entire life. I remember the first time I felt some comfort in my personality, was seeing a therapist around the age of 18. My therapist gave me a diagnosis of an adjustment disorder, and at the time it was one of the more freeing moments in my life. It explained so much – my discomfort in crowds and gatherings, my curiosity that always held an unwilling recognition. My life had been forever seeking validation, not knowing why, just feeling the need. I think knowing that diagnosis gave me the confidence to pursue more things, given I received permission for not feeling ok. I discovered the more effort I put towards moving away from it, the more comfortable I became.

I’m sitting in silence now trying to identify the feelings coming at me. They’re like a cloud of judgment not allowing me to move forward. I will because that is the natural course of our lives, but right now I’m just trying to piece together how my frame of mind is affected. I’ve reread my first paragraph three or four times. As an English teacher I am conscious of its balance, is it making sense as an introduction. So, while I am experiencing my anxiety, I am also paying attention to the authenticity of my words. I want to make a point while telling a story. I’ve concluded in my mind that this is where I need to explore in the coming days as I try to formulate a premise to my story.

Eventually as the day moves on I will find my way. The simple nature of my anxiety is subtle. I can reflect on the ways I used to bypass its oncoming strength. One method was drinking. I struggled with alcohol half my life, and managed to find remission a couple of decades ago. I can easily reflect upon how it impacted every aspect of life – my marriage, my work, my children. Alcohol for me was the great getaway, and for a bit of time, I was on top of the world, until the next day, when all I could do was reflect upon how I was throwing my life away. 

I think of the movie, The Lost Weekend (1945) where Ray Milland is an alcoholic newswriter who falls off the wagon on a four day binge. I remember it portraying the central character as a successful man who slowly unraveled. You could see it coming, as it portrayed that perfect lifestyle nearly destroyed by alcohol. I always remember the first couple of days I would start drinking again, and then as it became worse the episodic nature of my actions were blatant and easily attainable. One time it was Halloween night walking our kids around the neighborhood with all the parents holding a drink in their hands. I decided I was going to join in and be part of the crowd, but the truth is I just wanted to drink. Later that night after the kids were safely tucked away for the night, I went out – again – after five years to my local bars and found ‘my crowd.’ I came home drunk that evening and driving through the neighborhood wondered if anyone knew. It didn’t matter to everyone, it mattered to me and my family, and I knew I was in trouble. The anxiety I felt during those times was pervasive.

If you made it this far, a brief explanation. I’m using this venue to explore an idea I have of pursuing a goal of writing memoirish passages. Eventually not everything I write will land here but for now it is a testing point. For now, I appreciate your making it this far.