Writing on a Wednesday #2: Inner Monologue

I’m sitting in front of my computer wanting to write about anxiety and not knowing what to write. I’ve started this once, twice, and three times, and nothing feels right. Because sometimes anxiety feels like this big clouded unknown that lives in my very own mind that I struggle to describe. I’ve lived with it for as long as I can remember, I haven’t known life without it. And if you ask me where it comes from, it’s rooted in a deep set of subconscious fears and memories that I have from past traumatic experiences, some that I remember vividly, others that are muddied in the foggy memory that comes with psychological abuse. 

As I’ve gone through therapy, healing, and growth over these last few years, I have released a lot of the fears that once kept me chained to my anxiety. In my worst times I didn’t like to leave the house, or meet anyone new, or be left alone, or even call the pizza guy for delivery. I’ve had anxiety attacks that have left me in a fetal position on the floor unable to move or speak. I cared what everyone around me thought (including complete strangers) to the point where it was debilitating. Yeah, it was bad. 

And I’ve come a long way. I can make friendly conversation with the clerk at the grocery store without wondering if she thinks I’m speaking strangely or worrying if I’m being judged. I’ve learned to love spending time with myself and I’ve begun to cherish the soul that has been forged through fire and flame. I can more easily work through some of my triggers that I have identified and given the proper tenderness. I don’t shy away from confrontation and I don’t fear the unknown. I embrace not knowing where I’m headed as an infinite number of opportunities awaiting me. I trust in the good in ways that I never have before in my life, and I recognize the blessings I’m surrounded by. But my anxiety, it’s still there. It doesn’t have a front row seat in the gallery anymore, and on most days it feels like a whisper at the back of my mind. But it’s resilient, the writing on the wall. And it all starts with this little voice in my head. 

I heard this voice described a few weeks ago as a constant internal monologue and I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better description. I used to think everyone had a running voice in their mind, until I met my husband who can peacefully zone out and slip into zen like nobody’s business. This inner voice is not nice. It’s mean, and judgey, and cruel, and drastic, and dramatic, and harsh, and I’ve lived with it my whole life. It tells me that I’m fat when I look in the mirror, or it points out the acne that has plagued me always. It tells me that I’m a bad mom when I snap and lose my cool with Madison, or that when I disagree with my husband its the end of the world. It tells me I’m selfish when I take care of myself and it tells me I’m stupid for being vulnerable or emotional. It points out strangers and tells me lies about what they’re thinking and perceiving about me. It makes me fearful of situations that aren’t actually happening, and it’s screamed that it’s all my fault when things go wrong. It’s the same voice that’s told me to kill myself. When I was younger, it was so loud in my mind, I thought it was my voice, a truthful voice, and I was wrong. Now it’s so quiet some days I even forget about it. But it’s still there.

I remember several years ago, a friend of mine had told me about this experience her sister had had with an Instagram psychic. She said that this woman would go on Instagram live every day and she would do a reading on the first person who entered into the live chat and would try to answer any questions you had. Her sister had apparently been one of these lucky chosen few, and was told things about her life that my friend claimed there was no way this lady could have known. So naturally I was intrigued, and I gave this mystic a follow. It was late one night and I was home by myself. I was feeling lost and distraught about many things and I got the notification that the psychic had gone live. Without even thinking, I clicked into the chat and sure enough I was the first person to respond. She acknowledged that I was the first person and that she would be conducting a reading, and she asked if I had any questions. I asked her a relationship question, she asked me to be more specific, and before I could send a follow up she closed her eyes, put her fingers to her temples, and very visibly winced. She shook her head, and said (actually, almost moaned) Oh my goodness, no wonder you are looking for answers, how are you living it is so loud in here! Loud with a voice…. Loud with your mother’s voice.” And then she abruptly ended the live chat, and never did another one again (we still follow each other on Instagram to this day). 

That was the first time I had talked about my mother and my relationship with her in that capacity in a very long time. It was almost 2 years later when I sat across from my therapist as she told me she didn’t really believe I have anxiety. Her theory was that I had absorbed my mother’s anxiety and had taken it on as my own because I had lived so much of my life emotionally taking care of her and feeling responsible for her. Over the years as I’ve begun to identify who I really am and how I really see myself, I’ve realized that that voice that lives in my head is hers. It’s a regurgitation of all of the things my mother has said to me throughout my life, all of the ways she made me feel self conscious, all of the times that she reminded me that I wasn’t good enough, all of the things she made me believe about myself that aren’t true, all of the times she projected her own pain and suffering onto me, all of the times she blamed me for everything wrong in her life, and all of the things she made me hate about myself. And I used to believe the voice in my mind to be true in the way that I used to believe my mother to be true. I took every cutting remark and dig and criticism as a defining quality of my character that I would never escape. And even after I left her house, I carried this voice with me and I continued to allow it to control my life. As I’ve built my confidence, my self esteem and my connection to my higher self and my intuition, I’ve started to call that voice out. I’ve taken up my arms and I’ve gone to battle. When I hear it speak up, I remind myself that it’s not true. 

I tell it to kick rocks. I recite to myself all of the TRUTHS about my character that invalidate all the false claims the voice tries to make me believe. I tell it to shut up and sit down, and that it doesn’t have a place in my psyche anymore. But still it persists. And it waits. And waits. And waits. Until I have an extra anxious day. One full of more triggers than normal. And it pounces, when I least expect it, when I’m vulnerable. 

Today was one of those days. It’s been a rough week of homeschooling with Madison, she’s feeling the pressures of being cooped up in the house and being a 6 almost 7 year old who’s natural instincts are to push their parents’ boundaries and test them in any way they can. Listening, focusing, independently working, and not talking back are all things that my little one has struggled with the last few days. Couple this with bickering with my husband over our lack of ‘me’ time and our small confined space together, and I’ve been one anxious Allie. I’ve been less patient, a little quicker to the snap, less motivated, less productive, less social, and very late to bed. Yesterday I stressed the importance of keeping on a schedule and trying to maintain some normalcy in our lives during this quarantine. One of the rules is that I don’t like Madison to be on the iPad before we do school work for the day. I’ve learned over the last few weeks that she is much more prone to focus and listen and do her work when she hasn’t had any screen time until after school work is done. I never allowed her to have screen time before school, so it makes sense to me to stick to this pattern. I woke up this morning after not going to bed until past midnight last night and tossing and turning all night, to hear Madison on the iPad in the living room. I got up and walked to the living room and asked her if she asked to use the iPad and she said “Yeah, Daddy said it was okay.” Feeling frustrated as all get out, I stomped back to my room, laid down in bed, and stewed. I had stirred the perfect brew for my inner voice to jump right in. 

One thing led to another led to another led to another and before long I was full blown in an anxiety fit and my inner voice was loving it. It threw old adages at me that I haven’t heard in years, it told me things that I blatantly knew aren’t true. It perceived the events around me different to what was actually happening. It was on a full rampage. And I gave it more power this morning than i’m happy to admit. I allowed it to emotionally rock me, I allowed it to take my very rational emotions and feelings and make them an irrational reaction. I allowed it to have a foot to stand on. And as I sat outside with my husband, quietly explaining to him this voice that lives in my head and the things it says to me, he very bluntly asked me if I have ever asked the voice why it says those things? Why it thinks those things about me? I became emotional (and a little defensive, if I’m honest) and said that I don’t need to ask it why because I know why it says those things. It’s because it’s my mother’s voice and she has convinced me of untrue things about myself my entire life. I said that I do battle with this voice every day and remind myself of who I truly am, I don’t need to ask it why and give it anymore of my power.  My sweet husband said that if you’re going to battle with this voice that is a part of you, you will be battling for the rest of your life. This voice is a part of you, just as your mother is a part of you, and you have to invite them to have a seat at the table. You have to let them have a say, so you can accept them. Because if you don’t, they have all the power, and they’ve already won. 

True self love is loving every single part of yourself, something that I have continued to define for myself time and time again. It’s loving all of the lovely traits and silly quirks and passionate emotions and tender scars and places irreparably broken. Its loving the good parts and the bad parts and the light parts and the dark parts and everything in between. I spent a lot of my life hating myself, and hating a lot of the things that make me, ‘me’. That voice, and all of the triggers bulleted throughout my mind, are a product of those years. And those years made me strong. They made me compassionate in ways that I hold dear and empathetic in ways that I feel are absent in this world. They made me thoughtful and giving and forgiving and deeply grateful for the simple things in life like happiness that so many take for granted. They made me a survivor in ways that will serve me throughout the rest of my life. They are a part of who I am, and if I am to love all that I am, I have to love everything, fully, completely, wholeheartedly, fearlessly. I have to allow everyone to have a seat at the table. 

So I’ll go to bed this evening at a more reasonable time, I’ll wake up tomorrow and remember that I am perfectly imperfect, and that each day is what I choose to make it. I’ll end with this Chinese proverb that rings true to this message: 

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck 

One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water

At the end of the long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot only arrived half full

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman only bringing home one and a half pots of water

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments

But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do

After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house”

The old woman smiled. “Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side?”

“That’s because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path and every day when we walk back, you water them” 

“For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table”

“Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house”