Anxiety, you persistent, wacky scamp. Oh, how many times have we sat together, or flipped around in bed all night in a very non-sexy way? You are a terrible bedfellow and a worse coworker.
As for parties, I really don’t get your technique. I can’t imagine why you insist on accompanying me all the way up to the front door of a public event and then ditching me as soon as I enter! Why do you do that? I guess I’m not complaining about your taking a hike, but why did you need to show up at all? You’re an absolute lunatic and I do not prefer you.
You’ve given me fodder for a lot of writing, I’ll give you that much. And for that I suppose I ought to be grateful. But being grateful for anxiety feels like some sort of spiritual bypassing bullshit, or at the very least, co-signing on the tortured artist myth that a.) always serves cis men far more than it does anyone else (they’re so troubled and sexy! They suffer because they are geniuses!) and b.) enables all manner of addictions and bullshit.
Now I’m anxious that I sound like I resent anxious men. I do not! I often relate to them. And I am so fortunate! I have access to medication and therapy and all sorts of stuff that helps. Why did I have cold brew coffee this morning? I slept very little last night, and pouring caffeine on that is very much like pouring an overused metaphor onto a thing that is subsequently set ablaze.
I am grateful for the ability to write. I am grateful for the ability to read. I am grateful for the ability to share the things I write and to recommend the things I read. I am grateful for so many things, but not you, anxiety. I don’t think. Maybe.
Or I am. I’ve been thinking and writing lately about the way you’ve helped me be more compassionate, more appreciative. If I didn’t suffer sometimes, I’d be far more insufferable to others. You’ve helped me connect with people. You’ve put me back in my body when I was busy obsessing over things that have or haven’t happened.
Also, without you, I might not self-soothe by listening to the same music over and over again, and therefore bonding with that sonic art on a really deep level. As a result, I can experience the most beautiful catharsis when listening to a great artist, even when, say, Doechii or Lady Gaga or whomever are doing songs that aren’t about their fears.
Maybe my feelings would be too bottled up if not for you, anxiety.
My brother told me after my memoir came out that I was too identified with my diagnosis of agoraphobia. This was back in 2012, or a couple years later. He was in school to be a psych nurse and also he was correct. It made me write about other things, and focus more on playing around with fiction, too.
I don’t mean that fiction is a toy, but that I was able to access more joy as an artist by playing in a new creative sandbox as an author and screenwriter. Acting, which is a very nice paid hobby of mine, also feels like play, and I didn’t get into it until I hit my forties, because I didn’t realize what it could be, or that I could enjoy it and never try to be the best, because it was enough to have fun and be good enough, and to watch the amazing artists around me.
Doing something for fun and getting to do that something with people who are masters of their craft is just absolutely mind-blowing and delightful. You accompany me to those gigs, anxiety, but you’re pretty much in check, because I see my task as an actor as simple: show up a little early, be kind, respect boundaries, say the lines convincingly, thank everyone, and go home.
You’re more comfortable when I have that kind of job, anxiety, and I understand. It’s what I do at my longtime day job, too, though that doesn’t involve acting. It’s a relief. After so many years of standup comedy, figuring out this way to hack the nervous system matrix was a treat. Playing second or third fiddle is actually so much more fun.
Once in awhile, though, I choose to do something that puts me or my words or my image in front of more people. I’m so lucky to get to do that. But then you come along and shout louder at me about how I better not fuck this up or…or…
Sometimes you’re so loud it gets hard for me to hear if you even get to the part about what happens if I make mistakes or just don’t do the most amazing job.
Anxiety, there are many antidotes to you, and ways of living with you and managing you. A more recent addition to my toolkit is this saying from recovery: “I’m not the biggest piece of shit the world ever revolved around.” I just love that. It makes me take a deep breath and smile. It tends to make other people laugh, too. I don’t know who made it up originally, but it is very good.
I gave up on the idea that I’d ever be free of you. I’m okay with that. But what worries me is when I feel I know you better than some of my own friends know me. Sometimes I feel I know you better than I know them.
Also, shouldn’t I know by now to implement better habits in order to put myself back in my body in a good way? Things like stretching regularly and exercising daily and all that. I exercise once or twice a week, and that’s not enough.
Hang on. My mom is texting me about buying a generator for my apartment. Do those exist? Oh, the utility company just emailed about a high wind advisory here. Should I sign up for text alerts? I should, right?
I write to you but I write to everyone else, too, anxiety. It helps me feel less alone. And I’m not in a bad way today, not at all. I’m excited about some things, and it turns out sometimes excitement and anxiety feel the same way to a lot of us. My therapist or my partner told me that, and it helped me feel less alone, too.
I don’t know how to write a letter to excitement. Perhaps it isn’t required.
Well, I just bit my tongue while enjoying a slice of pineapple, which is one signal I need to sloooooooow down. It also hurt, and startled me, but then I felt the release of some soothing chemical - I should know the name - and it felt comforting, and this reminds me of things I’ve read about why people deliberately self-harm. I used to wonder about it, but then it made so much sense.
I did not bite my tongue on purpose, anxiety. I’m just saying.
I’m going to sit with my cat, who may beat me, and enjoy this pineapple, and take some deep breaths.
You can come along, or not.
Sometimes you vanish when I physically move.
Goddammit. Exercise does work.
I love you, go away, see you soon.
Love,
Sara
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P.S. I am not anxious to invite you to get tickets for the March 21 edition of CLASS! with Sara Benincasa and Chad the Bird at Lincoln Lodge in Chicago. The lineup is siiiiiick.
P.P.S. Doechii recently gifted us with the updated version of this banger from a few years ago. But I love the video. She was already famous then and I know she’s much more famous and financially successful now, so this isn’t like you or me in our bedroom (except for those of you who are very famous, of course) but isn’t it relatable? Also, she has a BTS pillow and I love the color scheme in her room.