The Anxious Daughter

I was six when I stopped going to my swimming lessons. Stopped going to skating class. Refused to go to church. I wouldn’t even leave the car. School was a struggle. I’d call my mum at lunch every day.

Mum? You’re coming to pick me up at three, right? Right, Mum? You’ll be there?

My parents sought support from Dr. Gabor Maté. These days he’s a world-renowned expert on child development, trauma, and addictions, but then he was our family doctor.  He referred them to Dr. Gordon Neufeld, a child psychologist and co-author of ‘Hold on to Your Kids’. Be there for her, they told my parents. Let her know she’s loved no matter what. And that’s what my parents did. That’s what they always did. Anything for their anxious daughter. Their daughter who didn’t want to leave the house. 

I was anxious before the word anxiety dominated the mental health lexicon. Before we were all anxious. Or at least, that’s how it felt. It felt that way because I was the weird one. The one who couldn’t go to birthday parties. Who couldn’t sleep over. The one whose mum had to come to every out-of-town swim meet. The one who couldn’t function. Or so it felt.

Eventually, in grade 11, I started medication. I had regular appointments with a psychiatrist and a psychologist. It helped but there were still difficult stretches. Like when I waited in line at the Dean’s office at UBC, tears streaming down my face. I can’t take another day in university, I told them. So, I left. In the middle of my second semester. I quit. I went back, eventually, and successfully completed three degrees, culminating in my doctorate. 

For a long time, I’ve been able to go to birthday parties and these days, I might not even come across as anxious. I’ve been off medication for years, and my previous inability to function seems very far from how I feel now. And yet, the anxiety is still there and every once in a while, it surfaces. It forms knots in my belly and tightens my throat. It makes my hands sweat and my heart pound in my chest. Debilitating thoughts cycle over and over and over with no end. 

That anxious side of me took over at ‘the end’ of my PhD. It made ‘the end’ drag on. It took two years to finish the end. Two years of pushing through the disquiet that took over my mind. Like dark and insidious vines growing uncontrollably and sucking the life out of any coherent thought. And when I was done, those vines were still there. My husband said he thought my anxious feelings would be gone when I finished the degree. Like, poof! But no. They took weeks and months to dissipate. 

On Thursday, I had a conversation with a friend. It triggered an anxious thought. And then a flood of anxious thoughts. The vines crept in and took control of my day. Sucked the life out of it. Minor events can send me spiralling.

Several years ago, my friend sent me this TED talk. In it, Dr. Boyce discusses the concept of people as orchids and dandelions. Not the actual plants, but the ways in which the plant characteristics can be used to illustrate human behaviour and resilience. The theory purports that certain children resemble dandelions, showing resilience to most stressors but succumbing to the most severe situations, while others resemble orchids, displaying heightened sensitivity to their surroundings and susceptibility to stressful childhood events. As soon as I watched it, I knew what I was. I showed my parents, and they agreed. I was an orchid. My brothers were dandelions. The theory undoubtedly has its flaws, but it explains how my brothers and I could experience the same upbringing and be exposed to the same circumstances, and yet experience stress in such different ways. My husband calls me ‘his orchid’ now (in the most endearing way). It’s helped him understand why I react to some things in a way that is foreign to him. 

My tendency is to retreat. Back away. To freeze. And lately I’ve been wondering why. Not just why, but what good it does me.

It starts with exercise. After falling into a fitness rut, I committed to exercising consistently late again last fall. It didn’t take long for my body to adjust and to not just like lifting weights and pushing myself, but to love it. Really, to crave it. Friendship with fitness was not unfamiliar to me, so when I got back into it, I was surprised I had forgotten my need for it. I need to move so that I don’t feel tired. It makes me feel better than I’d remembered. How quickly our brain pushes us to forget the things our bodies need. That’s what really struck me. It was almost like I’d had fitness amnesia. 

One thing I realised was how good it felt to push myself. How settling into what was easy or comfortable didn’t feel as good as it did to push myself bit by bit. I thought about how this little bit of resistance or of pressure or stress was helping me grow. I thought about how stress was actually good. 

As much as my life in the north has been an exercise in pushing myself beyond my comfort zones, it’s also been an opportunity for me to grow comfortable on my own. I can spend time on alone in the forest. I can ignore the thoughts that plague my mind. I am removed from the stressors of modern society. Everything feels comfortable, and more than that, I feel I have control over most aspects of my life.

So, when I’m running – something I still don’t entirely love – I find myself thinking about what it means to be uncomfortable. My legs feel heavy, and my breathing is laboured. I remind myself that I’m doing this in measured doses so that I get stronger and faster and better at running. That this discomfort is important. I think about the discomfort I feel in my daily life. How quick I am to tell my friends that this topic or that topic causes me anxiety so let’s not talk about it. I wonder if, in fact, I’m doing myself a disservice by avoiding what makes me feel uncomfortable. 

And this isn’t just the case when it comes to my anxious thoughts. I wonder if I’m becoming increasingly conflict averse. I wonder if my reluctance to wade in on controversial topics – to have any opinion but the safest middle ground line of thinking – is symptomatic of this as well. I wonder if my constant effort to avoid anxious feelings, discomfort, and conflict is in fact negatively impacting my very existence. 

Perhaps, just like with exercise, exposing myself in small doses to the things that make me uncomfortable is not just worth thinking about, but worth doing. Stress is inevitable, and for me, it seems anxiety is inevitable. Maybe being able to work on and develop my coping strategies consistently would help me work through the incredible tightness and discomfort that presents when I am forced to face the things my isolation here largely allows me to ignore. Just as I am embracing physical stressors, maybe I need to embrace mental stressors as a way to grow stronger.