SHE’S FINALLY CRACKED. The cries of each of you opening this post.
But hear me out.
Often people ask what anxiety feels like, how do you explain it, when do you know it’s what you’ve got.
The way I’ve always described it?
My brain is like a motorway. A really shitty journey on the M3, if you will.
I look upon my anxious thoughts as cars.
Some small Fiat 500’s (I’ve an irrational fear of my own voicemail, constant concern about the sell by date of chicken breasts etc, etc).
Some really fuck-off arctic trucks (oh my god I’m going to die alone because I’m such a living, breathing nightmare to be around, I have no discerning skills and will be unemployable by the age of 30 etc, etc).
Now for non-anxious folk, I’d imagine that these cars may be;
a) fewer and further between (perhaps one Fiat 500 to my fleet)
b) travel along more of a picturesque A-road, rather than a grey, raining and dark Midlands motorway.
For people who are anxious these cars travel in abundance, at all times, some way far above the national speed limit.
And rather than a lovely winding country road, an anxious brain resembles something more akin to an LA 5 lane freeway.
All of the cars. None of the space.
Now, for seasoned pros at the ol’ anxiety game, there’s a pretty decent traffic management system going up there.
We’re used to managing the ebbs and flows.
We know when rush hour is due (when we’ve not been being kind to ourselves, when we’ve been burning the candle at both ends, when we’ve been eating shit and drinking too much etc, etc).
We also now how to manage the busiest of traffic peaks (hitting the gym, saying no to a night out and sitting in a darkened room with nothing but a scented candle and a box set for company, having a big old fucking cry etc, etc)
However, sometimes our A-grade traffic management systems fails.
And sometimes these cars are travelling so quickly and in such volume that they smack straight into each other.
Pile ups. Like the ones you hear about on the news.
Except they’re in your head.
And ‘worried about the chicken’ car zooms straight up the arse of the ‘I’m shit at everything I do’ truck and before you know it bam.
You’re having a panic attack.
And it takes a solid forty minutes of shaking, crying and wondering if you’re having a stroke for the little men with the traffic cones to actually show up for work.
And at other times there’s so many cars, and so many trucks that they can’t go anywhere and then they just sit still for ages as well as all the other vehicles that help you, you know, function and eat and wash and stuff.
And there’s just a big old traffic jam.
And that’s when you get depressed.
And all whilst the worry kind of stands still momentarily so does your ability to do anything.
Like get out of bed.
Or lift your arm up high enough to brush your teeth.
So, yeah. Anxiety and traffic.
It’s a thing.