A farewell to fear

The thing I loathe most about fear is how sneaky it is.

How one moment you can feel completely confident and positive that the path you’ve chosen is the path you desire, and then–bam! Crippling anxiety. Lose next turn.

It feels comforting to relegate fear into preset categories:

• Fear of failure
• Fear of commitment
• Fear of pain
• Fear of the unknown

We’ve even tried to make it trendy: FOMO–Fear of missing out. But that just goes to show how terrified we are of fear itself.

I say we. I shouldn’t loop the entirety of society into my anxieties and worries. I am terrified of fear. I am held down beneath its weight. I am. Me.

It would seem illogical, then, that I should do things like broadcast the things that make my stomach churn and jaw ache (weird anxiety tic; you don’t get used to it) on the internet. But I don’t fear this; I don’t fear sharing my thoughts in words I can erase, rewrite, erase again, edit later, erase again, and rewrite again; words that will mostly be read by strangers who won’t leave a comment and whom I will likely never meet. I don’t even fear having people I know read things like this, if for no other reason than it will spark a more interesting conversation than the circles of small talk that far too often dominate interactions between two people capable of so much more.

It would also seem illogical that I would fear the thing that could take away much of my fear. But I do. It’s keeping me up right now, making me question every quiver of my stomach and buzz in my head, every potential change from “normal” into what will be–if all goes well–my “new normal.”

I started taking an SSRI today, and I’m scared.

I’ve struggled with anxiety and PMDD for years now, and always just assumed I could find a way to control it myself. More exercise. Better diet. More therapy sessions. Weekly acupuncture. But the thing is, I knew it wasn’t working. I also feared what it would feel like to not be in control–to give up my brain and my body to a tiny pill that I don’t understand and, even after hours of research and dozens of questions asked of and answered by professionals, never will.

If you’ve read anything I’ve written or met me for more than a minute, you know I am a control glutton. Not in the way it’s portrayed in movies, where it’s somehow cute to be finicky about pillows being arranged just so, but in the “I will lose all sense of equilibrium if something doesn’t go according to whatever plan I have concocted” kind of way.

At least on my bad days.

On my good days I can force Logic to overtake Emotion and debate myself back into a state of, if not calm, then at least acceptance. But on my bad days–the week leading up to my period, the days I haven’t gotten enough sleep, the countless times I’ve said yes to too many things before checking in with myself and realizing I’m already running on empty and oh, by the way, there’s not another fueling station for a good 70 or so miles–I lose it. Usually not in front of others, sometimes on the phone with a trusted friend or relative, but it happens: my usual levelheaded, strategic-planner self who prides herself on considering situations from multiple angles and reaching an informed conclusion–poof!–vanishes.

This anxiety (perfectionism, obsession with control, OCD–whatever you want to call it) has manifested itself in many ways throughout my 30 years of living. I was the kid who threw a fit when plans changed at the last minute. I didn’t like playing at other kids’ houses because I didn’t know what games they had or which dolls they would allow me to use. I look at menus before going to restaurants. I buy almost exactly the same things at the grocery store every week and eat almost the exact same thing every day. I am a creature of habit. Change–a break in control–terrifies me. It’s not a fear of the unknown I suffer from, rather a fear of interrupting the known.

I know my current strengths and weaknesses. I know which people in my life lift me up and bring me down. I know I like solo travel. I know I dislike sharing a bathroom.

I also know I feel good–truly good–only a handful of days a month. I know that I feel ill over things that don’t merit anything more than a passing eye roll. I know that I actively avoid pursuing bigger, better, more meaningful projects, relationships, and changes because they’ll require being vulnerable. Risking rejection. Admitting to myself and the world that I’m not perfect and never will be.

And I know that I’m sick of living life halfway.

So today I went to a doctor. I told her all the things that scare me and that have been holding me back–that I’ve accepted as my normal–and I asked her to help me silence the fear and take the first step toward change. She did, and now I’m here: Day One of many days to come, during which I’ll feel as many ups and downs, frustrations and triumphs as I always have, but hopefully without the crippling worry that it’s not enough. That I’m not enough.

Because I am. You are. We are. And if we need something or someone to help us realize and remember that, then so be it. Life is happening and I want to live it. Failures and all.