When the demon has you.

I’ve just been through a couple of months of feeling unable to put fingers to keyboard and produce much work that I liked. So I paused payments from you, my dear subscribers, and just kept moving. I knew I’d write to you again when there was space for the words to come back. I was doing OK, sometimes actually having a ball, but also…

Well, I couldn’t even find words to describe how I’ve been travelling until now. I’ve been in foreign parts.

Physically, I’ve been spinning around sprawling, vibrating cities and speeding awe-struck through the thin air of vast, lonely mountains, red deserts and endless prairies. The wonder was bountiful, breathless, utterly over-whelming.

Despite loving the journey, my nervous system was often white-knuckling it in the background of my awe, raw, exposed and hyper-vigilant. Repeatedly, I assured myself of my safety and my countless blessings, attempted soothing myself, whispering to my ragged brain,

“You’re OK, everything’s great.”

Different things ease it, to different degrees, at different times.

I know my anxiety demon, looming, non-verbal and terrifyingly familiar even when it rises up in a new guise. I understand that it was born before I had words, because it still has no words.

It’s primitive, and drags me, kicking and clawing for handholds, back into ancient, dumb, dizzying fear places. It doesn’t have its old power to plummet me into the spiralling maze of panic anymore, but it still puts up a good fight.

I’ve come to relative stillness in a small Brazilian city for a few weeks, and my nervous system has now allowed space for my words again. Our nerves prefer having things unpacked and orderly, a sense of home where they can stretch out on the sofa.

Because I’m a long-time therapist (prior to becoming a writer), there’s a feeling in me that I’m not allowed to admit this vulnerability and imperfection to you. I should keep my anxiety cat firmly in its dirty old bag, or maybe I’m a failure at my job.

It’s OK if you think that, although I don’t believe it to be true. I’d rather be open these days than hide to maintain a company line.

Perhaps I’m a better person and therapist because anxiety is not just my work. It’s a lived experience too. I’ve stared down, punched on, danced with, kissed, and shaken hands with my anxiety demon as many times as I’ve had hot coffees.

My anxiety is a part of me. It doesn’t die. It isn’t really meant to.

So here I remain, a vulnerable, imperfect traveller, making my true confessions to you, trying to connect, hoping to say things worth saying, grateful to get my words back again after a break.

Love to you,