On my next anxiety trip I will take....

Separation has never been my strong suit. When it comes to saying goodbye to someone I’ve become emotionally attached to I often don’t feel like I’m wearing a suit at all.

I crumble, like a gluten free scone. A good portion of me falls to the floor and the whole process gets stuck, dry in my throat. I need someone to put a mason jar full water to my lips, tilt my head back then stroke it all down my throat, the way you give your pet a pill they refuse to swallow.

The idea of separation tends to unravel my heart like a tragic play, then it signals anxiety to my brain. I don’t exaggerate when I say that for the first 4 to 5 years of elementary school, I’d become sick and miss the last day of school with all the fun hoopla - and the goodbyes. I wasn't sick in quotation marks either. I’d literally work my body up to a fever, or wear myself down to strep throat. It was a way of protecting myself from the sadness of separating from the teachers and friends I had grown to love. Even today, I have to mentally prepare for the last day of school, summoning my courage so I can offer a thoughtful and often tearful, “thank you” to the kid's teachers, principals, janitors and crossing guards.

I am sensitive about saying, “I’m sensitive” because I worry that it may seem like I’m implying that others aren’t sensitive, and that somehow there is a judgement there. Sensitivity is just part of my nature, but I don’t think I’m stand out special because of it. I assume everyone has sensitivities, or soft spots, and I think they’re all fascinating.

Anyway, my sensitivity to partings feels like a wound that never quite heals up, but I'm finally okay with it. I don’t care anymore if this sensitivity came from a past life experience, or if I was dropped on my head when I was a baby. I only care about strategies to make myself more comfortable when I send my children to summer camp, or on a field trip, or when it’s time to say goodbye to my favorite pediatrician who retired. I was a hot mess for that one. But then again, I was messy over my cleaning lady who went back to Brazil to tend to her sick father. She was sweet, I was going to miss her. Leaving my dog at the kennel? Who cares that we were going to Hawaii in the morning, I was sleeping on a wet pillow from crying so much.

I have a black leather jacket and whenever I put it on, I think it looks slightly harsh on me. At the same time however, I feel edgy and tough, dare I say badass? So on my next anxiety trip, when my soul is feeling extra sensitive and in need of that thicker skin I wasn’t born with, I’ll grab my leather jacket.

Me, filters and my borrowed thick skin

The other day I said, 'Some days are a march.' Meaning, some days you just have to hold your head high and rely on your strength of muscle memory to move you forward. It's become a mantra for me. So, on my next anxiety trip, I'll grab my leather jacket, and I'll march.

Buddhists assert that pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional. One might simply nod to the anxiety when it arises the way you would a passerby, then shift the focus of your attention to something else. Of course, this is an ongoing practice. And although I work at it, my practice hasn’t become second nature quite yet. I feel I have a window of opportunity to manage my anxiety. Sometimes, it not only gets ahead of me, but it can get ahold of me too. Instead of being a passerby, it feels more like a stalker. So, on my next anxiety trip, I’ll grab my leather jacket, I’ll march, and I’ll decide I don’t need to suffer.

I wish it were that simple.

Anxiety is a butt kicker.