When I was a kid, I was always looking for a monster to fight. Some arch foe that would test my mettle, and that I would eventually defeat in a blaze of glory with everything on the line. This notion played itself out in many ways. The first time I can recall was with my neighbor. She and I had been best friends for as far back as I could remember. We used to play every day. But once we got to elementary school, she was, you know, a girl. Clearly not best friend material anymore. So I made her my Arch Enemy! I don’t think I ever shared that with her, but in my head, our epic battle raged. I think I even scowled at her from time to time when I saw her in the hallway.
As I got older, that desire for a monster to fight never really faded. While others dreamed of impressing girls through sports or good looks, I fantasized about catching their eye with super powers and harrowing battles.
But even when eventually faced with monsters, I never took up the fight. My dad had a stroke when I was seven, and died from ensuing complications when I was fourteen. Years later, in my freshman year of college, I enrolled as a mechanical engineering major. After my first semester, the school introduced a bioengineering major. Bioengineering was the combination of technology and biology, from medical devices to machines that took their inspiration from animals (optics from a fly’s eyes, flight from a hummingbird’s wings).
The donor who gave the school the money to start the program, and who the bioengineering department was named after, was a prominent figure in his field. One of his first major breakthroughs (if I’m remembering correctly) was a stent for stroke patients to help buy them more time before permanent damage set in. I liked the sound of all of it, so I switched majors. I even lined up an internship at the donor’s company for the first semester of my sophomore year.
But between freshman and sophomore year, after a lot of contemplation that included the possibility of dropping out of college entirely, I changed my major to English. After years of hoping for it, I passed up my monster. Now, I’m not saying that I could’ve made an impact in the world of bioengineering. To be honest, I doubt I would have. When it comes down to it, I don’t think I was an engineer.
Regardless of what I would or would not have accomplished, I didn’t take up the fight. Not even for a semester. 90% of all superheroes were inspired by a dead father. I had the chance to go after my father’s killer, and I passed it up entirely.
Apparently though, my need for some all-powerful monster was and is an incredibly stubborn desire of mine. So much so, that after passing up a real monster, I created one in my own head. From the moment I get up to the moment I try to go to bed, I get to fight my own anxiety. That anxiety has grown and twisted, and like any good comic book villain, has never stayed dead or locked up for long.
Now, this isn’t a clinical diagnosis. That would imply that I was smart enough to talk to a doctor or mental health professional about this. My self-diagnosis comes from reading and listening to people who have been diagnosed talk about their own anxiety. It was a refreshing thing to discover that anxiety actually was something, something that other people struggle with. It’s somewhat empowering to be able to actually name your monster.
But those interviews and podcasts with anxious people came about because they found success in spite of their anxiety. They had an ambition that was stronger, and that ultimately pulled them through.
Someone asked me fairly recently if I truly want to be a writer, if it’s something I am driven to do. I listened to a podcast with a very successful actor a while back, and he talked about how, even if he hadn’t found success, he’d still be acting. No matter what he was doing or where he was living, he would find a way to act. It’s a similar refrain you hear from artists of all stripes, be they painters or musicians or writers. Their art is essential to who they are.
I could subsist entirely on the couch. My only true ambition is to get through whatever I’ve forced myself to do, and get back to doing nothing. So when the big monster that is anxiety knocks me to the mat, more often than not I tend to stay down. After all, it’s where I wanted to be anyway.
But while lying down makes me content, it does not make me satisfied. That is what writing can do for me. It’s what acting did for me when I used to act. There is a reason I am trying to do these things. It’s also better than the alternative. A successful writer, all inherent difficulties of the job aside, seems to have more control over their own life—the “when” and “where” of their day—than your average office worker. It sounds like a rewarding life. But all of those benefits, including the feelings of pride and satisfaction, feel one step removed from me. There is nothing in me that compels me to write. I just know that I should.
As near as I can tell, that natural drive that others have seems to be the sword in the stone that can put the anxiety monster down, or at least keep it at bay. Without that, I’m really at a loss for how to do it. I’ve tried all of the tropes there are. I’ve made oaths, sworn on things, and staked my honor on overcoming my anxiety. But in the end, all that was pretend, and as much as it’s my own creation and it lives in my head, my anxiety is a real thing that I have to contend with as an adult, not a child with a sheet tied around his neck.
This isn’t a cry for help, or even a simple request for it. This is, plainly and simply, a statement of fact: I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to overcoming my anxiety.
And I’m tired of being stuck in this same overworn rut.