I worry.
I worry and I worry and I worry. Actually, I have anxiety. It’s not just worry and it’s not just stress.
People have told me, “Yeah well, we all worry.”
It’s not the same thing. Anxiety (also referred to as generalized anxiety disorder) tricks your brain into worrying about something you probably don’t need to worry about—over and over again.
I know that worrying about certain things is illogical, but anxiety makes my brain go around and around in circles. Anxiety is persistent, and no, it’s not just stress or being nervous.
My anxiety has been referred to as “silly worries” and I have been called “a ball of anxiety”. I think sometimes having anxiety means that your brain is discontented not worrying about anything. As a result, my brain tries to find something to worry about. The way I see it, if I don’t worry, then I’m not preparing myself for possible danger.
As you can probably imagine, trying to go to sleep is difficult sometimes. My brain just won’t shut off. Something I’ve found that helps is a CD of the ocean waves crashing against the sand. The sound is so soothing to me. The ocean waves just splash and then draw back because it is what’s supposed to happen. Though the ocean waves are loud at the beach, in the comfort of my own bed, I can practically feel the cool, ocean-washed sand squishing beneath my toes.
One night while I was trying—and failing—to drift off into sleep, a metaphor that perfectly describes my anxiety came to me.
My anxiety is like the ocean waves crashing against the shore.
As confusing as that most likely seems, let me explain.
Typically one thinks of the beach as relaxing. I do as well. The breeze and the wind ruffles my hair; the ocean is cold, refreshing, and so beautifully blue; and the sand is soft and fluffy.
The ocean is what intrigues me. It is mysterious and powerful—and it has a function.
As much as I dislike my anxiety, it has a function, too. To some extent, it keeps me safe.
I love to watch the ocean. Whenever I go to the beach, I like to collect seashells and what they represent. Seashells are the abandoned homes of sea creatures. Home is just a place for them. Sea creatures don’t worry about leaving their home behind. They just do it.
On that same note, the ocean has a function to perform, and it does so effortlessly. The ocean (obviously) doesn’t have a brain. There is no anxiety involved. Nothing but the sound of the waves. Everything happens the way it is supposed to. There is no overthinking that complicates the ocean’s purpose.
Thus, my metaphor.
If you watch the ocean long enough, you’ll see the waves draw back. When the ocean waves temporarily recede, shells are left behind on the beach. In my opinion, seashells are really pretty. Because there is a mindless, continuous cycle—in this case, the waves receding and then coming toward the shore—there is a beautiful result (seashells).
The same is true for the cycle of anxiety. For a while, I am anxious and tense. My brain whirls at 100 miles an hour while I pick my fingers and tighten up involuntarily. But when my brain takes a break from being anxious, I am able to relax.
When my anxious cycle stops, I am able to enjoy the moment. The “seashells”—or the beautiful thing at the end of the cycle—is the relaxation. The realization that I am okay. The reminder to myself that I can just breathe and pause for a second.
When I stop worrying, beautiful things can happen. I can do things I never thought possible because my anxiety is no longer holding me back. The times when my anxiety takes a break, I can do things like going to overnight camp. When my head stops pulsing with thoughts that warn me, You’re about to mess up or have a stuttering episode, I can order confidently at a restaurant. When my brain stops chanting, You’re going to get lost, I can maneuver through a crowd. When I stop telling myself, You’re awful at conversation and no one really likes you, I can go to a small party and talk with my friends.
The ocean waves crashing against the beach will never stop. That is the function of the ocean, the way that gravity works. It is a never ceasing process. But when seashells appear on the shore, it is the satisfying, beautiful result of such a process.
My anxiety is a cycle, too. But the times when I can interrupt the cycle—those are the worthwhile moments that give me clarity. Those are the moments that remind me that my brain is not the enemy.
Those moments of peace, of separation from my anxiety—those moments are my seashells in the sand.