I quit my job recently. It seems simple enough. You aren't all that satisfied with your job, you dream of doing something else, you find that something else, you're pleased, you leave, you start the new job. I was ecstatic about the new opportunity. It was everything I wanted.
Except I tend to struggle with change. And forget that I struggle with change. Struggle is probably a bad word for it, because only recently have I come to realize that I have an acute biological reaction to situations like this. Even as it's happening, I can look at it and say "that's my body reacting to this change, the world is not exploding" but I can't stop it. It's like having an allergic reaction, looking at it and saying "those are hives" and then thinking you can stop it with your brain.
I left my old job with no regrets, took a few days off, ran a fun race with friends and I wasn't even anxious on my first day. About a week later, the small nagging feeling started in the pit of my stomach. Did I make a mistake or was this just that part of me that I forgot about? The part of me that reacts to change? What if this feeling wasn't just an allergic reaction? What if it was a sign that I had done something wrong, that I had made the wrong choice?
I kept asking my family and friends to reassure me. I stopped sleeping. I tried to think of other things. I exercised, I read books, I tried to distract myself but only succeeded in exhausting myself.
I have always been this way. Growing up, I rarely slept the night before a new school year. I made myself sick worrying about a small slight from a friend and stayed home a lot just out of fear.
After I had my daughter, I experienced horrible postpartum depression that led to me having panic attacks when I was alone with her. I was convinced that something was going to happen to her and that I was going to be unable to stop it. I was convinced that I was the crazy one, that I might be the thing that was going to happen to her. Once, I had such a fierce panic attack, I had to run out of the house into frigid winter temperatures to throw up, hyperventilating and then checking myself into the hospital. I had never loved anyone so much, and I was so fearful of that. My mind is trained to go to the worst possible scenario, and when you're a mother, that scenario becomes a house of horror.
The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."
The next several weeks, I was on a roller coaster. I'd feel great, love the work I was doing, and then I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I was on an island where nothing was familiar. All the while, no one but those closest to me knew I was struggling. That's the thing: most people with anxiety problems are funny, high-functioning, rational, creative beings. You can't see the hives.
I had a particularly rough weekend, and I found myself sitting in my neighbor's backyard watching several children jump from a tree fort onto a trampoline. Several Skyline kids were doing it, just hopping over the railing and taking the plunge with glee, disappearing into a pile of leaves someone had gathered inside the trampoline.
My daughter watched for a while and then walked over to try it. Then walked away. Then walked back over. Struggled. Began to cry. She asked my husband to go up there and help her get over the railing, but when he climbed up, she didn't want to go over the railing. She cried, she yelled at herself. She finally got over the railing, and then just stood there. Suspended in pain and fear. She climbed back over the railing and let other kids jump. She tried again. And again. Through tears, anger at herself and panic.
When she finally jumped, I cried. The other kids kept jumping. She went back up and did it again, still crying. Forcing herself to do it over and over again. The littlest of the group, a four year old, finally got permission from her parents and jumped without hesitation. Claire kept having to push herself, but she jumped more than any other kid there.
Later, I asked her if it was fun once she tried it. She said "Not really, but I had to keep going so I wouldn't be scared anymore." She cried when she recalled how hard it was for her to jump, and yet a four year old could do it without blinking. I told her she was brave, she was fierce. To jump was so much harder for her, the fear so much bigger. Her body telling her so much. But she did it anyway. She overcame that fear and kept pushing through it. I was so proud of her, because I know how that feels. The monster lurking at the bottom of the trampoline that no one can see.
I told myself to give it time, that reaching the peak of this roller coaster meant that it was coming to an end. Sure enough, my body has let up on the proverbial hives. I love my new job and it was the right decision. When I start to falter, I remember that little girl jumping. I give myself permission to take some time, take a deep breath. Keep jumping. Let go.
