A Footnote in the Story of My Life

Anxiety is like a third wheel in every relationship I have. Romantic relationships, friendships, work relationships. Even casual encounters with strangers on the wrong day at the wrong time in the wrong situation, which have no relationship except a casual, passing relationship of time and space and circumstance.

It's a strain on those around me. My coworkers refer to me as "intense but wonderful". My husband refers to me as "sweet as long as everything has a plan but hopelessly incapable of adapting in case of catastrophe". My friends introduce me as "my friend Chanel: don't touch her". People who have had those negative encounters with me in passing likely remember me as "that crazy bitch that got in my Karen business". I've never seen my doctors' notes on me, but I imagine they say things like "Lord, this girl" and "we gave this girl rabies treatments and she still worries about rabies sometimes: what more can we do?" and "I have prescribed medications, but one made her gain three pounds and she felt that was the end of the world, and the other caused muscle twitching that convinced her she had rabies again, so what am I supposed to do about this?" 

The only relationship that it hasn't negatively impacted in any way that I can discern is the bond I have with Ripley, my rescued Box. 

Ripley is not a service dog. He's not even an ESA. Ripley is a simple dog, a sweet boy, the literal brother of my soul, that I found at an Adoption Day through Austin Boxer Rescue in August of 2014. He is smart and silly. Dignified but goofy. Loving but protective. And he's done more for my anxiety than all of my doctors, yoga, kickboxing, meditation, and natural and medical assistants have achieved since 2018, when this whole journey began. He was meant to be my companion, first and foremost, and a companion to our Boston. But he became so much more once my anxiety began. 

I mean. I say when it began. I've actually suffered from anxiety my entire life. In fact, if my parents weren't such perfect representations of Gen X and my grandparents (who took over raising us when I was ten) weren't such die-hard Boomers, my anxiety could have been treated and controlled as a child rather than left to run amok until it completely took over my life in 2018. As it happens, though, this was the hand I was dealt, and so I muddled through life as best I could: feckless, impatient, always on the edge of hysteria and never really understanding why, or even that it was happening at all. 

Enter Ripley. When we adopted him, it was because he was a perfect love match with our Boston terrier. My chihuahua didn't try to kill him. And when I saw his happy face and his wiggle tail, I knew he was the buddy I'd been wanting. His personality has facets. He has a fierce, protective streak that he's shown for me. His loyalty to me is absolutely cemented: I am his person, his being, the center of his existence. He's protected me twice, physically, from strangers assaulting me. If I am home, he wants to be with me, near me, on me if he can. By my feet. On my chest. Next to me on the couch. He likes to hold my hand, hear my heartbeat, be near me as I am just being me. We can play or cuddle or walk or run. Whatever I want to do, he wants to do it with me. And I'm very OK with this. 

But what I've discovered since my dive into full blown Panic Disorder in 2018 is that he senses my attacks, and he stays with me. When they hit, I lay down. If I'm on the couch, he sits by my shoulders and lays his head on my chest and "talks" into my ear. If I'm on the floor he lays next to me. If my heart rate increases and I can feel the symptoms starting, he lays on my feet and "talks" at me, and I sit on the floor and pet him or cuddle him. My attacks are shorter, less severe, when I have Ripley with me. And more often than not, if I notice the symptoms and he's here, he helps keep them from coming on at all. 

My chihuahua is a great dog, but when I am having a panic attack she hides in her kennel. My Boston terrier wines and gets anxious, too, but isn't able to assist me. So it's all on my special boy, my buddy, the brother of my soul. 

2021 marks a new adventure in my journey through anxiety. I spent the last six months of 2020 learning how to recognize the early symptoms of anxiety so I could stop myself mid-task and walk away from my trigger. That has been wonderfully helpful, except that sometimes as soon as I sit back down to my task the anxiety comes back. So 2021 is for learning and utilizing techniques to stop physical symptoms of anxiety and reroute mental anxiety at the first onset of symptoms. It's about taking an active role in managing my anxiety rather than passively reacting after it seizes control. 

I've decided that Anxiety, if it will always be present, will not be a forerunner in my relationships anymore. If it has to be a part of my life, it will no longer be my defining characteristic. It will be a footnote in the story of my life, a parenthesis in my list of achievements. An obstacle I overcame, but not one that defeated or defined me.