Is it possible anxiety has a purpose, can be protective? This is hard to believe, hard to posit.
Those of you who know what hard anxiety feels like would beg to differ.
Once, a long time ago, during one of the periods in my life when I was again attempting online dating, a man suddenly asked me, “Do you have anxiety?” He was alarmed, ready to bolt. He had experienced women with anxiety, and would have none of it.
His question surprised me. It had never occurred to me that there may be people in the world who did not suffer from anxiety. Who is that? And what might that feel like?
I actually have a glimmering of an answer to that. I had a colonoscopy a few years ago. Just before going under, I thought to ask the anesthesiologist what drug they were using. She replied, “Fentanyl.” I bolted up, broke into a sweat, and squeaked, “What? Fentanyl?”
I’d already been awash with anxiety for the past several hours at the mere prospect of the procedure. When she said that, my anxiety peaked to such a degree the room seemed to shift. She said, sanguinely, “You can leave now if you want. This is a voluntary procedure.”
Of course, I’d done the awful several days of prep for the procedure, which as many readers may know, is no fun at all. I decided to steel myself and go through with it.
I was sort of awake during the procedure. I felt very, very calm. I could hear the doctor talking to colleagues in the room. When they “woke” me, I was deeply peaceful. Nothing was the matter. All was well. And the test showed no issues, which was nice. But even if there had been issues, I was so deeply in la-la land that I’m not sure it would have mattered, at least not in the moment.
All was well.
The feeling lasted for a full 24 hours. At some point during those hours, I marveled, “Ah, this is what life feels like with no anxiety.” It was a revelation. I felt calm, present, grounded. I knew the world had my best interests at heart. The feeling of peace came from a deep, comforting place.
Was it my own mind, without the frieze of anxiety? Was it the universe, or God, that I was now able to hear or feel due to the lifting of anxiety? Was this state always available to me, as the Buddhists and meditators say, if I can only learn how to access it?
Intriguing questions.
When I was in Morelia, in Michoacan, Mexico, last week and for the two preceding weeks, I had a day free of anxiety (yes, a single day, in three weeks). I wish I could say what triggered it, what made it possible. Perhaps these things are simply gifts from the universe. No… that can’t be. It’s important to pay attention to the triggers—triggers for good and for ill—and attempt to understand them.
I’m not sure what laid the path for an anxiety-free moment or morning, or perhaps an entire day.
What I do know is that I was walking to my favorite cafe, with the books on the walls and the Paris-quality croissants (better than anything I can find in Oakland, CA), and the whole world suddenly became shockingly, painfully beautiful. The piped-in, corny, yet lovely music tinkling from speakers in the bandstand in the center of the zocalo. The fountains burbling happily, the morning sun glinting through the flying droplets, pigeons rising and settling in the top level.
It was all so beautiful that I began to cry.
And the thought formed. Maybe the anxiety serves a purpose. Maybe life is too beautiful, too poignant, too painful. When the anxiety lifts, I’m beset by tears. And how can I live like that?
Of course, any therapist worth his salt would say, exactly. This is where we want you. You need to “face your demons” or whatever the current euphemism is. Feel the pain. Let the emotions wash over you, let them go through you. Don’t block. What was it exactly that was so painful? It’s hard to say. But almost everything that morning triggered tears in me, and a sharp heart-rending.
The young boy gazing up at the “Paper Man” in the plaza—a performer covered in strips of newspaper who, when you dropped a coin into his tin can, would emit robotic noises and with jerky movements fold an origami crane to deposit into the child’s outstretched palm.
The boys seated on the edge of the fountain, the teens kissing on the stone benches, the families, everywhere, enjoying the free street music in the squares. The balloon sellers, the old couples hand-in-hand. The young man noting me eating alone and wishing me “buen provecho” as he passed.
To live life directly. The let the scales fall from our eyes. This is the point, isn’t it? To fully experience our brief time here on earth. To live in the present moment.
Why is it so difficult? Is it only painful because I visit the realm so rarely? Will it get easier?
A dear friend who died a few years ago used to say he wanted to live life with gloves off. He wanted to feel the cold, the sharp bits, the pain of life, as well as the beauty and joy.
Anxiety sucks, that’s for sure. But it’s weirdly protective too. It shields us from life at full bore. Life in all its beauty and terror.
Still, I’d rather leave it behind. I want to answer my next date’s question “Do you have anxiety?” with a resounding… well I guess it can’t be a resounding no. Everyone has some anxiety… don’t they? Perhaps the best I can hope for is a resounding, and positive, “Sure, who doesn’t? But I work with it, I know how to manage it, I wrangle it, I use its energy for good, I re-direct. It does not run me. It does not rule me.”
Well, you know, "anxiety" is the Jewish disease. Indeed, it does serve to protect in troubled times, although it can appear neurotic in peacetime. I love Oaxaca and glad you got to enjoy it so much.
"And the thought formed. Maybe the anxiety serves a purpose. Maybe life is too beautiful, too poignant, too painful. When the anxiety lifts, I’m beset by tears. And how can I live like that?" This is a - argh - beautiful thought.