All posts by perfectpanic

About perfectpanic

Anxious, in my 30s, and simultaneously convinced I am a special flower but also "the worst ever". My panicking grounds are in Alberta, Canada, where I live with my husband and two cats, surrounded by small-town neighbours who are undoubtedly very nice (but oh god please don't knock on my door or expect to come in my house and while we're at it don't wave at me when we happen to be outside at the same time because I really don't need another social interaction to obsess over later...).

Look Both Ways: The Anxiety Roadshow

I’m afraid of crossing the street.

Well, I’m afraid of vehicles when I cross the street.

Okay, I’m actually afraid of the people in vehicles when I cross the street.

bumper sticker
Patience and kindness.

I’ve recently been venturing outside to walk around town, the weather being so nice and my therapist being so insistent. It’s nice getting fresh air and a mild sunburn, but I have to face my totally rational fear of people in vehicles.

If I’m approaching an intersection at the same time as a vehicle and it appears our two paths are going to cross, I generally take one of two actions: 1) I slow down to a virtual stop some distance from the intersection so the vehicle passes through first or 2) I pretend I’m not crossing the intersection at all, but instead turning to continue down the sidewalk (after the vehicle has driven away I cross the street). Either way, the vehicle doesn’t have to stop for me and there is no conflict.

Because that’s what I’m really afraid of: conflict. I’m not afraid of getting hit by a car; I’m afraid that the people driving in their cars are going to get mad at me if I make them stop and wait while I cross the street. Like, I said: totally rational.

I’m not only overcome by this fear when I’m walking; I’m also a victim of it while driving. This fear makes me fairly religious about driving the speed limit. About driving exactly the speed limit. Sure, it’s nice to avoid speeding tickets (and let’s face it – speeding is breaking the rules. THE RULES!), but it’s equally important not to drop too far below the posted maximum speed because the drivers behind me might get angry if I am too slow.

angry driver
Patience and kindness.

There’s a construction zone I’ve been driving through regularly for the last year, and the speed limit has been lowered for a stretch of road that exceeds the actual area under construction. This means the average driver speeds through at least part of this zone. If they’re not speeding, it probably means they’re stuck behind me.

Do I know these other drivers? Probably not. Do they know me? Again, probably not. But it is vital that they not get mad at me. And, in my mind, it is guaranteed that driving behind my speed limit following self fills all these anonymous drivers with rage.

This leaves me completely frazzled. I want to speed up when a car starts tailgating me but THE RULES! When they can finally pass me it feels like a slap in the face.”I’m sorry!” I want to tell them, “Please don’t be mad at me!”

Where does this fear come from? I’m so glad you asked! It’s time for an episode of DADDY ISSUES!

My father is an angry man. I like to save the best stuff for my therapist, so let it suffice to say that good ol’ dad suffers from road rage and that from a very young age I learned that it takes next to nothing to force a driver into a slavering fury.

Nice Turn Signal
Patience and kindness.

Slavering fury is scary. A neurosis is born.

So, how do I un-born it? There are a few things I’m going to try.

When I’m walking:

  • Pay attention to my posture. It may seem unrelated, but studies (like the ones Amy Cuddy talks about in this TED Talk) suggest that posture impacts mood and behaviour. Maybe if I walk as if I have a right to some space on the street I’ll start to feel and act that way.

  • Remember how I feel about pedestrians when I’m a driver. Surprisingly, I don’t feel a murderous rage when I’m forced to stop and let someone cross the street. Maybe, just maybe, other drivers have some patience and kindness.
  • Follow the rules of the road and cling to the knowledge that pedestrians have the right of way.

When I’m driving:

  • Use cruise control whenever possible. Sorry, man – it’s out of my hands. The car’s in charge. (Remember to cover the break, though, and don’t use cruise control in wet or iced conditions. THE RULES.)
  • Think about the consequences of other drivers being mad at me. There are none, really.
  • Put on some music and turn up the volume. 

Any other suggestions? Post them in the comments!

Compliments: how to uncover low self esteem in 10 seconds or less

Oh, great. These sandals are off limits now. Can’t wear them again. There’s obviously something wrong with them.

Someone complimented them.

screaming cat
This cat feels the feels.


What’s wrong with a compliment? Only everything. A compliment about my appearance means that something about [my attire, my bearing, my makeup, my dumb face…] drew someone’s attention, enough so that this person was moved to speak. This attention means I’ve failed at one of my goals in life, which is to lie low.

I know. That’s not supposed to be my goal in life. All the after-school specials told me I am supposed to BE MYSELF! LET MYSELF SHINE! DANCE LIKE NO ONE IS WATCHING! But what if “being myself” means hiding my light so far under a bushel that no one can tell my bushel from anybody else’s? We’ll return to this question in a bit.

Back to compliments.

The aforementioned footwear compliment happened  as I was leaving work the other day. I was minding my own business when I happened to pass someone on the stairwell. I know her by sight, as she works in the same section of the building, and I went through the familiar cost-benefit analysis that comes with the decision to greet or not to greet. Greeting calls attention to myself, but constantly being the one to respond to a greeting may make me seem unfriendly. I decided on eye contact, which means smiling as well. Eye contact and smile returned. Awesome. A successful stairwell interaction.

But then…

“Great sandals! We all need a little sparkle now and then!”

Oh, fudge ripple.

I laughed and thanked her, continuing down the stairs, but inside I was screaming. “WHAT’S WRONG WITH THEM? Are they inappropriate office attire? Are they too sparkly? Are they dumb shoes for babies?”

dumb shoes for babies
The dumb shoes.

My compliment phobia isn’t confined to footwear. Someone once complimented my purple shirt; see ya later, purple. Which is all well and good. Yesterday, however, someone complimented my hair. WHAT DO I DO NOW? I know that shaving my head is an attention grabbing move and thus out of the question. I finally thought I’d found an acceptably nondescript style, but now do I have to try to master an even less eye-catching configuration?

I assume you get it now. Compliments = something is wrong. Something is sticking out from the tight ball of mediocrity that I hope to make my appearance. Wrap it back up, please. Smooth it over with plaster, a nice nondescript grey paste that can harden into a smooth shell. I’d be happy to fit in with the rest of the furniture.

grey stools ARROW

Which probably sounds a little dramatic. Or heartbreaking? But there you have it.

What about other types of compliments? Given the fact that I am seriously approval-seeking when it comes to work and school, you might think I’d love compliments about my performance there. And you’d be partially right, but I have a whole different set of complexes for those situations.

So, finally, back to the question of appearance: is it wrong to want to disappear into the background at all times?

I want to say, “Of course not! That sort of attitude in no way indicates horrible self-esteem and a wealth of emotional damage,” but I’m trying this whole thing where I’m honest with myself.

So what to do? I’ve made a list for myself:

  1. Learn how to accept compliments gracefully. I found a Lifehack post that gives some suggestions.
  2. Try to believe compliments. It’s probably not very nice to assume that everyone who compliments me is a big liar-pants. I know and respect some of these people, so isn’t it kinder to give them the benefit of the doubt?
  3. Take more risks with my appearance. I’m going  to wear red lipstick today. For reals.
  4. Try to let my personality shine, without worrying so much about the outer shell. The after school specials also promised that real beauty comes from within. Time to test this theory.

Any other suggestions? Post them in the comments!

Maybe it’s time to fail.

Being back in school at the age of 34, I’m learning more than books and such; I’m learning how to try at something.

In my younger days, I never studied for school and often did my homework at the last possible second, but my grades were always above average.  Yes, that’s great, but I developed a nasty habit; when I was faced with any adversity, I’d simply quit.  Better to not try at all than to fail, right?  Totally…  I’m sure I never missed out on any character-building life experiences with that attitude.

Now I’m back, though, and I’ve decided to try. But that way lies madness…

I’ve aged into a ripe old perfectionist, which you know if you’ve been reading my blog at all.  This character trait has caused me just a little bit of anxiety, and that was before I decided to try at things.   Now, instead of being able to tell myself, “No one’s judging you! it’s all in your head!” I have instructors who are in fact judging me, and it’s not all in my head.


So I give every assignment my best effort.  And apparently my “best effort” borders on the psychotic.

First, I start each assignment as early as possible, just to draw out the torture.  It might be “finished” within the first couple of days, but then I proofread. I proofread and proofread and proofread and proofread.  I re-read the assignment parameters and proofread some more.

When I finally convince myself that making any more changes would be excessive, I simply gaze upon the completed assignment.  Is it perfect?  It looks perfect.  It gives me an excited feeling inside…

Excited feeling? Why? Well, here’s the real secret: I want my instructor to look at my work and immediately know that this assignment is A MASTERPIECE.

Have you ever seen A Christmas Story?  Classic holiday movie about a kid named Ralphie and his quest for a Red Ryder BB Gun.

Stay with me, here.

There is a scene (linked below) where Ralphie turns in “A Theme” to his teacher, and he’s sure it is the best theme his teacher will ever see.  He fantasises about her reaction to his work, which results in a grade of A++++++++++++…

I want that. I know it’s silly, and people don’t dress like that anymore, but I want that.  For every assignment I hand in ever. I want to know the instructor has never seen anything better.  It might even change their very outlook on teaching, on life, on the mysteries of death and the afterlife.

No, it doesn’t escape my notice that I share the same fantasy as a fictional 9-year-old boy. The heart wants what the heart wants.

So I gaze.  And I fantasise.

And I doubt.  And I second-guess.

And I proofread, because deep down I believe that perfection is possible.  If only I could choose the right word here, and use a semi-colon correctly there…

So how can I give myself a break?  How can I break the habit of thinking that perfection is actually possible?  How can I stop this need for excessive validation?

Perhaps I need to fail at something.  Fail, and not give up. (Oh, the horror of it…)

Obviously this is not an experiment to be taken lightly, nor one to be performed on my school work (I’ve got a GPA to maintain).  I can think of a few things I might try out, though… I’m not any good at painting, so I have some painting supplies languishing unused in my storage room.  Maybe it’s time to pull out the ol’ canvas and brush, even if the result is a total fail.

Maybe it’s time.

Why your name is “Hey, you!” and the intimacy of name calling

I was recently called by my given name by a complete stranger.

Let’s think about this for a second.  As a puddle of Social Anxiety, I have to stop and check my perceptions every once in a while.  I have to ask, “Do other people have this much trouble answering the phone?” or “What’s the big deal with friendly cashiers?” or “Do most people feel sick to their stomach when someone they don’t know very well calls them by their first name?” Because I do.  And I did.

It was a simple case of a customer service worker actually paying attention to my name when I showed them my driver’s license, but it felt more creepy and intimate than that.  It felt like a violation, which I gather from the handy perception check above is not the feeling the average person would have experienced in the same situation.

So why did it bug me so much?

To understand, you have to get into the way I feel about given names in general: I’m squarely against them.

I gave a presentation in class today, and it was followed by a question period moderated by yours truly.  My hands were freezing and my palms were sweaty, in part because public speaking equals no and partly because I was terrified I’d have to call on someone by name.  It’s hard to describe the feeling.  It’s like an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, or maybe more like a space filled to the brim with cold, echoing fear.  The fear that I’ll call someone I’ve known for months by the wrong name.

To be clear, I know their name.  I KNOW their freaking name.  But what if I don’t know their name and there are so many names in the world and what if I know it but pronounce it incorrectly and what if I DIE?

So names are hard.

I won’t exaggerate (although I’d dearly loved to).  I call the average acquaintance by their names on occasion, and I use names when I talk with my close friends and family.  I’m not a monster.  I don’t even mind when acquaintances call me by name (but roll call makes me shudder).

So names have acquired a certain status in my mind.  If I feel safe with you, I’ll call you by name.  If I can take a deep breath when you’re around, you can even call me by mine.*  So when that stranger used my first name, she was taking a liberty.  She didn’t know it, but she was entering an intimate space where she really didn’t belong.

Or did she?  In the name of personal growth, should I be learning a lesson here?  They say to get anywhere in business you need to kick ass and take names (or at least remember and use names).  Is my hesitance to use names holding back my career?  What about personal relationships?  Do the people I greet with a generic-but-friendly “Hey, you!” feel slighted in any way?  Should I be using their names when we meet up in the mall, or the hall, or at other rhyming places?

It’s hard to ask these questions, because that way lies madness – obsessing over what I’m doing wrong socially can destroy me on a good day.  I need to ask these questions, though, if only to do a small favour to the people who are kind enough to be friendly to me.

Therefore, I resolve to use people’s names more and to try to take it easy when they return the favour.  1 2 3 GO.

*If you know me and are thinking to yourself, “Wait! Does she use my name?  Am I a safe person?  Am I insulting her when I call her by name? Is this blog causing me to develop Social Anxiety?” please remember that I’m fairly damaged and you have to take everything I say, or don’t say, with a grain of salt.




8 Stops on the Social Anxiety Blog Roller Coaster

I haven’t posted in a long while, and there are several reasons why.  First, I’ll admit that without extrinsic motivation I’m about as likely to shift myself off the couch and away from Netflix documentaries as I am to suddenly decide that running a marathon is a fun way to spend time (I will never decide this, by the way).  Second, when not tuned in to the soothing narration of Sir David Attenborough, I’ve actually been really busy with college course work, as I now find myself living the student life again (but with less binge drinking and more actual reading of text books).

These are valid reasons to be a blog slacker (VALID REASONS, I SAY!), but it’s important to also note that writing a blog about social anxiety sent me into a downward spiral of mental health. Hurray for spirals?!  It turns out that dwelling on your inadequacies and fears will do that to a person.  Who knew? I think I’m in a healthy enough space to return to writing, though, and the idea for this piece has been waiting for almost two years.   So, without further ado, here are eight stops on the emotional roller coaster of writing a blog about social anxiety:

Roller Coaster Up

1. I have a fantastic idea!  If I type about it and share it with the world, I could gain renown as a funny and smart person and people will approve of my existence!

2. Are these words perfect?  I really need these words to be perfect, or people are going to hate me and disapprove of my very existence.  Let’s proofread them just once more.  Just once more.  Just once more.  Just once more. Just once more… Okay. PUBLISH.

3. Oh, God. Oh, God.  Oh, God. ohgodohgodohgod.  I’m going to eat a 2 pizzas now.

4. People are reading my words!  Not only are people reading my 4295460613_7cc1c96f1a_bwords, they’re also liking my words! Social validation!

5. Not enough people are reading my words.  I know this because I’m obsessively refreshing the stats page to keep track of every reader.  And why aren’t the people who are reading my words also commenting on my words?  Everyone hates my words.  Even the people who haven’t read them.  Especially them.

roller-coaster-1011434_960_7206. I probably insulted someone.  Someone is definitely mad at me.  Or disgusted with me.  Or feeling sorry for me.  Someone probably disagrees with me, which is the same as them being insulted, mad, disgusted, and sorry.  I wrote the wrong words.

7. Someone commented on my words!  Someone said, “I feel you,” and that means they approve of me as a person!   I put very little stock in my own opinion of myself and rely almost entirely on outside feedback, so this means I can feel like someone of worth for at least 5 minutes!

8.  Someone commented on my words… and they probably only said nice things to make me feel better about myself.  No one could like my stupid words for reals.

The roller coaster does a little loopedy-loop back to 4 through 8 a few times, until something else eventually pulls my interest away.

But that’s all in the past (she typed confidently).  My plan after I publish this blog post is to stay off the roller coaster entirely and just hang out on the platform of “Hey, I had an idea and I typed about it!”


“Why my profile picture isn’t a sunset”, or “Every Occasion is a Selfie Occasion!”

Obligatory New Year Greeting!

Actually, my blog today does have a “New Year’s Resolution” flavour, but it’s been percolating for a while and I want to stress that I don’t endorse the idea of New Year’s Resolutions. Being “the way I am” (a perfectionist with low self esteem but kinda high self esteem but I must be the worst but now I am confused so should probably eat all the cheesecake), I struggle pretty much every day, if not every minute, to be something better than I am; resolutions seem a) unnecessary and b) a chance to sink into a puddle of self-loathing by mid-January every single year.

Which brings us to profile pictures!

I tend to focus on Facebook as my social networking platform, which the language of this post may reflect, but many websites that require us to choose a username also require us to upload a photo that represents Who We Are. For example, wordpress requires bloggers to profile themselves with an image. Until today, mine was a picture of a $20 bill with googly eyes pasted on the Queen (which, to be clear, was awesome):

20 with googly eyes

Before typing today’s blog, I switched my profile to a picture of my actual face:

Can you spot the googly eyes?
Can you spot the googly eyes?

(Which is also awesome, according to my husband, my close friends, and my mother. Usually flattering sources, regardless of their reliability.)

So why the switch?

I recently had to face a hard fact:  for me, my online persona is the only persona that really matters (hyperbole alert – but let’s keep on topic here, ok?).  On Facebook, for instance, people are in touch with anywhere between 1 and 500 friends (I’m not qualified to comment on anyone’s experiences with over 500 “friends”).  In reality, many of these friends are bare acquaintances, or are people we haven’t actually seen in the flesh for 20 odd years; but we interact with a bare fraction of that number of people in our physical lives, so I argue that we can become much more concerned about how we present ourselves to the stranger-friends of the interweb than to the people we live and interact with in close quarters.

So, again, why the switch?  What does this obsession with the opinions of near-strangers have to do with my replacing pictures of inanimate objects*,

My actual wisdom teeth.  I decline comment on the colour integrity of the image.
My actual wisdom teeth. I decline comment on the colour integrity of the image.


Serenity (named after the spaceship, not the state of mind).
Serenity (named after the spaceship, not the state of mind).

and photoshopped versions of myself

My very first profile picture.
My very first profile picture.

with pictures of something that actually represents my current physical  existence?

It’s simple, really.  I’m trying to love myself for who and what I am now, not for what I was 60 lbs ago or 10 years ago; how is it possible to succeed in this task if I’m forever hiding my appearance from the people I post at several times a day?  I realized that I was becoming more and more ashamed of my appearance, and as that happened I was updating my profile picture less and less.  It was as if I didn’t really exist anymore, or like I was trying to lose my physical self and become an anonymous text bubble on the internet.  This practice was not conducive to building self-esteem and more robust mental health.

So “Every Occasion is a Selfie Occasion!” was born. first selfie

Whenever I think of it (often if I’ve just spent some time on my appearance, but not always), I take a selfie and make it my profile pic on facebook.   As much as possible at this point in my emotional development, these pictures represent ME, RIGHT NOW and show the world I’m not ashamed of myself or my appearance.  It can be nerve-wracking, as I’ve mentioned before that I have an inconvenient habit of treating compliments like criticisms (social anxiety! you dog, you!), but on the whole I’ve found it to be a positive experience.

If you currently have a sunset, or a grumpy cat meme, or an inspirational poster as a profile picture, I highly recommend you try celebrating some selfie occasions.  Let me know how it works out in comments.

 *For the record, I most definitely still see a place for pictures of inanimate objects and pets on my internet profile pages, just not as representations of myself.  My wisdom teeth deserve to be shown far and wide, and you curtail my kitten picture posting at your own peril. 

Twitter Trolls & Self Acceptance

I recently posted something to Facebook that I thought was actually a better fit for PerfectPanic.  The post (rant) spoke about self-acceptance and overcoming social anxiety; it did so by bringing up the topic of Fat Acceptance.

As someone with social anxiety who also happens to be “overweight,” I often deal with the following quandary: The Therapist tells me that people probably aren’t judging me as harshly as I believe, while I know damn well that I am indeed being judged harshly (at least by some people) every time I walk out in public, just because of my weight (to be clear, I am not dismissing my awesome therapist’s advice; I’m just not able to use it as a blanket source of comfort).

For a long time, my low self esteem has made me a Good Fatty, who at least had the “decency” to hate herself for being fat and pretends to be working hard to achieve the perfect bod. However, I suddenly felt confident enough to speak out about my feelings around Fat Shaming.*

I invite you to read my original Facebook thoughts (now with pictures and a few edits for clarity):

“So, I was checking out the #Fatkini trend on Twitter, because I am sincerely trying to fall in love with my body, both as the chariot that carries me around and as a simple fact of my existence.

In real life, my chariot also happens to have two kittens.  Mind? Blown.
In real life, my chariot also happens to have two kittens. Mind? Blown.

I am fat, and have been pretty consistently since I was very young, despite dieting, exercising, and hating myself. Anyway, along my #Fatkini travels, I came across the following post on Twitter: “Put it away you morbidly obese, sweaty, dirty humans and crack on down the gym!” And HERE’s what I think of that:

I strive every day to excel at my job and in my relationships; I volunteer in my community (including walking all around my town for hours in summer heat delivering flyers); I try to be good to my family and friends and offer them all the love and support I can; and I worry EVERY DAY that I’m not enough, that I could be doing more. (I may sound like I’m bragging, but I think these actions of mine are relevant here.)

Despite all these traits, I know that when I go out in public, I am often judged as lazy, unhealthy, and generally some kind of degenerate because of the way I look. That sort of thing hurts my feelings, because I am NOT only my body size. Even IF being fat were inherently a bad thing (which health studies don’t necessarily back up), I refuse to be measured by my body size alone, instead of the complete, striving human being that I am.

That’s right: even if I do something commonly perceived as unhealthy or “wrong”, like eating fried chicken or ice cream, or sitting on the couch watching tv all weekend, there is SO MUCH MORE TO ME than what I choose to eat and whether I choose to spend time on a treadmill.

Basically a typical weekend, but with more natural history documentaries.
Basically a typical weekend, but with more natural history documentaries.

This daughter, sister, auntie, wife, employee and volunteer has a generous heart, a keen intellect, and a sharp sense of humour. Being overweight is only one of my MANY traits.”

- Carol Rossetti
– Carol Rossetti

In case you are interested in learning more about the Body Love movement, there are a couple of blogs you can visit.  The Militant Baker, written by “A mental health professional, pastry chef, ex-art major, crazy cat lady, fat model, fiery advocate, and total pain in the ass.” and my friend Rad Amy’s blog (which has been a great inspiration to me).

*Speaking of increased confidence, I’ve recently experienced dramatically reduced phone anxiety ;  I actually answer my phone now, with very little hesitation! See The Nervous Nelly to get an idea of my baseline in that regard.

Socializing and The Google

I did a LOT of socializing over the past week, and maybe it’s not that surprising that I had a panic attack tonight at the thought of going to our neighbours’ house for a visit. After I cried myself into a nap, like a kid after a tantrum, I Googled “Should I socialize?” And found this blog:  (Psychology Today – To socialize or not? That is the question.)  I’ve been formulating a post for quite some time. Eventually I will reveal The Top Pros and Cons of Having a Blog When You Have Social Anxiety; for now, I hope you find the re-blog above to be of interest.

Hello, my name is PLEASE DON’T TALK TO ME.

“…Sometimes you wanna go
Where everybody knows your name,
And they’re always glad you came.
You wanna go where people know
Troubles are all the same.
You wanna go where everybody knows your name.”
Cheers theme song

No, Cheers.  No.

I’d prefer to remain anonymous everywhere I go.  Nothing but scripted, meaningless small-talk, please.

“Hi! How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks! How are you?”

“I’m well! Did you find everything you were looking for?”

“Yes, thanks… This conversation rates 10/10 for total lack of meaning! :)”

I do tolerate people knowing my name and expecting conversation when I’m at home, with friends, or at work. Life can be hard sometimes…

I’m not unfriendly.  Really, I’m not.  I just don’t think it’s fair for people to assume that their familiarity is welcome.

angry cat

Okay, I have to admit that came across as unfriendly.  In fact, I re-wrote this blog post several times trying to reach an end result that didn’t leave me looking like a huge jerk.

Let me try to explain.

Social anxiety holds me in a state of near-constant worry that people are judging me and finding me lacking.

jury caption

It doesn’t help that I have the perverse habit of interpreting compliments as gentle insults that I then obsess over for days/years – the addition of “friendliness” to a generic small-talk script can be frankly traumatizing.

what they said what they meant

And this sort of exhausting mistrust is not reserved solely for strangers in public places.  I trust my family and friends, and love them and respect them and blah blah blah.  But it can be pretty exhausting fighting the urge to second-guess and over-think.

bette davis

Not surprisingly, the idea of becoming a “regular” at a bar, restaurant, grocery store or gas station terrifies me.  I need safe places where I can keep my head down, spew scripted responses, and smile when required.

The problem is, my fear of basically everything on earth leads me to establish routines;   I visit the same stores, gas stations, and restaurants over and over again.   I fear the day when the words, “Hello, again! How have you been?” signal that it’s time for me to move on to more anonymous pastures.   Pastures where people will at least pretend not to notice that they’ve seen me more than once in their lives…

What do you think?  Is it unhealthy or unreasonable to crave anonymity?  I genuinely and for-real would love to learn your opinion. I’m trying to grow as a person and stuff. 🙂

“Nothing to be anxious about…”

Hi, everyone! Here follows a post written from my couch, where I sit in my pyjamas, paralysed by anxiety – so please forgive the rough patches that are sure to arise from me using my cell phone to compose this entry.

I tend to react rather strongly to the statement, “There’s nothing to be anxious about!”  My general response is,


I’ve recently been encouraged to take a step back and try to acknowledge that there are reasons that I react with panic to certain situations; the anxiety is real, but it is not caused by a true threat. As opposed to panic caused by OH MY GOD A BEAR, A FREAKING BEAR!


In this spirit, I acknowledge that no one is going to die because I have sweaty Latin dance class tomorrow… followed directly by a committee meeting.

A committee meeting that I want to leave early to attend another event, only I have to give my treasurer’s report and an update on our contest entry, only the youth club declined helping us with the video element and I hate giving bad news. And I have to making planning for the theatre and music classes I facilitate later this week, and with typing and reading board meeting minutes for the email sends and cleaning the house because husband is at work while I sit on the couch and whine about feeling anxious and HOW CAN I EAT ANY BACON HE BRINGS HOME WITH ALL THIS GUILT SAUCE?*

In conclusion, everything will be fine. Right? I’m going to put my head under the covers. Maybe eat a sandwich.

*To be clear, my husband does not pour the guilt sauce. My brain does.