This year was supposed to be different from before. After discovering my life's calling as an elementary music teacher a couple of years ago and floundering through a similar-but-not-quite-right middle school position last year, I landed myself in an elementary music teaching job again this year, and I thought I was set. But my new position brought some unique challenges - teaching part-time, in three buildings, on a cart (bringing my music materials into students' regular classrooms instead of them coming to see me in a music classroom) - all of which were perfectly primed triggers for my Social Anxiety Disorder. Lack of my own space both at school and at home (where my living situation changed last summer) has meant that I struggle to find time apart from situations where anxiety brain tells me the other people in the room (or who take ownership of the room in some way) are always watching, always judging, always thinking that I'm in the way. Wearing a mask of perfection as I've struggled to find sanctuary in spaces and situations where I don't have to work to manage my anxiety is exhausting, and that exhaustion leads to more-easily triggered anxiety - it's been a vicious cycle. And through the school year, I've gradually fallen apart, becoming a fairly dysfunctional human being.
And then I get mad at myself - because this isn't supposed to be me. Because the adults around me through all the years I was growing up expected to see nothing but greatness and success from me as I became an adult myself. Because when my anxiety was at its worst a few years ago, I took a 7-month medical leave to get myself back on track enough to manage to fake being a "normal" person out in the real world. Because after being non-renewed for the 5th time in my 6-year teaching career across 4 different districts, I had to start assuming that there was something wrong with me. Because when I look at my teaching friends and mentors who also deal with anxiety, they seem to be managing it well enough to thrive while I can barely function.
Unable to find a positive thought about much anything, and knowing how much most people hate being stuck around someone who's negative, I began to isolate myself. It feels easier and less painful to take myself out of social situations than to have people desert me when they get sick of my inability to pull my life together. While logic brain told me that isolation was unhealthy, and I felt incredibly lonely, isolation was the only way I had figured out how to cope.
Except it turns out that it's pretty hard to completely isolate yourself in the weeks and days leading up to performances of a show - especially when you're a member of the show choir, danceline, and board for said variety show. I was looking forward to the performances. I was dreading the time around so many people, so many watching eyes, so many opportunities to judge me (I literally had a panic attack the night before our first dress rehearsal because the wrinkles in my danceline dress weren't coming out, and I didn't want to get in trouble my first year in danceline). And then I got to dress rehearsals, and performance adrenaline kicked in, and it turns out that said performance adrenaline is really good at overpowering anxiety brain - and suddenly I decided that these people were important to me and I wanted to be better connected with them. So I went home and sent a couple of Facebook friend requests that I knew I'd never be brave enough to make if I didn't do it right then (because most of the time, anxiety brain is really good at saying, "Heidi, even though you like, respect, and value those people, you are nowhere near cool enough to talk with them much less be the person who initiates a Facebook friend request").
After that, the rest of the dominoes started falling. This is my third year in the show, and I'm pretty sure that this year I've been more social during show week than in my previous two years combined (and those years we even had two weekends of shows over this year's one). I get bored if I'm not socializing in the times that I'm not required to be onstage or in the wings just offstage. And I went out with the cast after each of our first three shows - staying multiple hours each time. There have been moments of anxiety, but I've managed to push through each one. And I've acquired over 10 new Facebook friends (or so Facebook informs me) both from requests that others have sent and ones that I've sent myself. In an even bigger leap, I've continued to post about my anxiety struggles and triumphs with only minimal hesitation, versus my usual month or two hiatus from personal mental health posts after acquiring new Facebook friends.
Last night at our post-show gathering, after switching tables (which, for possibly the first time ever, I did because I wanted to chat with people I hadn't talked with rather than because I'd been deserted by everyone else at my table), I found myself in a brief moment of reflection where I realized what I've accomplished this week. In that moment, I realized that I was sitting in a small room crowded with 70 people (or so I was told), and I felt zero anxiety. That I'd had a hard time choosing a table both times I was looking for one that night because there were multiple options of people I wanted to chat with and knew I'd be welcome spending time with. That sitting and spending time with these people, I felt completely relaxed. That on more than one occasion that evening I'd shared my thoughts and opinions without any hesitation. That the previous evening when a castmate encouraged, "You do you, Heidi!" I'd never considered doing anything else. That I trusted my relationships with these people enough to be able to throw playful jabs their way without worrying that they'd forever hate me for it. That I'd come to value the hugs and handshakes choreographed into one of our numbers not just for their performance value but for the comradery that they represent with my castmates. And in that moment, I realized that I'd come up with a word for just such a group of people just last summer with my choir friends: family. I've spent most of my adult life building walls up around myself, fearing that if I let people in they'd discover what a mess I am and run away. But now for the second time in under a year, I've managed to integrate myself into a chosen family of people I trust enough to share all of me.
In that moment, I realized that as frustrated as I've been lately with my inability to manage my anxiety levels well enough to function at a normal adult level, I am making progress. This is what progress looks like. I don't have to track my progress by how long it's been since my last panic attack, by whether I convinced myself to eat real food today, by whether I got my dog out for a walk rather than a brief stop outside on the front lawn, etc. The bigger progress is in finding the courage to let people in. In taking the risk of being vulnerable enough to build friendships where I can share all of me without fear of abandonment. In sending a couple of friend requests and watching the dominoes fall from there.
I'm not there yet in my professional life, and I'll keep working toward that. Today I choose to celebrate the progress I've made and hope to continue making as I work to extend new friendships beyond our current performance season. I choose to celebrate that after a rough day at work yesterday, I found joy and comfort in coming together with my newly-discovered family. I am making progress, and for today, that is enough.
And then I get mad at myself - because this isn't supposed to be me. Because the adults around me through all the years I was growing up expected to see nothing but greatness and success from me as I became an adult myself. Because when my anxiety was at its worst a few years ago, I took a 7-month medical leave to get myself back on track enough to manage to fake being a "normal" person out in the real world. Because after being non-renewed for the 5th time in my 6-year teaching career across 4 different districts, I had to start assuming that there was something wrong with me. Because when I look at my teaching friends and mentors who also deal with anxiety, they seem to be managing it well enough to thrive while I can barely function.
Unable to find a positive thought about much anything, and knowing how much most people hate being stuck around someone who's negative, I began to isolate myself. It feels easier and less painful to take myself out of social situations than to have people desert me when they get sick of my inability to pull my life together. While logic brain told me that isolation was unhealthy, and I felt incredibly lonely, isolation was the only way I had figured out how to cope.
Except it turns out that it's pretty hard to completely isolate yourself in the weeks and days leading up to performances of a show - especially when you're a member of the show choir, danceline, and board for said variety show. I was looking forward to the performances. I was dreading the time around so many people, so many watching eyes, so many opportunities to judge me (I literally had a panic attack the night before our first dress rehearsal because the wrinkles in my danceline dress weren't coming out, and I didn't want to get in trouble my first year in danceline). And then I got to dress rehearsals, and performance adrenaline kicked in, and it turns out that said performance adrenaline is really good at overpowering anxiety brain - and suddenly I decided that these people were important to me and I wanted to be better connected with them. So I went home and sent a couple of Facebook friend requests that I knew I'd never be brave enough to make if I didn't do it right then (because most of the time, anxiety brain is really good at saying, "Heidi, even though you like, respect, and value those people, you are nowhere near cool enough to talk with them much less be the person who initiates a Facebook friend request").
After that, the rest of the dominoes started falling. This is my third year in the show, and I'm pretty sure that this year I've been more social during show week than in my previous two years combined (and those years we even had two weekends of shows over this year's one). I get bored if I'm not socializing in the times that I'm not required to be onstage or in the wings just offstage. And I went out with the cast after each of our first three shows - staying multiple hours each time. There have been moments of anxiety, but I've managed to push through each one. And I've acquired over 10 new Facebook friends (or so Facebook informs me) both from requests that others have sent and ones that I've sent myself. In an even bigger leap, I've continued to post about my anxiety struggles and triumphs with only minimal hesitation, versus my usual month or two hiatus from personal mental health posts after acquiring new Facebook friends.
Last night at our post-show gathering, after switching tables (which, for possibly the first time ever, I did because I wanted to chat with people I hadn't talked with rather than because I'd been deserted by everyone else at my table), I found myself in a brief moment of reflection where I realized what I've accomplished this week. In that moment, I realized that I was sitting in a small room crowded with 70 people (or so I was told), and I felt zero anxiety. That I'd had a hard time choosing a table both times I was looking for one that night because there were multiple options of people I wanted to chat with and knew I'd be welcome spending time with. That sitting and spending time with these people, I felt completely relaxed. That on more than one occasion that evening I'd shared my thoughts and opinions without any hesitation. That the previous evening when a castmate encouraged, "You do you, Heidi!" I'd never considered doing anything else. That I trusted my relationships with these people enough to be able to throw playful jabs their way without worrying that they'd forever hate me for it. That I'd come to value the hugs and handshakes choreographed into one of our numbers not just for their performance value but for the comradery that they represent with my castmates. And in that moment, I realized that I'd come up with a word for just such a group of people just last summer with my choir friends: family. I've spent most of my adult life building walls up around myself, fearing that if I let people in they'd discover what a mess I am and run away. But now for the second time in under a year, I've managed to integrate myself into a chosen family of people I trust enough to share all of me.
In that moment, I realized that as frustrated as I've been lately with my inability to manage my anxiety levels well enough to function at a normal adult level, I am making progress. This is what progress looks like. I don't have to track my progress by how long it's been since my last panic attack, by whether I convinced myself to eat real food today, by whether I got my dog out for a walk rather than a brief stop outside on the front lawn, etc. The bigger progress is in finding the courage to let people in. In taking the risk of being vulnerable enough to build friendships where I can share all of me without fear of abandonment. In sending a couple of friend requests and watching the dominoes fall from there.
I'm not there yet in my professional life, and I'll keep working toward that. Today I choose to celebrate the progress I've made and hope to continue making as I work to extend new friendships beyond our current performance season. I choose to celebrate that after a rough day at work yesterday, I found joy and comfort in coming together with my newly-discovered family. I am making progress, and for today, that is enough.
Great success, not so young Padawan! You have taken a step into a larger world!
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