Anxiety: The Subconscious's Wingman

I sat in a doctor’s office for an eternity. It may have been closer to thirty minutes. My gears were still turning from the rush it had taken to arrive in that lifeless room before nine o’clock in the morning. My tired eyes had squinted against the bright sunlight pouring through my windshield on the way over. I lost another staring contest to the morning sun. The radio played generic music softly in the background, sinking it into me unconsciously—but more on that in a little while.

The children sat on me or near me, patiently idle. The lifeless room demands such behavior. A little spurt of negativity came to the forefront of my mind, out of nowhere. I felt anxious for a moment, I took a breath. Hormones. Seven weeks have passed since I weaned my daughter, and I still sometimes get the little hormone shifts. Weaning is the conclusion of postpartum hormone problems, only put off until a random time long after birth when it seems like it should be irrelevant. Similar to so many pharmaceutical drugs, the magic hormone elixir that makes lactation possible doesn’t seem to care about the side effects. Sometimes, that hormone elixir makes the woman a little uncomfortable.

The little burst of anxiety passed within thirty seconds. Therein was the pivotal moment that decides whether a human will be tormented by the anxiety, or simply move on. Will you let that momentary sensation of doom upset you so that you dwell on it, fearing its return? Or, are you going to remember it is just hormones.

I remembered it was just hormones.

It just so happens the doctor’s office is on the island. We were six blocks from the beach—no sense in driving back home. We walked barefoot across sand not yet scalding. We stood next to the pier that looked like a big old giant with ugly rusted feet. The waves were small and lazy, crashing as gently as possible against a shell-less beach. I stared at the water and the words “oblivion is all you crave” popped into my head. This is a clip of lyrics from a silly ‘80’s pop song that was on the radio earlier. One silly line, but my subconscious hung onto it and threw it forth at the right moment. Staring at the ocean, into oblivion, was the relaxation I needed.

I’m a big believer in the subconscious holding onto lots of handy knowledge that the wakeful mind does not have access to. I often find wisdom in my dreams. The subconscious carries around all our problems and our answers, waiting to be heard. Anxiety is the wing-man of the subconscious, and she enjoys a good game. Anxiety is an opportunist. She waits in silence with all your fears—ones you don’t even actively acknowledge. Then when the moment is right—maybe your hormones are weird, maybe you are going through a drastic life change—she throws all that dirty laundry into the conscious mind. Deal with this, anxiety laughs sadistically. No, really—deal with this, calmly says that stoic subconscious.

We walked into the waves. Cool water instantly neutralized the increasing discomfort of that bright sunlight, beckoning for another staring contest that I will never win. I held onto little hands and enjoyed the moment. Waves crashed around us, sea foam splashed upward onto little faces, sand shifted to unsteady us—all the loving nudges of the ocean. Then another short line of a song from the radio popped into my head. “We are children…”

I know why the subconscious hung onto that one. Anxiety tried to throw it in my face earlier. Fear of failure. Fear of letting down the most important ones. Fear.

So what do you do with fear? You stare it in the face. You write a blog post about it. You throw it into oblivion and let the ocean have it. You deal with it just like anxiety—It is just fear. Let it pass. We just deal. I guess that is what makes us not children.

It was time to go home. Lost in thought, I handed my toddler her brother’s shoes to put on.
“Where is my head?” I said absentmindedly.
“Here, Mama.” The tot pointed upward to my skull that I’ve covered over with hair and a baseball cap.

Sweet, straightforward children—when the mind and the subconscious are still speaking openly.