An Open Letter: I Know I'm Being Ridiculous, Thanks

Dear everybody who has ever thought of me as being ridiculous when I’ve shared a worry (and there are plenty of you),

This might be a bit awkward, but I already know.

I appreciate you telling me (I appreciate you not telling me even more), but I already know that I’m being ridiculous or that my anxiety is totally illogical. I also know that it’s probably the most annoying aspect of anxiety.

It’s not the feeling of being trapped behind a big glass wall, with everyone else I could interact with on one side and me on the other. It’s not the feeling that flushes through my body and makes my limbs tremble and voice throttle when the phone rings. It’s not even the way I know I’ve limited my own existence just to avoid the feeling of panic.

It’s that I know and acknowledge the magnitude of my ridiculousness – and yet, I remain totally powerless in the face of it.

I know that there’s no reason to worry when my dad asks me to pop into the tourist information centre for some – you guessed it – tourist information ahead of my parents visiting Cardiff. The woman in there (she’s lovely, and is probably called Karen or Sue) is employed for this very reason. But what if she doesn’t have the information I need? Or she berates me for coming to her instead of Google? Well then I’ll respond in this way, or I’ll say this, or I’ll pick one of the other hundred-and-eighty solutions my brain has already concocted for what-ifs which will likely never arise.

I know that’s ridiculous, but frustratingly, there’s nothing I can do about it. My brain and my body separate in the moment of anxiety. One begins to physically panic – a churning stomach, quivering fingers, a shaky voice – and the other starts to consider everything that could go wrong, using up all available brainpower to construct entire scenarios. It’s ridiculous, and so very exhausting.

On a longer-term basis, the ridiculousness also makes things so much worse. The problem – the anxiety and my reaction to it – is so abstract, that it’s hard to create a concrete solution. I’ve tried breathing and taking herbal remedies and practising mindfulness, but the problem is better-suited to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland than our black-and-white reality, and such grounded solutions have no gravity in this kind of world.

But recognising ridiculous is also my superpower. When I notice it, it gives a little voice – one that’s usually cowed and silenced by the panicked ravings of mind and body – the strength to speak up and say “hey, you’re over-thinking again”.

In future, if I’m being anxious – or somebody else you know is being anxious – and you think they’re being ridiculous, just remember, before you say anything, that they probably already know they’re being ridiculous – and there’s nothing they can do about it. So just be there for them instead, and show the world a little love.