Om.

I have anxiety.

Sometimes it's better. Sometimes it's worse. But it's always there. More and more lately, it seems to take over what I am doing at the most inopportune times. And it always drops in to say hello when things get chaotic.

There are times when my anxiety is social in nature (like at those big parties where I know some people but not others), and times when my anxiety is directly related to all that I feel that I have to do to feel calm again (Dry my hair. Fold the laundry. Write a thank you note.) Anxiety has the ability to make things that may seem small to others-like returning a phone call-feel really big to me. I don't feel anxious because I don't have confidence that I can do the things that need to be done. I feel anxious because even a small task gets added into the bucket of all tasks. I have a hard time differentiating which should take priority. All things on my things-to-do list feel big.

I have recently noticed that the sense with the ability to send me spiraling into a frenzy is that of sound. When there is too much noise, I start feeling anxious. If, say, the news is on in the kitchen and Tim is listening to music and the kids are playing loudly, I feel the need to put my hands over my ears. I have been known to turn down the volume on the television in other people's homes. Not because I am trying to demonstrate my dislike of T.V., but because I know that turning down the sound is directly proportionate to turning down my anxiety.

My battle with anxiety kicked into gear after Zach was born and the baby monitor found its permanent place on my night table. I don't know about you other mothers out there, but when both of my children were babies, I was able to identify and hear a distinct change in their breathing that would signal to me that soon, soon, they would be awake. And if they were awake, that meant I would have to be awake too. And I didn't want to be awake. I was tired. So, that thought of the change in breathing caused me anxiety.

I hope I haven't lost you non-anxiety sufferers here.

In other words, just the thought of that change in breath, the thought of that sound, made my heart beat faster. I am willing to bet that if you hooked me up to a heart monitor, you could track the physical changes. The sound, the experience itself, doesn't even need to be occurring. Simply the memory of the experience can cause an attack.

Sure, there are lots of things that make me anxious and there are lots of things that I do to mask it. Take, for example, the fact that I do not use my hands for the first few minutes after arriving somewhere or doing something important. That means not holding a drink or a plate of food when I first arrive at a party. Even if I am not afraid-anxious and I am just excited-anxious, my hands are a sure tell. They shake. Uncontrollably. At my most recent job interview, (a few years back) I had to keep them folded in my lap and stall for time instead of handing out the lesson plan I had brought to share because I knew that my hands would tremble as I distributed the papers to the panel of interviewers. I didn't want to give myself away.

With the realization that I need to soon do something to help me better cope with feeling anxious (something other than cleaning or writing) I have been repeating a little phrase to myself every so often: Stop. Breathe. Listen.

This is something I tell my son to do all of the time. Something I tell my daughter to do-though she might still be too young to understand. I liken it to the cliched phrase of taking time to stop and smell the roses. I am trying so hard to slow down.

This evening as Tim and I were cleaning up after dinner I focused on the sounds around me. I heard my children laughing, then screaming, then laughing again. Zachary said to Zoe, "Come on, you can try to hold the broom!" Arrow made a weird moaning sound as he stretched out in front of the fireplace. The dishes made that clank (that always makes me feel happy) as they were placed in the dishwasher.

That dishwasher dish clatter noise has the power to whisk me back to laying in my childhood bed and listening to my mother in the kitchen. It's a good noise. A safe noise. It's as good as the return of the peepers to our stream in the spring. As good as my fingers clicking on this keyboard. As the sound of my ceiling fan turning.

Sounds are closely linked to memory. I often set a scene in my home by setting the sound. Try to think of what I am doing as being akin to selecting a playlist for a party. You probably don't want to get things bumpin' by queing up some Enya. It's kind of like that for me. I purposely work to create an environment that is audibly friendly. I don't necessarily try to control what happens. I just try to shape it.

Humor me for a minute and stir up some happy childhood memories of your own.
Go to that moment.

You there?

Good. Now, listen to what's going on. Dial in on it and really focus.

Are adults speaking loudly and laughing? Is the Charlie Brown Christmas Special on T.V.? Do you hear the ice cream truck? Crickets? Dogs barking? What is happening around you? What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel?

Chances are, if the memory is good, then the sounds that go along with it still have the ability to make you feel great. Maybe I could argue that it starts in the womb with the shuuush shuuush of our mother's heartbeat. We try to reproduce that environment to calm our infants. We rock and shhhh. We place white noise makers in the baby's rooms. We employ fans. Play soft music.

Most of us know that if we want a calm baby, we need to set a calm scene.*

*I am not saying that it should be quiet every time your child needs to sleep. Conversely, making sure you don't create a hushed house will most likely make your kiddo a better sleeper because they won't need silence to drift off. I'm also not for a moment claiming to be Weissbluth or Sears. 

I'm just saying, for me (and therefore, for my family), a little zen goes a long way.