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.
Some people will tell you — quite loudly, usually — that they are enough. They need no one, thank you very much. Entirely self‑made. A closed circuit. I, too, fancied myself an island at one time. A small, sturdy principality of one. I paid my own bills. Made my own tea. I even spoke aloud to myself in the supermarket queue, which was meant to prove something. But late at night, when all the heroic independence had been done for the day, there it was — a sort of homesickness without a forwarding address. You know the feeling. You’re supposedly sovereign, but you still wish someone would knock. Self‑sufficiency is a word that weighs a bit too much. It sounds like an insurance policy or a piece of camping equipment. It promises freedom, but only the kind you can fit in a box. Like eating an entire birthday cake alone — which, I confess, I’ve done. Because the truth (and it arrives, as truths tend to, when you’ve just burned your toast) is that we are made of others. We are es...
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