Column: Dealing with daily anxiety

I am anxious. I have never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, but I know I have one.

From the age of 11 onward, I have spent countless nights trying in vain to fall asleep but instead listing out all of the things that I have to do, the things I’m scared of and how much I regret about the previous day.

I’ve found ways to counteract my anxiousness, but I’ve come to accept an abundance of nervous energy will always exist within me. However, I haven’t gotten over how exhausting being inside my own head can be.

I haven’t been diagnosed, but maybe it’s because every time I go to talk with a therapist, I end up talking my way out of my anxieties. I talk about other things, usually ending my rambling with, “But I’m really fine.”

One hour in, and I feel better. One hour out, and I’m back to my list-making. I’m back to stress; I’m back to wondering what might go wrong today. I know there is the medication option, but the thought of my brain changing because of tiny pills makes me even more nervous.

Sometimes it feels like there are holes in the bottom of my personal lifeboat and there’s no way to plug them up so I don’t sink.

I’m not in this boat alone. There are countless other lifeboats around me that are worrying about sinking, too. How many of my friends have I watched have meltdowns from stress-induced anxiety? Well, that’s a whole new list of its own.

How many other friends and peers around me feel like they are debilitated because of an unnamed disorder? I wouldn’t want to even try to imagine.

Is self-diagnosing a dangerous way to deal with anxiety? If I could go back and tell my 11-year-old self to tell her parents she wasn’t sleeping and she was worried about everything from dying to forgetting to put the finishing touches on a science fair project, I would. I’d tell her to say something now before she loses years to insomnia and days to being anxious out of her control.

I want to say those things to myself now, but I don’t know how. I do know I have anxiety, but there are moments I wonder if I’m just being overdramatic. After all, I’ve found ways to dull the racing heartbeats, the shaky knees and the skittishness over the years. Since starting college, I’ve come to wonder if ignoring my anxiety is the best way to deal with it after all.

If I can’t say it to my 20-year-old self, I’ll say it to whoever is reading this column. Don’t diminish that racing heart rate or the feeling you are suffocating: It’s real, even if someone hasn’t put a name on it.

We all are anxious, and just because it’s a common feeling doesn’t mean you’re making it up in your head. It isn’t too late to deal with it, even if it’s been something you’ve tried to ignore for almost a decade. Talk about it. I am now, and I’ve been told that is the first step.