I wasn’t an anxious child. Or if I was, I certainly don’t remember feeling that way. I remember having a lot of friends, getting good grades and wanting for (almost) nothing.
I don’t remember having difficulty sleeping or eating. Like many teenagers, I had some body
image issues, but they were not debilitating. I was happy and carefree, as young children should be.
It wasn’t until right after college that I began to struggle
with anxiety. I was living on my
own for the very first time and was very particular about the condition of my
apartment. I kept an insanely
regimented workout schedule (like, 5am in the snow, regimented) that was way
more about my commitment than my weight loss. And, admittedly, I was very critical of the decisions made
by family and friends with which I didn’t agree.
I will never forget the moment when it all hit me. I’d had some girl friends over for a
viewing party (who knows what show we were watching, but seeing as this
was in the late 90’s, we were definitely ahead of the time). Several pizzas and bottles of cheap
wine later, while cleaning up, I noticed a large pool of grease that’d seeped
through a cardboard box and onto my table. That was it. That was the moment.
Though never in my life having (intentionally) purged, I ran
to the bathroom quite sick. I
recollect little else from the night other than feeling the need for a shower,
a good cry and a sleep aid.
For some people, sadly, that night may not seem so out of the
ordinary. But for anyone who knew
me in high school or college, this is hardly how I believe to be remembered. More importantly, who
gives a shit how anyone else remembered me (or didn’t). The above may seem miniscule to you,
but it was gargantuan to me. I knew something was wrong.
Thankfully, I had a strong support system around me. The moment I waved a little white flag,
I was encouraged to seek professional help to better understand what was
happening. And I did.
Over the years, I have learned to manage or at least cope
with my anxiety. There are days,
of course, that are far more difficult for me than others. Like with anything, there is an
ebb and flow. For me, it is a part
of life.
It should not, however, be a part of life for my
daughter. Goddamnit.
One of the greatest gifts of being a parent is passing the
best of one generation, and those before it, on to the next. Names, traditions and recipes are just
a few of the many beautiful things we pass on to our children. No one wants to think about the other
stuff… I know what those things are for my family just as you do for yours, try
as we may to hide them.
Then just last night, I saw my daughter holding that very same pizza
box. The situation was entirely
different, of course. But in her
eyes I saw myself, looking at the grease stain.
It is hard to describe exactly how I felt in that moment,
but it was one of my most vulnerable as a parent thus far. My heart broke, as guilt set in for the
weakness I've potentially passed from my heart and mind onto hers.
But a split second later, I realized that in that weakness,
there is a great ability to grow… and grow.
Oh how I look forward to doing that, together.
