The Anxious Mantra
So stupid. So, so stupid.
I hate myself.
I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry.
When I talk about the track that plays in my head when I'm anxious, more people these days seem to get it. In some ways, it's comforting because I feel seen and understood. In other ways, it's horrifying. I should not be so quickly understood. That I am just means the problem is spreading.
I remember when I legitimately believed these statements about myself. I thought I was stupid because I couldn't understand higher math without herculean struggle and had similar disinterest and trouble grasping the sciences. Likewise, I chalked up my disinterest in non-fiction to the idea that since I wasn't understanding or enjoying the non-fiction I tried once in a blue moon, it was because I was stupid. It took until my mid-twenties to realize how much intelligence it takes to compose a rhyming, metered poem on the fly, something my sisters and I would sometimes do together for fun. It took until my late twenties to realize I absorbed non-fiction better through my ears than my eyes, and that some writers are simply more interesting--and more comprehensible--than others.
By that time I'd also shed most of the true self-hatred. I had changed much in my life that was unsatisfactory and had come to terms with most of the things I couldn't change. I did not actually hate myself anymore, in fact I wished I could have myself as a friend and tried to act in line with that idea.
And yet...
It comes when I do something I perceive to be "wrong". It may be an objectively innocuous act or legitimately bad and damaging, but in either case the reaction is the same. My heart rate will kick up. My chest squeezes my breaths short. It should come out of my mouth as, "I'm feeling anxious because I think I just messed up. I need to sit down and assess this to see if I really did mess up and release it if I didn't, and fix it if I did." Instead, it is, "I'm so stupid. I hate myself," with the silent corollary, "I'm such a bad person."
It's a mantra born out of anxiety and it has never stopped. Because it exists so deep in my head, it's only a matter of time before it comes out of my mouth.
Now, in my early thirties, I can measure whether I stop my mouth by the amount of emotional buffer I have in a day. If I'm well-rested, if things have gone well recently, if I'm fairly secure in myself, if I'm not in the middle of a downswing, then I can turn "So stupid" into "Sssssstoppit." I can turn, "I hate myself" into "I don't hate myself." Maybe I can even stop long enough to access Rational Dusty in my brain and assess if the situation got blown out of all proportion so I can let it go.
But if the stress has piled on, if I'm already hurting, if I had an insomnia night and I just screwed up for the fifth time this week? Asking me not to say the anxiety mantra is like... well, like asking Tarzan to win this fight.
The beating that you are watching is what it feels like inside my brain when the sickness is screaming at me about how terrible I am. It's painful. It's decisive. It's nearly impossible to turn the tables.
People trying to express this aspect of mental illness seems to be cropping up more and more. My favorite fantasy webnovel has a notable excerpt that shows this by contrasting two minds.
Situation recap for this scene: One of the lords of a proud city called Salazsar is overlooking the city from one of its many impressive towers. These are the sort of towers constructed floor by floor over the generations, so it gets pretty high for a fantasy world. This Wall Lord, Ilvriss, is standing at the top with a very high-ranking Adventurer (think professional monster-slayer and ruins-searcher, some of whom can be personally hired) who calls herself Shriekblade. She seems to only come alive when she's killing monsters (or assigned targets) and is known to overdose on Potions of Calm or Mind Blank Scrolls so she can take commands better. Here, we get to see a moment when Shriekblade tips her hand.
To calm himself, {Ilvriss} took a few steps away and stood at the end of the training grounds. You could look almost entirely straight down, until the tower widened and you saw more expansions below. A pool of water, in this case.
The enchantments, as noted, saved people from falling. Every tower had them—but there were always accidents. Drakes falling and bouncing off the tower and…well, you either learned how to deal with, enjoy heights, or you didn’t live in Salazsar. Ilvriss stared down at his city below. So far down. The people like small insects, millions moving around, going about their lives, doing good work. A city he was proud of, that was his home. That he loved and would defend…
“Jump. Kill yourself.”
Someone whispered behind him. Ilvriss did not jump. He slowly turned his head.
“Adventurer. What did you just say to me?”
Shriekblade looked around, blankly. And he realized—she hadn’t been talking to him. The Wall Lord’s imminent wrath hesitated.
“Hm? Oh. Don’t you feel like jumping?”
He stared at her. Then down below.
“No. What are you thinking of? You mean the enchantments?”
“No. I forgot this place has them. And there’s a pool so you wouldn’t die. Here’s probably better. You jump from here and—bam. You’re dead.”
She walked around to the side. Ilvriss stared at her back. She tilted her head down.
“Don’t you feel like it, when you stand up here?”
“No.”
The young adventuress turned to him.
“You don’t hear a voice in your head telling you to do that?”
“No. You…hear a voice?”
She shrugged.
“It’s just me. {The healer} says it’s my problem. You really don’t ever hear it? A little voice saying—‘kill yourself’? All the time?”
Ilvriss stared down over the edge of the training grounds. Well, now he did. He looked at her.
“I do not. Is this why y—”
“Well, I guess it’s just me, then. Sorry I broke your Master’s arm. Sorry I’m here.”
--The Wandering Inn by Pirateba, excerpted from chapter 8.05
Clearly there are other anxious mantras, and "I'm so stupid," is one of the lighter ones.
Forgive the abrupt ending, but I don't have an answer for this one yet. I don't have a solution. I don't even know exactly where in my brain this is broken, and forcing myself to say a different thing only seems to work on the days when I have enough emotional buffer spend on my internal defenses for the day. Being aware that this is a damaging lie seems to be an entirely separate part of the brain from changing the behavior. Forcing myself to say something different has not yet born permanent results, though I've been trying for a few years.
But many things have healed in my life that I didn't expect would ever change. God has been working in my life, and I hold onto hope for healing in this as He leads me forward.