Helping Others Find Help
I’ve always loved books.
Even before I could read a word on the page, I sat and poured through picture books on Christmas morning, surrounded by unwrapped toys. I looked forward to library trips, and as I grew, escaping to the pages of a Junie B. Jones story, or later, a Meg Cabot novel, offered sweet relief from this thing called anxiety that seemed to haunt me from birth.
I remember crying in terror when my mom dropped me off at kindergarten, not just on the first day but every day after, the pain of separation anxiety written all over my face, puffy and wet with tears. Shy, quiet, counting down the minutes until I could feel safe again in my mom’s arms. I’ve always wondered if being separated from my mom after a traumatic birth that almost took her life somehow contributed to my intense fear of losing her. I held tight to my blankie, and my mom read the book, “Owen” by Kevin Henkes with me as I bravely stepped forward into childhood, my transitional object in hand.
As I approached adolescence, my body wasn’t what I wanted it to be, holding on to some unrealistic image of a 20-something pop star my parents didn’t approve of, and anxiety crept back in. Slowly at first, as I counted crunches and calories to gain control over the worries about not being enough, then all at once when I stumbled out of my bedroom clutching my chest, drowning in a panic attack that landed me in the ER. I remember those dark days after I returned home from the hospital, medicated, drowsy, turning to the pages of “This Lullaby” by Sarah Dessen as I sorted out my own imperfections.
When I was referred to a therapist not long after, anxiety stopped holding me back and instead, held open the door to my future, though I didn’t realize it at first.
When I walked into Jim’s office, 13-years-old and teetering somewhere between anxious and empty, I really wasn’t sure how he could help. How one hour a week in his tiny office with the white walls and stacks of board games on the shelf could make any difference at all. But it did – it made all the difference, a slow unfolding over weeks and months as I opened up, brought my fears into the light, and began to better understand this thing called Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) that had taken hold of me from such a young age.
Then I took my love of stories to the stage and did something courageous for an introverted girl with anxiety. I auditioned for, and landed, one of the lead roles in a local youth theater play and spent the next several months immersed in memorizing lines, forging new friendships, and standing in the spotlight, somewhere I had never even dreamed of being before. Jim encouraged me every step of the way and demonstrated to me the power of taking manageable baby steps away from anxiety’s stronghold on my life. Steps that led me, day by day, to opening night, and a whole new brand of confidence.
There was no fairy tale ending to my journey with anxiety that day, though that would have made for a great story. There are times in my adult life that I still have to look anxiety square in the eye, seek the help of a therapist, talk to a friend, reach for a journal, or sit on a meditation pillow and just breathe. I know I have plenty of tools in my toolbox because I am a therapist now. My own experience of childhood anxiety inspired me to become a therapist, just like Jim, and help other children struggling with their mental health.
Today, reading books like “The Last Love Note” by Emma Gray reminds me that sometimes what feels like the end is really just the beginning. Therapy helped me to turn the page on anxiety and see a whole new future, one where anxiety is no longer the main character, or even the antagonist; a story that I get to write.
