For many, being a passenger in a car is no big deal, but for me, it’s a source of anxiety.
As a preteen, my most striking memories revolve around lengthy drives to the private school my mother had fought to enroll me in. While my siblings were content in the backseat, I sat beside my father, who frequently unleashed his worries about our financial situation. His anxiety over affording my education led to heated arguments with my mother, leaving me feeling helpless and frustrated. During these tense car rides, his panic hung thick in the air, and I tried to shoulder it all with whatever strength a twelve-year-old could muster.
No amount of reassurance seemed to calm him. My attempts to see the bright side of things only seemed to amplify his distress. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my father was grappling with undiagnosed Generalized Anxiety Disorder, which permeated his personality and impacted his interactions.
Years went by, and I struggled to understand my dad as he navigated life filled with worries. I was already dealing with an emotionally unavailable parent who often retreated to his office to escape conflict with my mother. Growing up with a mother facing her own mental health challenges left me with traumatic experiences, and I felt deep resentment towards my dad for not being more present to protect me from them.
When their marital issues escalated, those car rides became a stage for his spiraling fears of potential homelessness and financial ruin. Even though we were never on the brink of bankruptcy, his irrational fears instilled a lasting anxiety about finances within me.
In my early twenties, my father was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. When he shared this news, I mistakenly believed it wasn’t a significant issue for him. I thought his worrying stemmed from a misplaced focus on money rather than love for me. I had no idea that his anxiety was a powerful force keeping him from expressing the depth of his affection. Little did I know that I would soon face my own mental health challenges, which would reshape my relationship with him.
About a year ago, I found myself in tears during a session with my therapist, trying to process what she had just told me. After confronting years of childhood trauma that had begun to affect my journey into motherhood, I was anxious to know my diagnosis. Alongside a history of self-harm since my teens, I was experiencing frequent panic attacks after the birth of my daughter. Just like my dad, anxiety had silently woven itself into my daily life, surfacing with waves of shame and self-hatred.
It turned out I had been living with complex post-traumatic stress disorder and anxiety for years without realizing it. As I absorbed this revelation, I felt a weight lift; my PTSD symptoms suddenly connected to the trauma of my upbringing.
Receiving my diagnosis was nearly devastating, but it ultimately set me free. Accepting my PTSD spurred me to seek help when I was contemplating suicide. It encouraged me to confide in friends and family about my struggles. Most importantly, it opened a new line of communication with my dad, who urged me to pursue the therapy that had aided him. We even had difficult conversations about psychiatric medications, which I began taking with his support.
While my dad contributed to my feelings of brokenness for much of my life, he also played a crucial role in my healing. Witnessing his efforts to manage his disorder inspired me to lean on him during my darkest moments. My anxiety often keeps me on edge, fearing that happiness is fleeting; I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now, I understand that my father has been trapped in this fear-based existence for far too long. It’s heartbreaking to realize he has endured so much mental anguish.
Today, I no longer see my dad as the emotionally distant figure of my childhood. Instead, I recognize him as a complex individual doing his best with the skills he had at that time. He has persevered through so much and is committed to understanding and healing from his disorder. His bravery in confronting his challenges deeply resonates with me. I sympathize with his struggles, having finally gained insight into his battles.
Anxiety is a legitimate mental health issue, often rooted in childhood trauma. It has been empowering to break the cycle of distress by addressing my own anxiety and PTSD, allowing me to nurture my children with the love and support I craved. I owe much of this transformation to my father, whose courage to seek help has paved the way for both of us.
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In summary, my journey through understanding my father’s anxiety, my own diagnosis, and the impact on our relationship has been transformative. It has led to deeper empathy and healing for both of us, breaking the cycle of fear and fostering a nurturing environment for future generations.
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