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It starts with my hands. It’s not so much pain as it is an arthritic cramping at the joints—something that my one year as a psychology major tells me is a psychosomatic symptom of some larger, looming issue that’s bothering me. I quickly take inventory of what the day holds: editing a story about a celebrity launching her own lifestyle site (No, that’s a breeze, I think); drinks with two friends from college (Can’t be that. Drinking helps, I assure myself); phone interview with a ’90s icon about her style (Could that be it? Maybe, actually. Phoners always aggravate me a bit.) It’s an exercise I know too well: identifying the source of my anxiety. – Continue Reading BelowBut, to what end? To expel it? Hardly.For me, an anxiety-free state is only achieved via rigorous exercise, half of a .5 milligram pill of Clonazepam (the generic version of the popular Benzodiazepine Klonopin), or an entire bottle of sauvignon blanc. And unfortunately, I haven’t worked out in days, I hastily swallowed the last sliver of a little yellow pill last week while having an internal freak attack on a stalled Amtrak train, and, for the most part, I try to avoid drinking in the bullpen.Related: Is He An Asshole or Just Anxious? How Men Are Getting Stressed Out TooI flex my hands, willing them to stop creaking throughout the tedious task at hand—renumbering a listicle—and force myself to breathe. In through the nose, I instruct. Out through the mouth.Anxiety hasn’t always been, to quote those infuriating Cotton commercials, the fabric of my life. I first noticed the tightening in my chest, the racing thoughts, and the muted sense of fear adding a disquieted awareness to everything around me while studying abroad in Buenos Aires as a junior in college. The first time I experienced the acute sensation, I was sitting in the last stall of a dim computer café, attempting to write an e-mail to my ex-boyfriend, who, days before I’d departed for South America, hacked into my Gmail and discovered that I’d cheated. My hands, taking their usual piano-trained arch on the keyboard, started to object. Type, I willed them, but they stamped and whinnied at the command. It was then that I noticed I wasn’t breathing.Over the past nine years, the intensity of the condition has ebbed and flowed. I’ve seen therapists about its origin, demanded transparency from my family on their own experiences with anxiety and depression, and sampled a variety of medications ranging from the aforementioned gateway drug high quality replica handbags , Clonazepam—a beauteous calming substance that Lena Dunham has admitted to carrying around on her at all times “just in case”—to Cymbalta, a medication that made my entire scalp break out in fleshy hives. Despite feeling a bit like a guinea pig, in my opinion, my anxiety has never become debilitating. Like poor eyesight, asthma, or an inconvenient (but not life threatening) allergy, it’s something I have to be aware of every day. – Continue Reading BelowLaurie BartleyAnd, perhaps, it’s its low-grade status that has allowed me to slink under the therapy fence. I’ve tried it, I really have, but I always find myself withholding things from my shrink. Even though I attempt full-fledged honesty, I’ve never stuck with any one doctor long enough to trust her. I could get into the issues I’m always forced to examine—moving to Los Angeles at a young age; moving back to D.C. right before middle school; experiences with careless mean girls and even more careless bad boys; my parents—but those conversations tend to exacerbate my symptoms without much resolution. Eventually it gets cold, the doctor’s office all of a sudden seems excruciatingly far away, and I just don’t feel like talking anymore. So I quit. The way I see it, people have to deal with all sorts of aggravating, quality-of-life-threatening health issues. If my cross to bear is a hyperawareness that keeps me from the “chillest chick of all time” superlative, I can deal with that. – Continue Reading Below – Continue Reading BelowRelated: Pot Stirring: Using Marijuana to Curb AnxietyFor the most part, my anxiety just makes me overthink. This symptom can be an asset to my career as a writer, but, if I let it, can wreak havoc on my personal life. My anxiety makes me ruminate and chew on the things I said and did throughout the day. Sometimes, while waiting for sleep to wash over me, I watch in awe as my brain pinwheels in a thousand, dizzying directions about the way I bungled up a social interaction. In the morning, rarely, if ever, do I feel the same intensity regarding the heavily dissected moment.I’ve also discovered that my particular strain of anxiety has curious and embarrassing permutations. Like, if I have too much coffee, I start to stutter and slur my words. If I’m bone crushingly hung over, my anxiety manifests itself in a (very fleeting) manic state that urges me to speed shop on the Internet, strike up conversations with baristas at Starbucks, or overcompensate for what I perceive to be immature behavior by dressing like a cartoon adult. (Case in point: The Sunday my first nephew was born, I showed up to the hospital wearing an ivory, Basic Instinct-esque turtleneck sheath.)And that’s another thing I’ve learned about my anxiety: It’s temporal. If you choose to live with it, like I have, impulse control is paramount. “I’m sorry, I was feeling particularly anxious,” isn’t a great excuse for stamping your foot while waiting in line at H&M. Nor is, “I didn’t send that e-mail, you see, boss asandria.it , because the act of having to compose it made my fingers lock into gargoyle claws.” Assessing my anxiety has become as much a part of my day as picking the kale salad over the chicken fingers in the cafeteria, placating my cowlicks in the bathroom mirror, or alerting my husband to a particularly cute Rhodesian Ridgeback @dogsontables Instagram. – Continue Reading BelowAnd, for me, the first step to living with anxiety involves taking inventory: Okay, yes, Justine, I tell myself. That’s the anxiety talking. It’s the “what’s next” I’m less clear on.Related: I Got Addicted to Being ‘Celebrity Thin’

Have You Met My Life Partner, Low-Grade Anxiety?

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