Chronic anxiety is what I call a royal beeyotch-and-a-half–er, excuse me, a gigantic problem. I can’t overcome it, I just have to live with it, and yet . . . no, I don’t exactly have gratitude for it.
It hurts to constantly feel on edge. Some of it comes from a childhood–and beyond–with others trying to manage and control me. That’s never been fun.
And that’s a big reason why I consider anxiety a form of madness, socially and externally generated, not “mental illness,” a term that signals an internal aberration from norms of “mental health” that are not based in lived experience.
The sources of my anxiety are many: death, music, sex, romance (as Prince might have sung). The obsessive internal monologues about these topics prove difficult to suppress. But that begs the question: should I suppress them? Do I want to?
As I grow older and work more on acceptance of the present and the past–accepting but then challenging what I am able to change–it’s become easier to live with my anxiety.
At home, I pace plentifully and think out loud about my favorite songs, artists, singers, and albums from different decades and music genres. Some categories I have never been able to decide–favorite jazz singer and favorite country song among them–but my anxiety around decisions provides a clue as to the nature of my anxiety.
As an autistic person with ADHD, I’ve struggled with executive functioning–the kinds of skills that come automatically to neurotypical folks: cleaning living spaces, completing personal hygiene tasks, and making to-do lists have taken years for me to show noticeable improvement on.
However, my pacing–walking back and forth in apparently redundant fashion–might be the most obvious sign of my anxiety, even though it helps regulate me and my emotions as a form of stimming–self-stimulatory behavior–that I find soothing with my autism.
I wonder if I most express my anxiety when I pace, even if it’s misunderstood. I make lots of decisions best when I pace, so perhaps my pacing is misleading: it helps me be decisive, but others see it as terminally worrisome and indicative of my indecisiveness.
And they have a point: in college, undertaking a revolving series of majors–at least five–made my indecisiveness legendary on that campus. Back then, I consumed varying amounts of caffeine daily, so my anxiety was accelerated, as were my pacing and walking; I was also bumping into everything, so my anxiety was concerning for many.
At this point, however, I’ve learned a lot about my capacities for decision making from directing and judging different communications contests. I can make decisions, to the shock of many who knew me in my younger days, though I find some of my favorite music impossible to rank.
Still, my pacing persists on the same level it always has, proving that it’s not reducible to anxiety over decisions. In 2019 I wrote a column for the Good Men Project, “I Pace Therefore I Am (Anxious),” but I realize now that my pacing isn’t the sign of anxiety that many assume: it’s for self-regulation–if anything, it works to level and decrease my anxiety.
Unlike philosopher René Descartes’s maxim, “I think, therefore I am,” “I pace, therefore I am (self-regulating),” suggests that movement, literal or metaphorical, is central to who I am–not cognition. Or, given that I pace while thinking, movement and cognition work concurrently: both are crucial to my self-concept.
Yet my pacing worries people. I pace all over the stage in my TEDx talk, and I was told I should’ve explained it so that it would have been less distracting–noted for my next TED talk. But as I noted in that column, I paced before classes in high school, and other people said I made them nervous. I guess some things never change.
Relating to music, I’ve never heard a song that directly addresses madness–speaking to and about it–like Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit’s “Anxiety.” “A crowded room is a burning battlefield” might sound hyperbolic, but for those who live with anxiety, Jason Isbell’s courage to voice an extremely personal but common truth is remarkable. Isbell sings, “I can’t enjoy a goddamn thing,” and the tenseness in every inflection resonates in my skull.
For me, pacing can accompany anxiety–indeed, may appear to intensify it–but it helps me deal with–and accept–life on life’s terms. I’m not sure I can say the same about anxiety, but maybe one day I’ll be grateful for that, too. It’s something I’ve learned to accept, imperfectly, like many things I live with.
And someday, maybe I’ll learn to enjoy (at least) a goddamn thing in the moment. I’ve given up behaviors, including consuming coffee, that I’ve relied on to neutralize anxiety, but distract from and ultimately harm my ability to stay present. Will I be able “to ever sit back and enjoy life,” as I wrote in a song?
Maybe anxiety, like anger, will prove a useful map, but for now the royal diva that is my (relative?) hypochondria needs a break, as many people’s anxiety about the present–not to mention the future–does in this age.
The news cycle doesn’t help, but several factors help me and my anxiety level. I rely on my community of friends and loved ones to help me feel less alone. I use spirituality and service to others to get out of my head. I also use meds and other resources to maintain better control over and awareness of my emotions and writing to manage–and clarify–them. Finally, of course, listening to, singing, and playing music to release stress is key.
I have a greater sense of peace, or at least contentment, but not usually calm, today. I pace, therefore I am self-regulating, one step at a time.
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Photo credit: iStock
