Living with Anxiety

The Weight I Carry

This post is dedicated to my anxiety.

I look back at my younger self with such envy sometimes. That carefree kid who didn't think twice about anything. No weight pressing on their chest. No racing thoughts that never seem to quiet down. Just... existing. Just living without that constant fear lurking in the background.

Now? It feels like I'm trapped in this endless cycle. Every morning, I wake up and my mind is already exhausted, overwhelmed before the day even begins. It's this invisible pressure that never lets up, constantly whispering that something's wrong, even when everything is fine.

I wish I could go back, you know? Back to when I didn't feel broken. But this fear has become part of me. I try to live with it, to push through each day, but sometimes, it feels like too much. Like I'm carrying a weight I don't know how to put down.

Living with anxiety is like carrying an invisible backpack filled with rocks that only you can feel the weight of. Others might not see it, but you're carrying it every single day.

Where It All Began

My first real encounter with anxiety was during my school years. Back then, I was relatively carefree, but there was one thing that always triggered this wave of panic: exam results.

Where I'm from, academic performance is everything—it's how your worth is measured, your future determined. Looking back now, I couldn't care less about that pressure. But back then? It consumed me.

Every time results were announced, this knot would form in my stomach, this suffocating tightness. I'd freeze, waiting for the worst. I wasn't great at academics, and facing those results felt like staring failure in the face. My heart would race, and all I could think was, "What now? What happens next?" The fear of not being enough, of disappointing everyone—it was overwhelming.

When people talk about being "talented" because they got good grades, it really gets under my skin. As if that's the only measure of success. But I've realized something important: it's not the worst thing that can happen in life.

Back then, I believed my worth was tied to those grades. Because they weren't great, I felt like I was the worst. But now? I don't care about that stuff anymore. I've found my own worth, my own value outside of academic achievement.

People have their passions, their things that light them up. For me, it's coding. That's what excites me, that's where I put my energy. And in the last five years, I've put zero effort into exams or grades. I'm okay with that. I've found my way, and it's not defined by a report card.

The Existential Crisis

Aside from those anxiety-inducing exam results, my first real wave of anxiety hit when I was thirteen. That's when my existential crisis began—and honestly, who has an existential crisis at thirteen?

Suddenly, everything felt heavy. I was questioning everything around me and, more importantly, questioning myself. It wasn't just about small stuff anymore—it was the bigger picture. I started calculating everything, constantly asking: Did I do everything right? Was I making the right choices? Was I living the way I was supposed to?

My thoughts spiraled, and the anxiety followed, creeping into every corner of my mind. That was the turning point, when everything shifted and my anxiety truly began to grow.

I tried so hard to find meaning in my life. I dove into everything—philosophy, religious texts—anything that could give me answers. I don't even know how I managed it, but I found myself reading page after page, desperately searching for something that could explain it all. I just wanted to know my purpose, why I was here.

But the more I read, the deeper I went, the worse my anxiety became. Every answer I found just led to more questions, and that knot in my chest grew tighter.

"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."

When Depression Joined the Party

The anxiety was always there, lingering in the background. But it really took hold after I fell into depression. I know it feels a little cringe to talk about, but I have to—I can't ignore it anymore.

When depression hit, everything changed. My anxiety skyrocketed. It wasn't just a fleeting thought anymore; it became this daily weight, this constant presence. Socially, I transformed. I used to be able to talk to people, to be around others and find comfort in that. But after depression, I lost that ability.

I didn't know how to talk to people anymore. I didn't want to. It was like I became a completely different person. I used to be extroverted, always seeking connection. But I retreated into a shell, becoming more introverted than I ever thought possible. I was drifting further away from the world, struggling with self-consciousness and overthinking that made every interaction feel like a mountain to climb.

The First Panic Attack

Then came the panic attacks—something I'll never forget.

I remember the first time it happened, every detail burned into my memory. My hand started trembling uncontrollably. My chest tightened like I couldn't breathe, like I was suffocating. I couldn't figure out what was happening or why. I felt so out of control, and all I could do was stand there, frozen.

I didn't understand what a panic attack was back then, but I knew something was terribly wrong. That feeling of losing grip, of being overwhelmed by fear in a way I couldn't escape—it was terrifying.

I never felt like myself after that. My anxiety was high all day, every day. It wasn't just about the panic attacks anymore; it was the fear of when the next one would happen. I lived with this constant dread, this thought that at any moment, I could feel that hand trembling, that tightness in my chest, like I was about to lose control again.

The thought of having another panic attack consumed me, and that made the anxiety even worse. It wasn't just in the back of my mind—it was always there, waiting, ready to strike. I was constantly on edge, terrified of what would happen next.

After the Depression Lifted

After my depression started to fade, I thought things might get easier. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could finally breathe again.

But no, the anxiety didn't go anywhere. It stayed. In fact, it felt like it was even more present now, like it had become a permanent part of me. Even though I wasn't drowning in depression anymore, I couldn't escape the anxiety. It was there every day, lingering in the background, always just under the surface.

I tried to go on with life, pretending everything was fine, but the truth is, I could never really let it out. I couldn't just exist without that constant tightness in my chest, that feeling that something was wrong, even when there was nothing to fear.

I never knew how to release it, to talk about it in a way that made sense. People would tell me, "Just let it go," or "It'll pass," but that didn't help. How could I let go of something so deeply rooted in me? How could I explain this invisible weight I carried every day?

It felt like I was constantly holding my breath, waiting for something to trigger it, waiting for the next wave of panic or that feeling of being overwhelmed. My mind was always in overdrive, always running through worst-case scenarios, never giving me a chance to relax.

And the worst part? I didn't feel like I had anyone to talk to about it. I didn't want to burden anyone with this never-ending anxiety that had become my constant companion. So I kept it to myself, trying to reconnect with myself while feeling disconnected from everyone else.

School and Social Anxiety

As I mentioned before, I didn't care about my academic performance. It wasn't a priority, just something I was being forced to do. My father would always tell me to go to school, and that's the only reason I still went, even though it felt pointless.

But the real problem wasn't just school or grades—it was the anxiety that came with it. My social anxiety was at its worst during those years. It was so severe that I would often have panic attacks just walking into class.

I'd feel like everyone's eyes were on me, like I couldn't move or speak without someone noticing, judging, or waiting for me to mess up. I couldn't even answer a question or walk down the hallway without feeling like the world was watching and judging me.

The fear would build up, and I would start shaking, my heart racing, and sometimes, I'd be hit with a panic attack right there in the middle of class. Some days, just the thought of going to school would send me spiraling, and I'd spend the whole day dreading the panic attack that might come.

That's when I started developing little coping mechanisms. One thing I did was place salt on my tongue when I felt a panic attack coming on. It wasn't a cure, but it helped in the moment—giving me something else to focus on, a small distraction from the overwhelming anxiety.

This experience was similar to what I wrote about in feeling alone while surrounded, that paradoxical feeling of isolation even in a crowd.

Where I Am Now

Right now, my anxiety and social anxiety are at an all-time high. It's a constant pressure in my chest, making it harder and harder to interact with people. I barely talk to anyone anymore outside my family, and even that's limited.

I've withdrawn into myself, keeping everyone at arm's length. It's not that I don't want to connect; it's just that the weight of anxiety makes it feel impossible. Every conversation feels exhausting, and sometimes, I just can't find the energy to push through it.

The more I pull away, the harder it gets to step back into the world. And yet, I know I'm losing something—that part of me that used to enjoy talking to others, being present in the world.

Sometimes I feel like I'm experiencing what I wrote about in the paradox of self-awareness—being too aware of my own anxiety makes it worse, creating a cycle that's hard to break.

On Relationships

I was talking to one of my online friends recently—someone from far away, which somehow makes conversation less intimidating. He started telling me about his girlfriend, about their relationship, and then asked, "Why aren't you in a relationship?"

I didn't know how to answer at first. It's not that I don't want one; it's that the thought of being in one feels overwhelming right now.

If I were in a relationship, I'd have to think about someone else. I'd have to care for not just myself but another person. I'd have to put effort into their feelings, their needs, their life. And when my own anxiety is already a full-time job, that feels impossible.

I'm still trying to figure myself out, still struggling with my own emotions. Adding the weight of a relationship? It's something I can't handle at the moment.

I don't even know if I could be there for someone the way they deserve right now. My anxiety takes up so much space in my head; I don't think I could give the time, energy, or care that someone else would need.

How Anxiety Changed My Connections

Anxiety has transformed how I connect with people. It's not just the panic attacks or the constant fear—it's how it's affected my relationships with everyone around me.

I used to have many friends, or at least I thought I did. Now, I barely talk to anyone. Most of my friends are online, and honestly, I don't even reach out much anymore. The connections I have now are distant compared to before.

There's one friend, though—one person who's really been there for me. He's a classmate, and we've developed a deeper bond over time. He's the only one I can talk to about things that matter, beyond surface-level conversation. He gets it. He understands the struggle, and he's not just someone who listens—he knows what it's like to carry that weight.

He can be cheeky, with this teasing side that people sometimes criticize him for, but I don't see it that way. I see someone who can still laugh and joke despite the tough stuff. What matters most is that he gets me.

Before anxiety took over, I had many friends, or at least I thought I did. But now, my self-consciousness has built this wall I can't break through. I don't feel like I can connect with others the way I once did. My social anxiety has made maintaining normal relationships nearly impossible.

I can't bring myself to call anyone, and honestly, I don't want to. It's easier to stay away, to keep distant. My relationships with family have also deteriorated. I don't talk to most of them anymore. When they call, I don't answer. The connection I once had with them just isn't there.

This reminds me of what I wrote in It-breaking-me, about how sometimes our own minds can become our worst enemies.

Finding Peace in Solitude

When I was younger, I heard a lot about solitude—about being alone—and I never really understood it. It always seemed like something to avoid, like being alone meant you were missing out or that something was wrong.

But now? It's different. I've learned that being alone isn't something to fear or feel ashamed of. In fact, it's one of the best things I've discovered. I actually love finding peace in solitude.

It's like I can finally breathe, finally be myself without external pressures. Sometimes, it's easier to be alone than to be surrounded by others, especially when anxiety gets overwhelming.

Being by myself has solved so many problems—it's where I find peace, clarity, and control. I don't need to explain myself to anyone, don't have to hide my feelings or pretend to be something I'm not. Being alone isn't lonely anymore; it's freedom.

I remember hearing in a movie once, "It's easier to be alone." That really hit me, and I couldn't help but agree. When I was younger, I felt deeply lonely—like I was always missing something, or I wasn't enough.

But now, solitude has become my peace. It's my time, my space, and I don't want anyone to take that from me. It's not that I want to be completely isolated, but being alone doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Alone is alone, but not lonely

I don't want people to change that for me. I don't want anyone telling me I should be out more or that I need to surround myself with people to feel "normal." This is my normal. I don't feel the same kind of loneliness I once did. Instead, I've embraced the quiet and the space, even though others struggle to understand.

People always say, "You need to let others in," but sometimes, it's not that simple. Sometimes, the only thing I need is my own company, and I'm okay with that.

Learning to Live With It

Right now, my anxiety is at its highest. It's been building up, and even though I've learned to live with it, it still feels like a constant battle. It's there every day, sometimes quietly in the background, sometimes loud and overwhelming.

But even though it's tough, I'm trying to manage it in ways I didn't before. I'm not pretending it's gone, or that I've figured it all out, but I'm learning to deal with it, step by step.

There are still moments when I feel like I'm going to break, but I'm not as lost as I once was. I've started finding small things that help—taking time for myself, focusing on things I enjoy, or acknowledging the anxiety without letting it control me.

It's not perfect, and some days are harder than others, but I'm not giving up. I know that managing this, living with it, is going to take time. It's a process of change, and I'm okay with that.

Similar to what I described in how i becoming dev, sometimes the hardest journeys lead to unexpected growth. My path with anxiety has been difficult, but it's also taught me things about myself I might never have learned otherwise.

What I've Learned Along the Way

Through all these years of living with anxiety, I've learned a few things that help me cope:

1. Acceptance over resistance: Fighting anxiety often makes it stronger. Sometimes, acknowledging its presence without judgment helps it lose some power.

2. Small victories matter: On days when just getting out of bed feels impossible, celebrate that victory. Anxiety tries to minimize our achievements—don't let it.

3. Find your anchors: Whether it's a person, a place, or an activity that grounds you, identify what brings you back when anxiety tries to carry you away.

4. Your worth isn't measured by productivity: Anxiety often makes us feel like we're not doing enough. Remember that your value as a person doesn't depend on how much you accomplish.

5. It's okay to retreat sometimes: There's no shame in stepping back when things get overwhelming. Creating boundaries is an act of self-care, not weakness.

I still struggle with these lessons myself. Some days I forget them entirely. But they're there, waiting for me to remember them again when I need them most.

The Continuing Journey

I don't know if anxiety will always be part of my life. Maybe it will fade over time, or maybe I'll just get better at carrying it. Either way, I'm trying to make peace with the fact that this is my reality right now.

The journey with anxiety isn't linear. It's full of setbacks and unexpected breakthroughs. Days when I feel like I've conquered it, followed by days when it conquers me. But as I reflect on change in my life, I've come to see that even the difficult parts of our stories shape who we become.

Perhaps that's the most important thing I'm learning—that anxiety is part of my story, but it's not the whole story. It's one thread in a much larger tapestry. And while that thread is dark and sometimes heavy, it's woven alongside threads of joy, discovery, connection, and growth.

That's what I'm working on, at least. One day at a time.

If you connected with this post, you might also want to read about my experiences with depression, overthinking, and finding solitude. Sometimes knowing we're not alone in our struggles can make them a little easier to bear.