My Ingredients for Anxiety
an emotional lasagna.
The first layer starts with, “You worry too much.” That phrase has been said to me from the time I started forming memories. I was known as the worrier in my family. I was sometimes the last to know about any crisis or potential problem in my family for fear that I would become too emotional. It’s not like no one else in my family had anxiety, I was just the one living it out loud.
I grew up with love and care but not stability. I could count on my parents to make sure I was taken care of. I could count on my brothers to make sure no one harmed me. I could not count on whether or not we would have to stretch out already thin groceries for another week or more. I could not count on whether I would walk up to our apartment door barren or with an eviction notice on it. I could not count on whether my parents would be happily reunited after days of my dad trucking on the road, or if they would be fighting over the inability to make ends meet. I could not count on whether I would get to go on field trips at school if there was a fee involved. Dentist appointments were available for cleanings and fillings but something like braces were out of the question. When you have to choose between food on the table or straightening teeth, crooked teeth that could just as easily eat said food…you leave them crooked. Wasn’t great for my self-esteem but definitely easy on the pocketbook. Thank God for elixirs, home remedies and good ol’ Chris Rock’s comedy worthy “Tussin,” because doctor appointments were for vaccines and serious ailments. There was no” It’s probably nothing but let’s take you in just in case” type of appointments. I think you get the picture.
I would live for the days when my mom would say, “Get dressed and get in the car,” and we would end up at some place like the movies, the state fair or the zoo! These trips were sacred to me because I knew the value of what it cost my mom to take my brothers and I there. I knew the road hours it cost my dad to contribute to these outings. In fact, it may be why I love movies, fairs and zoos to this day.
On paper, that time in my life may look typical for a lower middle-class-two-paycheck home but we weren’t a typical lower middle-class family. We were a black middle-class family. At some point I went from a talkative, social, crooked-toothed girl to a “you talk like a white person” buck-toothed black girl and boy does that add a lot of flavor to layer two. This is the time where differences go from being explorative to weapons of caste racial construction. The texture of my hair and products to tame it (products to hide it, rather) became a frequent topic of conversation amongst my white peers. The casual jokes about black people avoiding swimming and water activities related to fear and once again…hair. The stares during American history anytime slavery was mentioned as if to say, “We’re talking about your people now. Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” When all I really wanted to say was, “We’re actually talking about YOUR people now and I don’t think you’re uncomfortable enough!” But by then I had learned all the black rules of safety: just walk away from racial ignorance, be the bigger person, always be polite and respectful, stand up for yourself but not in an aggressive way, watch what you say and how you say it. Pepper in some realities of having to work harder to be taken seriously and to be treated fairly because you’re a girl, with a heavy dose of saltiness when those facts triple because you’re a black one. So I had to learn to work my ass off, be damn near perfect at everything, not to be competitive or get ahead, just to be factored in at all, under the societal constraints of : Be bold and big but not in a way that draws attention, be proud of who you are but keep it to yourself. In other words, “Walk quietly but with a loud burden.”
Both of my parents were pro college, especially my father. Being a truck driver and seeing the world through his lens, higher education was the key to getting somewhere in life. What a complicated third layer that turned out to be. By this time I was a full on theatre nerd and proud of it. I walked in nervous but excited to step into an environment that touted itself to be diverse, rigorous, a stepping stone to the career of my dreams. Turns out it was the same shit with an added bonus of a personal deficit….and it cost a lot too (ba-domp-bomp). In addition to grasping higher math concepts, dissecting poetry, creating stage designs, discovering actual African history, I learned that black actors were only lead worthy if the show was written by a black author. Every single character in the show had to be black, otherwise we were more fillers of quotas. Let me not leave out the discovery that though I wasn’t lead material, I was perfect if you were fighting a cause. Oh, if you wanted to bring attention to a problem or inequities, I was your girl. Everyone loved my, “not afraid to call out bullshit” attitude or my willingness to protect other people who were being mistreated. It was not well received if I stood up for myself. Turns out that’s kind of the case for black women (see recent Texas vote for definition). This layer also had a bit more spice to it with the due diligence of preventing rape and pregnancy, all the responsibility of the female, obviously. By the time I left college, I was more deflated and anxious.
Now i’m in adulthood, the juiciest layer of them all. I have added wife and mom to my anxiety ridden body. I’m trying to raise a daughter without as much constraints as I had yet trying to navigate the ones she will have no matter what. The minute my son came out of my body both my husband and I experienced tremendous joy and immediate caution. It matters not that my children are equally black/white because the melanin in their skin takes precedence. Even the complexities of their particular color of melanin is a bonus layer that requires its own blog. On one hand it affords them ways of moving that I will never know and on the other hand leaves them unprotected by shady laws and shadier adults with unchecked anger and rights to bare arms. My husband wants so desperately to take my anxiety away. As a white male, he is coming to the realization that he never will be able to. He can only try his best not to contribute to it and not to dismiss or trivialize it.
I used to think there was something inherently wrong with me. I wanted so desperately to be care-free; to even carry a little rebellion with me but I’ve never been able to do it. It didn’t help having people constantly gaslighting me about my experience as a minority, acting like America’s dystopian past isn’t right here with us in the present. The George Floyds, the Trayvons, the Breonnas, and the now countless others who begat others are “flukes.” When really they are reasons I meditate, I dive into books like, “Stamped from the Beginning,” I dance, I exercise constantly, I perform, I take Gamma-amminobutyric acid, all to quiet the noise and constant hyper-viligance it takes to just be. If you think that sounds exhausting, it is.
No matter how much I’ve tried to keep it in check both of my kids are grappling with anxiety in their own ways. There are days where I make myself wrong for that. But I think about something one of my bonus brothers said to my daughter last year. He said, “It’s okay that you have a little anxiety. We all do over one thing or another. Sure, you may have inherited some from your mom but you have to understand it’s not her fault. We will never understand the weight she carries to be a black woman particularly in this country. What she has to do to protect you and herself, my God. If she didn’t have anxiety, it would be a miracle.” I can’t tell you what that tiny bit of recognition did for me.
I have to extend grace to myself. We talk openly and freely about anxiety in our house to strip away any shame or heaviness around it. I haven’t reached the level of taking up huge amounts of space yet but at least I’m no longer apologetic for the space I do occupy. That is still a defiance. I know my body and mind deserve a break but for now I’ll keep building these interesting layers of life. If I don’t and 2026 continues on its rageful path, I’ll be cooked.
**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in any way that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.