How a troll helped my anxiety
It is a slouchy, gelatinous thing, like a cross between the poop emoji and Jabba the hut.
That’s how my friend described her depression to me, as we sat next to each other on the couch in my living room.
Lying in bed that night, I thought about the visual representation of my own anxiety. Since being diagnosed with OCD at age 9, I had described my anxiety so many times to so many people, but always through the clumsiness of words, never visuals.
I knew immediately what my anxiety looked like, though. It bears striking resemblance to the troll dolls of the 90s, with a bright green poof of hair and a bejeweled belly button. And it’s feisty.
And since then, I’ve thought of my troll often.
The other day, for example, while on a morning run, I passed by a bush with some bright red berries. My immediate thought was, “what if I reached over and popped one of those potentially poisonous red berries in my mouth and died?”
For some, this thought might have been innocuous, but for me it was a trigger, like I had just sent an electric current of fear through my body. Typically, this thought would have set off a spiral of panic: what did it meant to have that thought, what if I was suicidal, did this mean I was depressed, etc. The same old neural pathways.
But instead of being swept away into a cyclone of anxiety, I imagined my little troll on my shoulder, snickering and saying, “Gotcha,” with a smirk.
I smiled to myself, laughing at my troll and the absurdness of my fear, and bringing my attention back to my feet pounding on the pavement.
It is moments like these, when triple-checking the door lock or fearing that I’ll decide to jump off the bridge, that my troll serves as an anchor. Visualizing the troll re-grounds me and helps me redirect my thoughts and energy. I’m able to get perspective, like I’m looking in on the thought from the outside, rather than being all-consumed by it.
Being able to see it and name it makes it feel less overpowering and scary. It’s there and I’m okay with it.
Visualizing my anxiety has also has made me want to talk more about it.
Before, my anxiety felt unexplainable and amorphous. It was heavy and taxing to try to convey what I was feeling. So, for the most part, I didn’t talk about it. But something has felt so freeing about summing up my anxiety with a character. Now that I have a visual, it feels like something I want to talk, share, and laugh about. There’s a humor and levity around my anxiety, where before there was only angst and shame.
As I did more digging, I found that visualizing one’s anxiety, known as “externalization,” is a common technique in cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT). Yet this technique is typically targeted toward children, and I found little evidence of this technique among the adult population.
From movies to art, I also began to notice examples of visualizing mental health in popular media. The recent Pixar hit, Inside Out, shows the inner-world of 11-year-old Riley’s brain, including a cast of five dynamic characters who represent her emotions. And other artists have made pretty amazing renditions of OCD and other mental illnesses.
Although there seem to be more attempts to convey the nuances of our mental landscape, I most often hear anxiety described as a “cold hand that grabs you in the middle of the night,” a “cyclone,” or an “inner demon.” I don’t know about you, but for me, those images just make me want to run away.
But, my sassy little troll, well, I guess he can stay a little while.
What mental health issues are you working through and what do they look like?
I’m working to create an online exhibit/gallery of how people visualize their mental health struggles to bring awareness to mental health and the diversity of experiences. And to add some humor and color (!) to what are typically talked about as dry, clinical diagnoses.
Please submit the representation in whatever form you prefer: a drawing, picture, or quick sketch on a napkin. Your submission will be kept anonymous.
