Amidst a swirling haze of costumes—soldiers, firefighters, astronauts, and fairytale characters—I find myself pressed against a cold tabletop, struggling to breathe as my vision blurs. My fingers twist tightly around my dress, seeking comfort in the fabric while I shut my eyes, yearning for safety from my own overwhelming sensations. My body is charged with adrenaline, yet I feel trapped, unable to either flee or fight.
My best friend, similarly dressed as a beloved princess, tugs at my skirt. “The Halloween parade is about to start! Get up!” she insists. The world spins as I force myself to rise, acutely aware that someone is watching me from the crowd, and I know he will try to take me away once the festivities conclude.
My biological father did not embody the supportive figure a father should be; with him, I never felt safe.
As the parade kicks off, I spot him in the distance, and a wave of nausea crashes over me, my heart racing and breath escaping in panicked gasps. I search desperately for my mother, my anchor in this storm. She recognizes my distress, whisking me away from the parade into a classmate’s home. There, she comforts me, holding my hair back as I succumb to the physical manifestations of fear.
At just eight years old, this was far from my first panic attack. Years of separation anxiety from my mother, coupled with troubling stomach issues, plagued my childhood. My mother tirelessly sought medical help, consulting pediatricians and child psychologists, yet I remained silent. I understood the chaos that would ensue in the lives of those I loved if I vocalized my struggles. Instead, I chose to endure alone.
Anxiety and panic, shadows of my early years, resurfaced at pivotal moments: during college, in the early years of my teaching career, and particularly after the birth of each of my children.
Awakening abruptly at 3 a.m. following the birth of my third child, I felt my heart racing and my thoughts spiraling. Recognizing the onset of my anxiety, I promptly scheduled an appointment with a therapist specializing in postpartum depression and anxiety. She aimed to alleviate the irrational fears that plagued me: concerns over house fires, vehicle accidents, and even imaginary threats to my children. How could I ensure their safety?
While therapy offered some relief, it was medication that became my lifeline. My greatest fear, however, was that I would inadvertently pass on my anxiety to my children. I hoped that if they didn’t witness my struggles firsthand, they would remain untouched by them. They are surrounded by love and support, yet the reality of hereditary anxiety loomed over me.
One day, my three-year-old daughter, who loves to sing, belted out “Winter Wonderland.” After a particularly charming line, she expressed concern: “Why are they dreaming by the fire, Mommy? They should go up into bed to dream. It’s not safe to sleep by the fire. They’ll get burned.” What I initially found amusing turned unsettling when a friend remarked, “Like mother, like daughter.”
An icy realization struck me: my daughter’s innocent logic might reflect an inherited anxiety. I began to scrutinize other signs of worry in my children.
“Why, Mommy? Why does he have to die?” Cecily sobbed as she watched a character in distress. My empathetic daughter’s grief poured out, despite the character’s eventual recovery.
My six-year-old son, on discovering he’d misplaced his math homework, was engulfed in terror. “I can’t go to school! I’ll get in trouble!” My pulse quickened as I rushed to comfort him, recognizing my own anxious tendencies reflected in his intense reaction. While I hadn’t lost the homework, I understood that my anxiety had influenced him, both genetically and through modeling.
I realized it was my responsibility to guide them through their fears. Together, we learned to identify physical signs of stress and how to cope with them. We engage in conversations, write out our worries, and draw our anxieties away. We practice reasoning through our fears and employ visualization and breathing exercises to release what we cannot control. I strive to manage my anxiety, modeling a healthier approach to life for my children, with the hope of giving them a more secure childhood than my own.
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In conclusion, the journey through anxiety is ongoing; it requires acknowledgment, understanding, and proactive management. As a parent, I aim to foster resilience in my children, teaching them to navigate their own feelings effectively.
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