CleverLittleViper
06-11-14, 21:56
As I was walking home from the cinema in the dark tonight, I had a revelation of sorts. I realised that I could be murdered, I could get hit by a car and die, I could trip and break my neck. Any number of things could happen that could potentially claim or ruin my life, but that didn’t stop me making the choice to leave my home, and go and see that film, and embark on the journey home alone, in the dark.
I took the risk because I perceived the benefits to be greater than the risk. I wanted to see that film, and the only time it was on was late afternoon, and I also fancied a walk. The risk was calculated. I’d made the journey countless times, in the dark, in the snow, in the pouring rain and in the beaming sunshine. I’d survived each and every one without a scratch. I knew if I watched where I was walking, took proper precautions when crossing the roads, stayed to well-lit, well-populated areas within a housing estate, I would likely make it home OK. Just as I had countless times before.
I suppose my point is that we each take a calculated risk every time we leave our homes. Even within our homes there are risks. People with HA, I find, don’t do well with risks. We’re a very cautious lot, always fearing the worst, and in many cases, I think obsessive compulsive disorder has a lot to answer for. Yet, we take them and we take measures to minimise these risks. It’s really the same with health.
There’s no guarantee that some lunatic won’t come bounding around the corner at 100mph and knock us over just before we reach safety, but we trust that they, too, will be just as risk-conscious as ourselves and be looking out for danger. All we can guarantee is that we won’t step out in front of moving vehicles. There’s no guarantee that we won’t get lung cancer, but all we can guarantee is that we won’t smoke 40 cigarettes a day.
We can’t live our lives in fear. In fear of things that may never happen. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I want to put my fists down, and actually enjoy my life or I may as well lock myself in a padded cell for the rest of my days because that’s what I’m doing to myself mentally. I can’t keep perceiving threats around every corner, avoiding living just in case, and I suspect neither can anyone else here.
I think, as much as we didn’t choose anxiety, we choose to keep the wheel turning, and stay on the merry go round, or we can choose either by medication, therapy or a combination, to get off the torture ride called Anxiety, and start living our lives again. As much as we can say this is not a choice, in some part, it absolutely is. We are choosing to ground ourselves in unhealthy thought patterns, to fuel our anxiety and compulsions with Google, or whatever it is that feeds it, and we can choose to stop doing it.
We can choose to stop paying attention to the little brat called anxiety, who throws a tantrum every time we get close to getting better, or we can choose to continue down this dead-end path and be miserable. It’s not going to be easy, there’s going to be days when we all slip up and there’s going to be days that are good, but we can’t start getting better until we all make the choice to.
No one in this world has a guaranteed lifetime’s clean bill of health, but why should we spend however long we have being healthy, worrying ourselves sick about a time when we may or may not get sick? I don’t want to look back on my life, and realise so much of it was spent, fearing diseases I never got and hiding away from the world and driving myself up the wall (as well as everyone else).
When we know our issues are caused by anxiety, why do we convince ourselves that instead, in our case, it’s actually a “real” disease? And why don’t we attack our anxiety as fervently as we do our actual or perceived medical issues? I can spend hours, Googling symptoms and diseases, scaring myself stupid, but why can’t I spend time reading a book on CBT or completing online CBT courses? Or searching for a good, local therapist/therapy group to help with the issues I know I have.
From this point forward, I’m making the choice to help myself. To pull myself out of the black hole anxiety threw me into, and stick two fingers up at that little brat. It’s not going to dictate my life a moment longer, and there will be days when I can’t keep that promise, but I will always do my best to fight through them and remember the end goal-a happier, healthier life and outlook on life.
I want to remember what it feels like to look forward to the future, and not see doom everywhere. I want to feel like I have a life worth living, where I’ve done everything I can so that no matter what happens, I can handle it, and say I did my best with what I had. I don’t want to be stuck in this quicksand anymore.
I took the risk because I perceived the benefits to be greater than the risk. I wanted to see that film, and the only time it was on was late afternoon, and I also fancied a walk. The risk was calculated. I’d made the journey countless times, in the dark, in the snow, in the pouring rain and in the beaming sunshine. I’d survived each and every one without a scratch. I knew if I watched where I was walking, took proper precautions when crossing the roads, stayed to well-lit, well-populated areas within a housing estate, I would likely make it home OK. Just as I had countless times before.
I suppose my point is that we each take a calculated risk every time we leave our homes. Even within our homes there are risks. People with HA, I find, don’t do well with risks. We’re a very cautious lot, always fearing the worst, and in many cases, I think obsessive compulsive disorder has a lot to answer for. Yet, we take them and we take measures to minimise these risks. It’s really the same with health.
There’s no guarantee that some lunatic won’t come bounding around the corner at 100mph and knock us over just before we reach safety, but we trust that they, too, will be just as risk-conscious as ourselves and be looking out for danger. All we can guarantee is that we won’t step out in front of moving vehicles. There’s no guarantee that we won’t get lung cancer, but all we can guarantee is that we won’t smoke 40 cigarettes a day.
We can’t live our lives in fear. In fear of things that may never happen. I don’t want to live like this anymore. I want to put my fists down, and actually enjoy my life or I may as well lock myself in a padded cell for the rest of my days because that’s what I’m doing to myself mentally. I can’t keep perceiving threats around every corner, avoiding living just in case, and I suspect neither can anyone else here.
I think, as much as we didn’t choose anxiety, we choose to keep the wheel turning, and stay on the merry go round, or we can choose either by medication, therapy or a combination, to get off the torture ride called Anxiety, and start living our lives again. As much as we can say this is not a choice, in some part, it absolutely is. We are choosing to ground ourselves in unhealthy thought patterns, to fuel our anxiety and compulsions with Google, or whatever it is that feeds it, and we can choose to stop doing it.
We can choose to stop paying attention to the little brat called anxiety, who throws a tantrum every time we get close to getting better, or we can choose to continue down this dead-end path and be miserable. It’s not going to be easy, there’s going to be days when we all slip up and there’s going to be days that are good, but we can’t start getting better until we all make the choice to.
No one in this world has a guaranteed lifetime’s clean bill of health, but why should we spend however long we have being healthy, worrying ourselves sick about a time when we may or may not get sick? I don’t want to look back on my life, and realise so much of it was spent, fearing diseases I never got and hiding away from the world and driving myself up the wall (as well as everyone else).
When we know our issues are caused by anxiety, why do we convince ourselves that instead, in our case, it’s actually a “real” disease? And why don’t we attack our anxiety as fervently as we do our actual or perceived medical issues? I can spend hours, Googling symptoms and diseases, scaring myself stupid, but why can’t I spend time reading a book on CBT or completing online CBT courses? Or searching for a good, local therapist/therapy group to help with the issues I know I have.
From this point forward, I’m making the choice to help myself. To pull myself out of the black hole anxiety threw me into, and stick two fingers up at that little brat. It’s not going to dictate my life a moment longer, and there will be days when I can’t keep that promise, but I will always do my best to fight through them and remember the end goal-a happier, healthier life and outlook on life.
I want to remember what it feels like to look forward to the future, and not see doom everywhere. I want to feel like I have a life worth living, where I’ve done everything I can so that no matter what happens, I can handle it, and say I did my best with what I had. I don’t want to be stuck in this quicksand anymore.