My mind is a universe all its own. The rules are basically simple: everything changes. That simple rule, however often gets mistranslated into 'fear the coming change.'

Having anxiety is that fear of things to come, not knowing if they will be good for you, or bring about the total destruction of all things in a cosmic sense. (And no, that's not an over-exaggeration of the feeling. If anything it's over-simplified.)

When I have anxiety, it is impossible to describe; but I will try in case my story sounds something like yours.

It's too easy to fall into that trap of thinking no one understands, and that you're alone in your universe. But that's almost never the case. And even though the number of people who can identify exactly with you may be small, there is always a broad populous who can at least relate in a small way. So, for those of you who feel alone, as I do sometimes, tell your story. Even if you have to do it anonymously. You may not be alone after all.

My earliest memory: I was an infant, sitting in the seat of a shopping cart with my mother. I remember being aware of people 'watching' me, looking at "the baby" and doing and saying things that people do when they see a baby. It bothered me immensely. I remember thinking how I wish they would just leave me alone, and how I just wanted to leave. I also remember relying heavily, emotionally on the fact that my mother would keep me safe from them. A reliance that seemed faulty when two young (college age) girls approached her and asked to see "the baby." This was a terrifying proposition to me at the time, but I was unable to voice my objection to my mother. And of course, there wasn't anything cuter that I could've done at the time.

The girls started in with how cute I was not realizing that I was in fact terrified of this encounter. I began to cry. Embarrassed, my 'assailants' (as I viewed them) began to chuckle (which of course to me was a judgement and condemnation of my very soul.) My mother began to chuckle as well, which (and I cannot stress enough from my infantile perspective) absolutely broke my soul. I felt totally abandoned and alone.

The feelings of scrutiny and abandonment in that moment have reoccurred countless times since.

It's easy to take that first memory and experience as the source of my anxiety. However, that would probably be an over-simplification. Although I wouldn't argue the impact that first memory had in my childhood development as an emotional being, I think it would be a disservice to everyone with anxiety to effectively dismiss my life long struggle with anxiety as stemming from this one moment.

Life compounded with misunderstandings is often the external factors of anxiety. Most people can relate in some limited capacity to the fact that life can throw you a curve-ball you are not ready for, and cause you stress and "anxiety." (Those who have anxiety, will probably understand why that word is in quotations. But if you don't understand the reason, just trust the fact that while it is the same anxiety, it is not the same anxiety.)

Maybe a better way to think of the differences between what a "normal" person without anxiety feels when life throws them that curve-ball, and what that curve-ball does to a person with anxiety is to imagine anxiety as a professional studio mixer. (That's the thing with all the dials, faders, and lights, and things.)

Everybody's mixer will look a little different. Some levels will be set higher or lower, depending on your personality. Each channel on the mixer represents a different stress trigger (or anxiety.) There are thousands of channels on everybody's mixer, although most of them will be set to zero for most people. A non-anxious person will hear only one channel at a time through their day-to-day life. But when stressed, they may hear several i.e. kids crying, traffic, music too loud, whatever triggers stress in that individual. The same holds true for those with anxiety, with one variance; all the channels have some volume all the time. Even the ones that aren't stress triggers. (Remember there are thousands.)

Now imagine you're stressed, and you don't have anxiety. Your mixer simply raises the master volume. Your triggers all become louder according to their resting volume in relation to each other. (Not Fun)

When you have anxiety your master volume also raises, but so do all other channels independently of one another. Even the ones that have a resting volume near zero. Thousands of channels all increasing in volume until they are maxed out. If you can imagine that coming through your headset, your ears would be saturated by white noise. Everything becomes white noise. And we haven't even begun adding effects to any of the channels yet.

It's important to note this possibility when approaching some one with anxiety. Because it is very natural to ask, "what's the big deal? It's just. . . "

Well it isn't. And it is.

Yes it's just an interview. Everybody gets anxiety for an interview. But if you have an anxiety issue, it is never just an interview. It's never just making phone call, or filing a document, going to the bank or grocery store, or whatever. It's all of them. It's everything. It's the entire universe collapsing on one tiny emotional frame, that is a human spirit.

Growing up with anxiety is never easy, no matter who you are. But when you grow up having as limited social contact as I did, it becomes a different animal altogether.

We moved a lot growing up, so school was always a social challenge for me. I remember starting kindergarten near the end of the year and remaining in that school throughout 1^st grade. I had a group of friends, although I was very “shy,” and had very few issues with anxiety that I recall. The rest of my childhood education was not as easy.

From grades 2 to 4, I remember very little (most likely because we had moved several times, often to new states as well as schools.) In fact I can't say for sure if I even attended school during my 2 grade year.

I do remember one thing during those years in school: being afraid to raise my hand, or be called on.

I didn’t speak if I didn’t have to. And even then I limited myself mostly to saying I don’t know. (Even though I often knew the right answers.) Generally, I wasn’t called on much for that reason.

I didn’t raise my hand for anything. And there was nothing on earth that could make me. Not even the call of nature. But of course, you can’t hold it forever- as I found out time and time again.

I wet my pants more than a few times in grade school. The possibility of avoiding shame and embarrassment by staying in my seat until everyone had left the room, seemed more likely than the 100% certainty that would come if I raised my hand. Besides, I could hold it with general success. And I couldn’t raise my hand.

Fourth grade is the only year I remember having what I perceived was a normal kid’s school life. I had friends, a bully, tests and field trips, and very little anxiety. I raised my hand in class. Sometimes I only thought I knew the answer, but I wasn’t afraid. And even when I answered wrong, I still raised my hand the next time.

It was also the only year I began, and finished, in the same school as the previous year.

We moved the following winter. I began 5^th grade in a new school, in a new town, but would not finish out the year.

I never returned to school until I was 23. I passed the GED by the skin of my teeth and proceeded to fail college over the next several years.

It’s hard to guess what my academic life may have been like had my family not bounced around so much. But I’m fairly confident that, although my test scores may have remained similar, my social skills, and consequently my college efforts would have greatly benefited from a more stable upbringing. 

It would only later become evident, in my teenage years, how utterly unprepared I was to participate in the coming world. I came into adulthood with little to say, and even less knowledge on operating in a social world- and thus, had with little to do with it.

I believe it was Socrates who said, (paraphrasing) 'say nothing, do nothing, be nothing.' And I was nothing for a long time.

It took years to learn how to raise my hand again; and even longer still to raise it without fear.