Amanda

Amanda Rosati is one of our writers for the Humanology Project. You can read her articles here.

I had never considered that I might have an anxiety disorder until my most recent therapist decided to keep calling it that.  Before I started seeing her, my other therapists in the past had just listened to what I had to say and provided feedback.  I never thought that my repeated reasoning of “I was nervous” when asked why I did or didn’t do something might not be the same reason everyone else had for their actions or inaction.  Nobody ever gave a name to what I was feeling.  And the name made me feel different because, at that time, I didn’t know much about what that name meant.  That lack of knowledge and lack of exposure made me think that a mental illness was a shameful thing to have.

I started to view myself differently, and I began to over-analyze myself even more than I had been doing before.  I started to wonder if the worrying and deep concern that I felt almost constantly was uncommon.  I also began to wonder if it meant there was something wrong with me.  I know now that there is nothing wrong with me and that there’s nothing to be ashamed of, but getting to that point was not easy or inherent.

I think that the incessant worrying makes me a better person in some aspects: I pay a great deal of attention to small details, and I strive for perfection.  The worrying makes me look closely at things that someone else might not notice: my fear of being viewed poorly by others makes me critical of almost everything.  But it does cause me to lose sleep or become so overwhelmed by my worries and responsibilities that I burst into tears and envision my entire future falling apart.  So while it sometimes causes me to work harder, it can also cause me to lose all motivation to the fear.

The fear is always there.  I have some beautiful people in my life that help me feel stronger, but it still looms over every thought and activity in my life.  I could write a paper for a class and feel supremely proud of it for a few moments before beginning to severely doubt my skills as a writer or my knowledge in that field.  I could get a new outfit and think I look great in it, but after a few too many moments spent looking in the mirror, I succumb to the idea that strangers will think I look terrible, so I take off the outfit and never end up wearing it.  I get nervous at the thought of calling new people on the phone, whether it be an administrator I need to ask a question or a classmate that I need to interview for a project, because I always feel like my phone calls are bothering them and that they don’t want to speak to me at all.  Sometimes I realize that my fear at the current moment is pointless and exaggerated, but I can’t break away from it.

And all of this is going on in my head all of the time.  But looking at me, you wouldn’t even know it.  Looking at any of us, you wouldn’t even know it.