Living With Fear

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Image via Flickr by frankieleon.

The subway is cold and sparsely populated—ideal travel conditions—but I am still clawing at my keychain, struggling to unscrew the small cylinder that holds the chalky white pills that keep my heart from exploding. My throat’s already closing up, head so light it may actually float off my shoulders. I imagine it bobbing against the top of the subway car like a balloon. No one will probably even notice. This is, mercifully, New York City.

The attacks have assaulted me since I was a kid, wriggling out of car seats and pews and classroom chairs. Escape, in the beginning, is found atop a toilet, in the private cell of countless bathroom stalls in gas stations and church basements and school hallways, muffling gasps and tears until the waves of panic finally cease. The bathroom stall is safe because four walls protect me from anyone discovering my secret. Skillful at muting sobs in the cups of loosely clenched fists, I practice variations of the same lie: not feeling well, something I ate, a stomach bug; a migraine.

By the time I am in college, the attacks prohibit me from driving more than twenty minutes without pulling over to call 911. By the time the paramedics come, I am a mess of relief, all sloppy smiles and droopy arms. The blood pressure cuff feels like a cozy blanket. Once again, I am secure.

For a long time, I thought the attacks would go away, and sometimes they did—for years. But through some mysterious mix of genetic wiring and the slightest trigger: lack of sleep or food or a simple off day, they have, at times, left me incapacitated. It wasn’t until I stopped fearing them that I learned to live with a mind that can grow volatile, even uncontrollable, because I know, eventually, the danger will pass.

During my last spate of anxiety, I found myself writing a lot. Creativity was an escape from the fear I had of my anxiety, and by proxy, myself. But creativity itself takes courage, whether confronting the darkest parts of a mind unraveling or submitting, ironically, a piece on the empowerment of making the first move in relationships.

The more I accepted my anxiety, the easier life became. Instead of reaching for my antianxiety medication, I dug inward. After Googling “breathing exercises,” I found extensive research on “belly breathing:” deep breathing from the diaphragm. I bought a yoga mat and began regular sessions stretching while maintaining close awareness of my breath. At the gym I practiced my own version of cardio: a “soft” workout involving low intensity biking while listening to classical music. For the first time, old goals—writing more for the public purview, visiting more with friends—became possible again. By managing my anxiety in a unique, personal way, I reclaimed my old self.

My creativity is not yours. There is no correct path to becoming creative because, as humans, it is already an innate part of us. Breathe into it, accept it. Celebrate it. Most of all, accept the fear that comes with a life worthy of participation, a life bursting with possibilities—if you allow it.

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D.T. Griffith

Motivation has been on my mind lately, due in large part to reading Daniel Pink’s Drive, which I recommend everyone to check out. So I’m looking at how it relates to what I do as a writer and how I can write about its existence in a professional setting. And I continue to wrestle with it.

Then I had the brainstorm when fear motivates us. What could possibly be good about a negative motivator? Are there exceptions to the rules of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation? As I felt the need for my bones to rip out of my skin in pondering this, an epiphany struck me – I’m fighting through motivational issues right now as I type these words. Feeling unmotivated to write about motivation. Not good.

Returning to my earlier question about fear motivating us in a positive way – sure, in that no one wants to…

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The boss scare factor

D.T. Griffith

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Scare Factory

Consider your workplace. Do you feel confident in your ability to speak honestly with your boss or coworkers? Are you forced to walk barefoot on a wide plank wood floor covered in eggshells without making a sound? Because, if your boss should hear the slightest crunch you will be sentenced to hard time in his sweatshop dungeon churning out handmade plastic jewelry to sell to vending machine distributors.

An open coal-fired furnace occupies half the room, providing both intense heat and the only light source. No indoor plumbing so you’re forced to use a five gallon pail. You have no choice but to endure your boss’s martini-soaked screams and rants whenever he feels…

View original post 534 more words