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The anxiety can take one of various paths: it can build up slowly from a trickle, formed by a distant, worrisome thought I had in the morning and quickly brushed aside; this trickle may remain a trickle, but it may also go into a crescendo as a million minor grievances accumulate throughout the day; finally, it can come in full force, suddenly, a flash flood of hormones inundating the body with dozens of simultaneous sensations.
In this metaphor, anxiety is like a river, a straight current that is sometimes shallow and tamed, others fast and treacherous. I have learned its contours and little grooves, the deeper parts where I can easily drown, the shallower waters where I can find my footing or hold on to a branch and quickly find my way out.
One can never really tell when the current will come in. It cannot be predicted, only planned for. Like its distant cousin grief, anxiety needs no trigger points. It can come on suddenly while you’re sitting on the couch, pleasantly having lunch, or it can be waiting by your bedside to hold your hand from the second you wake up.
Depending on the flavor, I reach for my built-in structures. Anxiety is so familiar now, it is part of the landscape, and often even fades to become a distant hum in the background.
Sometimes I perform yoga stretches in the morning. Yoga, as I have come to…