How I Learned to Love My Anxiety
Even when it doesn’t love me back
My anxiety has long been something of a running joke. Family members will laugh about how I was born worrying. When I was a little kid, I told my mum that I had a “busy brain” which people seemed to find adorably amusing. Everyone around me knew and accepted that I was “a bit of a worrier.” Being a worrier was just a fact about me, like having blue eyes or freckles.
Of course, everyone worries. It’s part of being human. But in my early twenties, I started to realize that I worried more than most people. I worried about seemingly small inconsequential things (what should I eat for lunch? Was I unintentionally rude to that woman at the post office?) and massive, life-shattering things (what if terrorists attacked London again? What if an asteroid was heading to earth?).
And then other times, the “worry” would be so all consuming that it actually prevented me from breathing. I would crouch to the floor, tears streaming down my face, struggling for air, unable to cope with the scale of my terror.
Being a worrier was just a fact about me, like having blue eyes or freckles.
I wasn’t just “worrying” in those moments. I couldn’t just “let it go” or “stop overthinking” things. I was in the middle of full-blown panic attacks. Even when I wasn’t having a panic attack, my “worrying” could be crippling. I could lose whole days: missing lectures, bailing on friends, barely leaving my room. This wasn’t just worry, it was an endless loop of anxiety, and it was exhausting.
Getting to know my anxiety
I didn’t used to accept that my anxiety was a “problem.” It was just part of who I was. I had high standards. It made me conscientious. Everyone worries and I should just learn to get over it, right?
It took a long time, counseling, and lots of loving support from my friends and family to realize that while everyone worries, not everyone experiences debilitating anxious thoughts as the constant soundtrack to their lives.
The problem was, the more I got to know my anxiety, the more pissed off I felt. Why was I so useless? Why couldn’t my brain work properly? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just “pull myself together”? I felt anxious — and then I felt shame and anger at myself for being anxious.
In Buddhism, this is described as the “second arrow.” Tara Brach, the Buddhist teacher and clinical psychologist, explains the concept like this:
The first arrow is the natural experience that arises in this human animal that we are, for example: fear, aggression, greed, craving. The second arrow is self-aversion for the fact of the first arrow. We have the experience of being nasty, selfish or greedy, and we don’t like ourselves for that. That’s the second arrow.
My first arrow is anxiety; my second was and often still is anger at myself for feeling anxious. My internal voice will say all kinds of unconscionably cruel things to me that I would never dream of saying to anyone else.
I felt anxious — and then I felt shame and anger at myself for being anxious.
The shield that could block that second arrow? Self-compassion. Being as kind to myself as I would be to others. I heard it over and over again from therapists and loved ones.
I understood in theory, but could never seem to make it click.
The long road to love
The years passed, I tried to have self compassion, I learned to meditate, I got better support for my mental health. Things went up and down, but my frustration at myself for “being this way” never really left me.
Recently, however, I picked up the book Reform Your Inner Mean Girl by Amy Ahlers and Christina Arylo. (Note: while the book is heavily targeted at women, I actually think there’s a lot that may be relevant to people of all genders).
The content of itself isn’t necessarily revolutionary. Lots of the insights were things I “knew” or had “heard before.” But whether it was the presentation or the timing, something finally began to make sense to me.
The two insights that have been most powerful for me so far are recognizing that the mean voice in my head is all about fear, and that I can imagine that inner mean voice as a separate part of myself.
I’ve actually been doing that second thing for quite some time with my worry — my worry has long existed in my imagination as a shrunken, gremlin type character, with grey skin and big eyes. But I never connected that little gremlin with that angry, hurtful voice, and nor did I ever do much to engage with it.
But — when I think about that mean inner voice as fear, it all becomes much clearer. That mean inner voice is my worry gremlin lashing out. He’s scared. He wants me to stop. He wants me to be safe. He has a crappy way of showing his concern, but he doesn’t need me to shout at him. He lacks impulse controls and boundaries, and sure, he isn’t always the easiest companion. But neither am I.
Suddenly, I could experience deep and loving empathy for my gremlin.
If this all sounds a bit out there for you, let me give you an example of how this works in practice.
It’s 4am and my mind is racing. I can’t go to the dentist today, I just can’t. It’s too much, and I can’t do it, and I’ll cancel. I’ll just cancel and pay the fees and that’s fine.
And then the other voice kicks in: It’s not fine, it’s ridiculous, you’re letting them down, but then you’re always letting people down aren’t you? People are sick and tired of you. You’re so useless…. And on, and on.
Until I can break the cycle.
- Step one: Notice it’s happening. If you’ve ever looked into mindfulness or undertaken Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT), you’ll know this is a huge part of breaking any thought pattern or cycle.
- Step two: Identify that this is fear taking over. For me that looks like slowing down my thoughts and “speaking” to my little gremlin. “Oh hey, I see you’re really afraid right now. You’re worried that people won’t love us anymore if we don’t go to the dentist today.”
- Step three: Comfort your inner voice. Rather than pushing all that criticism away, welcome it in. I personally wrap my arms around myself for a sense of physical comfort, and tell me little gremlin that I get it. The thought of upsetting the people we love IS scary. My gremlin knows how important my relationships are and he’s trying to take care of me. I tell him all that. I thank him. And then I let him know it’s going to be ok.
Ahlers and Arylo go into a lot more depth, encouraging to name your inner mean girl/ voice, identify your triggers, etc. But for me, even just the simple steps above have finally made me understand what self-compassion in the face of anxiety looks like.
If my experiences resonate with you, I encourage you to spend a little time visualizing what that inner voice might look like. Maybe even draw a picture. And then the next time it shows up, you can get curious. Maybe ask your own gremlin or mean girl or sassy unicorn what they’re afraid of. Or maybe journalling works for you — if so perhaps dig in with your inner voice that way. But however you access that side of yourself, also practice telling your inner voice that you love them, and that you’re not going to let them get hurt.
A lifelong commitment
I sometimes daydream about the pill or life experience or therapy session that will rid me of all my anxiety, once and for all. But there are no magic bullets, and this technique isn’t one either. It doesn’t work every time for me. I still have panic attacks. I still get down on myself.
But it does help. And my hope is, this is a muscle I’m growing. The more I give my newly discovered self-compassion tools a workout, the stronger the muscle will grow. And maybe the more and more love I shower on my gremlin, the easier that gremlin will go on me.
Living with anxiety can feel like running a mental marathon every day before breakfast. But you don’t have to add the additional mental load of shame and anger to your burden. You, just like everyone else (and just like me), deserve love and compassion. Even from yourself.
