It’s been nine months since it all started: the panic attacks, the constant anxiety, the nonstop tightness in my neck and shoulders.
It’s been nine months of carrying this anxiety baby.
I’ve kept breathing. I’ve kept pushing.
I’ve read so many books. Not baby books, but anxiety and self-help books. (At one point I had four stacked up on my nightstand; I hid them when friends came over.)
I’ve done research. not on parenting websites, but on others pertaining to anxiety, depression, OCD, and mindfulness. My phone is a Pinterest-y treasure trove of motivational quotes and reminders to “be present.”
I’ve gone to all the classes. Not birthing classes, but therapy sessions and support groups and psychiatrist appointments.
I’ve gotten all the tests done. Not ultrasounds, but blood tests to check my thyroid, testosterone, and Vitamin D levels.
I’ve keep breathing. I’ve kept pushing.
By pushing, I mean summoning up all my energy to still be funny at work and on Slackjaw. I mean still showing up to movies with friends, instead of canceling. I mean doing my laundry and shaving and still living life. To borrow from Salt-N-Pepa, I’ve been pushing it, pushing it real good.
