Acceptance

How do you begin to accept the things which are done to us that turn us into the people we become? How do you formulate emotions that go against everything your mind and body are making you feel? I think perhaps I'm waiting for the punchline to some joke I never found funny to begin with. A joke that everyone else can see the funny side to. I never used to feel uneasy in a crowd, and now when too many faces gather too closely I begin to panic. Because until now I haven't been able to accept the things which were done to me, or the person I've become.

When we're born we're given a book with blank pages. Where the story goes is unwritten, but as the years go by the chapters begin to weave out tales of betrayal and love and sadness and all those timid moments of monotony in between. Sometimes we repeat chapters, rewriting the same scenarios until we learn to let them be. Or rip the page out in desperation. Sometimes we don't get to write our own chapters, they are taken from us and penned by those who take control of our lives. My book is on the shelf at the back of the library, its old and worn from being open and closed. It has pages missing, and chapters reminiscent of each other. There are villains and heroes, and lion tamers. It has beauty hidden deep within, moments of utter clarity that would be the envy of any who could stand on the outside and look within. And moments of loneliness and despair. Why did this happen to me? Why does this keep happening to me? Take the damn pen away from me, I am done writing.

The reason I am riddled with anxiety is perhaps a mix-up in my make-up. There are those who would argue that mental illness is all chemically induced. That the wires in our brains are tremendously wired up wrong. There are others who would say that mental illness is the disposition of those who do not deal well with the dark chapters of life. I happen to believe in both. It is the things which were done to me, things within my chapters that I could not fathom which broke me. And it is those chemical imbalances which remain within that keep the anxiety clock ticking. Perhaps our story is different, but that is the beauty of mental illness. It does not discriminate. And it does not wear the same face each time. Perhaps this is why I can not accept the things which were done to me, and the person I have become.

Before anxiety I loved nothing more than making plans with a big group of friends. After anxiety I no longer have a big group of friends to make plans with. Before anxiety I did not care what people thought of me. After anxiety I question every word which slips from my lips in case it can be used against me later. Before anxiety I walked through life thinking everything would be ok, being noncholant about the things I should have cared more about. After anxiety I fear the outcome of every small decision, and the various repercussions if I've made the wrong decision. Before anxiety I walked through crowds, after anxiety I avoid the masses as if the many faces will somehow consume me. Before anxiety I was so certain in my relationships I thought they were unbreakable. After anxiety I am more aware than ever that nobody will walk this life with us from the start of our book until the end. No one.

As desolate a thought that might seem, I like to think that with acceptance there comes an enlightenment which anxiety can not touch. I just want to exist without questioning my relationships, without the worrysome thoughts of I must spend more time with my friends, because if I don't we will drift apart and I will lose them. I must not be anything other than agreeable at work, even at the cost of my own peace of mind. I must make sure my boyfriend and my kids have everything they need, even if I am exhausted. I must exercise more and lose weight, but what if I can't find the motivation? I must ensure we have enough money, even though I'm paying off debts that were none of my doing. 

These are fundamental worries. Things that follow us through life, whether we suffer from anxiety or not. But there is a stark difference. Those without anxiety have accepted these things, perhaps even on a subconscious level, enough to function each day and sleep each night. I do not, and can not accept that I am no longer the sort of person who could bury their woes. I look back on who I once was and I see another life, another book entirely. Perhaps one day I will tell it, but until then I keep old dirty pages with damaged edges in my back pocket as a reminder that I walk the earth in different shoes now.

We are all a little damaged. We are all that old hardback sitting irrepressibly on the shelf gathering dust. I do not want the rest of my chapters to be desolate and anguished. I do not want them to repeat in sentences already written in doleful strings of words that begin to make little sense after a while. I want my book to land in the hands of someone who rejoices in reading it when my time on this earth is done. I can not change the things which are already written, but with acceptance I can turn them into beautifully constructed lessons that were learned bittersweetly. Every day is a battle to achieve this. Every day I tell myself the crookedness of my teeth wont taint my smile. Every day I tell myself of all the people I have lost in this world, all of them no longer deserved their place in my book. Every day I try to accept these things, and some day I convince myself that I have. I heard somewhere that if you fake a smile one day it will turn into a real one. Perhaps if I fake my acceptance one day it will turn into something real.

Stay with me.