Anxiety is a very generous word, so generous that it makes a
lot more sense in the plural, anxieties. This is because, like a large
umbrella, a load of elements can fit under it.
However, despite its multitude of disturbances and manifestations, anxiety can
be traced back to quite simple and predictable stress triggers. In its origins,
it is much more visceral and organic than people imagine.
A common trigger, for example, is hunger. You can lose hunger, overeat, stick
to a crash diet, all as a neurovegetative expression of stress.
Irritability is another trivial trigger. You are more easily irritated, frustrated,
and angry over nothing, cultivating an inner anger, sometimes silent, sometimes
explosive.
Loneliness is also an important trigger. It is a complex feeling that includes
inadequacy, weakened belonging, nostalgia for everything that has already happened and for
everything that cannot happen. It is a mood that can be thoughtful, rueful,
self-defeating, filled with neediness and dependence.
Fatigue, finally, is the most common of all triggers. You may notice this
mentally with impaired thinking, physically with exhaustion, overwork, and
worry. There is also cognitive fatigue, typical of those who need to make
successive, objective, and rational decisions at short intervals; and emotional
fatigue, typical of people who feel they are experiencing affective stagnation.
These triggers, converting from one into another, mark stress as the primary
cause of anxiety. You may be tired or bored and have an increased appetite or
become irritable. Likewise, you can lose your appetite when irritated or
grieved, feel tired after a frustrating day at work and so on.
From stress to anxiety disorder, there is a gradual aggravation of the
frequency and intensity of these triggers, often twisted by a first emotion
originating another secondary, irascible, lasting, and marked by anguish. A
panic attack, for example, is a symptom of anxiety rather than a simple stress
response.
There exists, hidden in the quiet undercurrents of our culture, a grand illusion: that manhood is synonymous with silence, that strength demands the concealment of pain, and that the measure of a man is his ability to endure without faltering. Such ideas pass through generations like whispered codes, accepted without question, repeated without reflection. And yet, when held to the light of reason, they wither like old parchment, for they are not truths, but relics of fear. It must be said — and said without apology — that you are allowed to speak of what has wounded you. To give voice to pain is not to surrender to it, but to name it, to limit its dominion. Silence may seem noble in the moment, but over time it hardens into a cage. Words, carefully chosen and honestly spoken, are the first instruments of freedom. You are allowed to weep — not as an act of collapse, but as a testament to your humanity. Tears are not the language of the weak; they are the body's recogniti...

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