It took nearly two hours to get my daughter out of bed this morning.
Anxiety had dug its claws in, holding her beneath the covers
and making it nearly impossible to move.
“I can’t,” she cried. “I can’t do it, mom.”
“You can,” I replied.
“No, mom. I can’t. Please don’t make me.”
“I know you can,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed.
And I do know. I know
because I have an anxiety disorder, too.
Late last year, I wrote about how depression had taken over
my life. I talked about the things I was doing to take care of me, including
medication. Well, that medication worked wonders when I was on it, tackling
both the depression and my lifelong struggle with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
(Rolling your eyes
right now? If you are, it’s probably because you don’t have an anxiety disorder,
and so you think people who have them are just frail folks who haven’t learned
how to handle life like you have. But you would be wrong, so you can stop rolling
those eyes. Judgment Face doesn’t look good on you anyway.
Anxiety disorders are
real things in the real brains of real people. They are a highly amplified
version of the anxiety you deal with. The stress volume is cranked right up,
and it can wreak havoc on the sufferer’s life. Here, you can check out this handy article about it and then come back and read the rest of my post without
your Judgment Face on.)
Just this morning, before
waking Alexis up, I was standing in the kitchen in tears about how overwhelmed
I’ve been feeling. My wife, my confidante, my best friend in the world put
her cereal on the counter and had her arms around me faster than you can say, “Amanda totally married the right person.”
“It’s going to be okay,” she said to me. “You’re going to be
okay.”
And so here I was, an hour later, sitting on my daughter’s
bed and telling her the same thing, trying not to lose my patience after so many
mornings like this, trying not to let my own anxiety make me snippy, trying to
operate with compassion and empathy. Parenting a kid in crisis is hard work
when you’re feeling in crisis, too.
It took another hour before she could come downstairs. By
then, I had emailed the school’s absences address – this year’s most-used
address in my email list – and told them Alexis would be late again. “It’s a
high anxiety day,” I wrote. They know exactly what that means.
It took everything I had to convince her to leave the house.
But she did, and I know the amount of inner strength it takes to do that on
days when your anxiety is a solid 9. She amazes me.
We have about 5 minutes in the car between our driveway and
the school parking lot; 5 minutes for me to give my adrenaline-depleted
daughter a pep talk before she heads into a building filled with expectations;
5 minutes to try and impart some wisdom.
“Why didn’t you just let me stay home?” she asked.
“Honestly? Because I have only a few more years to teach you
something really important: You are stronger
than your anxiety. And I need you to believe that.”
“I don’t feel stronger today,” she said quietly.
“I know. You woke up with the lion in your face.”
“What?”
“Anxiety is like a
lion,” I said. “That’s how I see mine, anyway. Some days it’s far away and
I can only see a faint outline of it. I don’t have to worry about it those
days. But sometimes I wake up and it’s staring me right in the face.”
“Like me today,” she said.
“And like me today,” I replied. “But I’ve realized I only
have two options. Option 1: I cower in
the corner, afraid to move, and not getting to live my life that day, week, or
month. Or option 2: I learn to tame the lion.”
“How do you do that?” she asked in that teenager way
teenagers ask things when they don’t want to sound interested but kind of are.
“You find tools that work for you. I’ve had therapy and I’ve
taken medication when necessary. Today I had a good cry and a hug from momma.
And after I drop you off, I’ll go workout. Believe me, I don’t want to be in a
room full of people today and I don’t feel like exercising. But I know I’ll
feel better afterward; it’s my medicine.”
“And then?”
“And then I’m going to go on with the rest of my day as best
I can.”
“What if you can’t? What if I can’t?”
“What if you can’t? What if I can’t?”
“If I can’t, I’ll at least know I did the best I can. I’ve
realized I can tame the lion about 90% of the time it tries to back me into a
corner. The rest of the time, I eat Peanut M&Ms in bed and watch The Good Wife. And if you can’t today,
text me this afternoon and I’ll pick you up early.”
She gave me a long, long hug before getting out the car.
I went to my workout and ended up picking her up from school
an hour early. I’d say we both did the best we could.
Tomorrow is a new day. For now, the lions, while still close
by, are snoozing in the afternoon heat.
Being a parent is harder than I ever imagined, particularly
on days when I have my own beast to tame. But she’s worth it.
May I never let her down.
