It was a beautiful sunny day, just the right temperature for a drive with the windows down and sing-a-longs turned up. While I was at the traffic light, I smelled honeysuckle and searched for the plant without success. The light flashed green and I turned onto the main road, picking up speed and wind. I stuck my hand out the window to make waves. I smiled at myself in the rearview mirror.
This day was one of the first times I had taken prescribed medication for anxiety and the day I found out I had been experiencing the world different from everyone else. I alone had been scanning my perimeters Terminator style, not for destruction but for the opportunity to prepare for the next bad thing. My mindset was if I had already thought through what could happen, I could develop the best, the “right” plan. Be armed with knowledge.
What surprised me was the silence. Normally, I would be fielding an infinite number of worries. Some of those worries even had potential to be relevant. That honeysuckle wasn’t new. The available free space in my brain to notice it was the miracle here. Multiple accidents had occurred at that intersection in the past. My hyper vigilance led me to plan my reactions and rank the probability of all potential threats, rational or not. I was creating a real life choose-your-own-adventure story, with sequels, before the light turned green.
When I can think logically, I laugh at the absurdity of pre-planning my reactions in a crisis. My automatic fear response isn’t fight or flight, it’s freeze. I wouldn’t be able to, for instance, pepper spray an attacker, execute a hard kick to the wanker, and find a nearby mom to help. I’d drop the pepper spray. I know because that’s exactly what happened only instead of an attacker it was my husband who was beyond grateful I didn’t get to the kicking bit.
Overall, that one car drive allowed me to experience being present, maybe for the first time. The medication wore off, but I had the benefit of returning to my racing thoughts after eight full hours of mental freedom. I realized how exhausting all that overthinking actually was and understood why everyone around me seemed to have more energy. Anxiety was affecting me more than I thought.
My physician encouraged me to learn new coping skills along with medication. She explained how managing my anxiety has a physical impact on my health. The human body was not built to withstand constant surges of adrenaline and cortisone levels off the charts.
I started with yoga, meditation, deep breathing, mantras. It wasn’t that these weren’t helpful, and they still are in my self care rotation but they weren’t skills that came easily to me. But then, bibliotherapy.
The use of books as a therapy tool to aid mental disorders. Samuel M. Crothers made the word up, but even without knowing about bibliotherapy, I always turned to books to feel better as a child. I had never thought of reading stories as an adult to calm down my anxiety. I started with short stories. I found authors I could relate to and suddenly I was no longer alone. When I couldn’t stand to think the same circular thoughts for another minute, I chose a story about a family who lived in a place I knew nothing about. Suddenly I was drinking chai and hoping along with the main character that her family would still accept her after learning her secret.
Bibliotherapy is obviously no substitute for licensed counseling, but it has been immensely helpful for getting by in between sessions. I can escape. My thoughts slow down considerably when I’m reading. Instead of intrusive thoughts that snowball into chaos, my brain is busy deciding what the characters voices would sound like or if its possible the housekeeper was the one who poisoned the wine. I can give my body time to rest, reset and heal while also learning all about the Life-Changing Magic of Tidying up. Or I can re-read a nearly memorized favorite and feel wrapped in comfort and nostalgia, seeing different shades of my own personality echoed in each beloved character.
No, my anxiety is not cured. After I finish my book, I still have all the same problems. They look smaller, though, and easier to manage. My blood pressure is lower because I’ve been able to slow my breath. I’ve gained a peek into a different perspective. It feels like a better starting point to tackle my obstacles.
I think reading has been most beneficial for my anxiety because instead of trying to fight against the impulse to overthink at all, I have given myself permission to let my mind run wild within a benign story. I am accepting my brain is trying to protect me by predicting any and every future outcome. I am working on not making things worse by berating myself for trying to be Ms. Cleo in the first place.
I’m reading my way into knowing myself, and I’m not all bad.
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