I rarely talk about anxiety. I never defined it for myself or for anyone. The fact that one's symptoms can never be measured has always stopped me from labelling or making checklists of symptoms to classify people. And I have read a few books, a few articles, some that I understood, some that were just advices on how to live.
How can one wake up to another morning, when the night earlier was filled with so much fear? No one can define or measure it, even the person feeling it. For me, it's a constant restlessness. It's nausea, it's tears for no clear reason, it's shivering. Sometimes it even extended to losing control over body movements, sudden fear of going crazy, bouts of screaming. And it's just impossible to not feel it. It swallows one.
I never took medicines for it. But I tried all ways of reasoning with my thoughts, with step by step guides. I faced my fears many times. I calmed myself many times. But somehow this feeling digs holes in my body, and flows. It arose in different cycles, with the object of obsession changing.
My therapist told me, that in order to not subconsciously manifest my past on my future, to not let the similar repercussions of slumps repeat, I push myself extra hard without realising, and fail to acknowledge any efforts that I'm putting. But most days, from my eyes, it only looks like I strive hard, and always miss the finish line.
It's difficult to be with people hiding your feelings. Because it only results in untimely tears, and surprised faces. It's even more difficult to say this in front of people, because it's repetitive, and most of them are averse to such emotions, or are too filled with stories of their conquers to sing in front of you relentlessly. Individualism though, I don't understand, if it is a coping mechanism, a superiority, a need, or the right way to be acceptable?
I often hear people whispering with face-palms, that this generation calls everything a trauma. Strange, strange generalisation. You see a person crying over a pimple, but I also see a child neglected in childhood and never exposed to brutal realities. Empathy after all, isn't inherent. You see people crying over heartbreaks, I also see people forced to find comfort outside their families, projecting parental needs on their partners.
Like anxiety, there is no measure for trauma, or no right usage of it. At least I like to think so. People aren't all same metals, supposed to react in the same way, when exposed to same conditions. Some bend, some break, some grow cold, some grow resilient, and some change in more than one ways, no one can comprehend.
I would never neglect poverty, and discrimination, natural disasters, and all the acceptable, visible factors of grief, and how even on such real factors, motivation is thrown like an ignorant consolation. I never meant to call an experience trauma. It's only an individual's job to define, understand, reflect, grow and learn from their experience.
Amidst all this, amidst understanding how everybody responds and learns differently, how, literally how can anyone define the right way? The calm-composed can be a crook, and the whining adult can have a point. How can one assume?
But don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of being resilient and brave and strong and what not. But who could define strength? To what extent is strength, strength and not fear of being humane? Some like to talk, some don't. Some want to and don't get to. Some don't feel enough to talk. Think it in your mind, what would be your first candid response if someone told you they struggle inside their mind?
I have never completely relied on the work of psychotherapy to cure one of their distortions. The most it can do is, make people notice what patterns their thoughts fall on, and how those thoughts are perceived as feelings, and how a safe space can make one aware of all that they swept under the rug.
But is anxiety a disease or a disorder? I would never answer that. A human mind isn't diagnosable. Brain is. But not the mind. No matter how much the outdated sciences try to convince, I never buy it.
There are many schools of thoughts, some just dump it all on your childhood, and some still empower you. Yet, I could never deny the effect of childhood. And I would never make a home in the analysis of it.
Ultimately, there are too many fears we clutter ourselves with. Because in order to forget our real doom, we built societies and communities to live by. We made revolutions and factories. And it's almost impossible to shut this loudness out of your door when you are just an unmindful product of it. How can one not have fears?
One can embark on a journey, to realise the ways of living that take you away from shallow constructs of the world, but often the journey is flawed, tedious, tiring, and lonely. Well, loneliness is another funny word, I'd rarely talk about. But maybe some night I'd rant.
Often the pursuits of human beings, start and end on the same need. And the need even when realised and understood, is hard to be extracted from one's behaviour. Emotions are intense for some, and hurt is inevitable for all. Life, I thus think, should only be seen as a series of experiences. Because every other definition is either a sold hope, or convinced ignorance.
And the idea of deserving, will never be less a sham. The world works in ways no made up God could control. There's no need to please one.
And if some nights, you like to cry some tears, for just the sake of your existence, do so. Even if the next days requires you to work hard, for something you wouldn't understand working hard for, it's okay to sleep with questions, and hoping to live through the answers.
Everybody offers themselves with reasons. With dreams. And that's survival, that's main course of the menu. Acceptance is just a dessert. Something that eases, and sweetens, and relieves. But it's a hard earned one.
Anyhow, tears are good, and written words too, but I'd still think twice before letting someone see the changing truth of my mind.