My face was pressed
against the window in the back seat of the family’s green station wagon. I sat quietly waiting for my dad to finish
work. I watched as he walked out the
door and locked it. Then the ritual
began but I did not know what I was witnessing at the time. He reached for the door handle and shook it
three times. My father walked down the
short flight of steps and looked back at the door. He proceeded back up the steps and grabbed
the door handle again and shook it hard.
Three times. Repeat.
At the time, I had no idea what I was witnessing. I was only seven or eight years old at the
time. However, as an adult, I can say this
is my first memory of anxiety. Now I can
recognize the signs of anxiety with ease.
It’s the little things. It is the
food that can’t touch each other on a dinner plate. It is the patterned blanket that can only be
facing one direction. It is the
nervousness to carry a water bottle in a theater. It is the glasses, keys and pen that must sit
just right on the counter. It is the
ritual of setting the breakfast table in proper sequence. It is the person sitting in the corner
quietly on their phone during social events.
It manifests differently in each person. In my case, it started as a teenager and
continued through college. The anxiety
focused on electricity and fire. So
curling irons, hair dryers and crock puts became a source of stress. I was so
aware of my anxiety and I hated it. It
was a waste of time and I knew I was transferring my anxiety onto these
objects. When Erin was born, I had no
time for it any longer. I had to focus
on her and I stopped.
Fast forward seventeen years later. It is different but it is back and I want it
to go away.