My therapist told me that anxiety is a bully and, like all bullies, it needs to be put in its place. To my relief, she knew exactly how to do it
T
he second half of 2011 was not a good time for me. Work was very stressful, and what had been gearing up to be the Great Summer Romance had slowly and painfully fizzled out. My mother was unwell, and I was going through a phase of really missing my father, who had died a few years before. It was the perfect, uninvited storm.
Before, when I’d gone through bad patches, I’d been able to dig myself out fairly quickly. Not this time. Suddenly, I was living in a state of high anxiety. I was still getting on with my life – going to work, going out – but anxiety was running the show. Having to make even the smallest decision would send me into a panic.
My regular coping tools – staying busy, booking a trip, going for long walks – weren’t helping. I knew I had to find a therapist to make sense of what was going on, but that was another decision to make. After I’d tried a few who didn’t work out, a friend recommended someone she thought would be a good fit.
