In the tranquil lull between the storms of my mental health, I once basked in the warm embrace of a long period of peace. For years, the tempestuous waves of anxiety had receded, leaving me with a sense of stability and hope. I reveled in the calm, feeling as though I had finally conquered the relentless shadows that had once haunted my thoughts.
During this era of serenity, I found myself savoring life’s simple joys. The world seemed brighter, my outlook more positive, and the future filled with tantalizing possibilities. I cherished moments with my family and friends, fostering deep connections as we shared stories of our respective journeys through the maze of our minds. I was the guide, the advocate, and the pillar of support, helping them navigate the turbulent waters of their own struggles.
In those years of respite, I believed that I had gained the upper hand over my anxiety. It was as if the chains that had bound me for so long had been broken, and I stood free, unburdened by the weight of fear and uncertainty. I was confident that my newfound strength and resilience would shield me from ever again falling prey to the claws of anxiety.
But life, in its capriciousness, had other plans. Just as I had grown comfortable in my newfound state of equilibrium, my anxiety returned, not as a timid whisper, but as an unrelenting tempest. It arrived in the form of financial turmoil and the fear of failing to meet expectations, gripping me with a tenacity I thought I had left behind.
In the midst of this resurgence, I felt the ground shift beneath my feet. The reassurances I had once given to others, the positive affirmations I had shared, and the messages of hope and healing that had flowed from my lips now felt hollow and distant. I had become entangled in a web of despair, disoriented by the onslaught of thoughts that once seemed conquered.
I watched, helpless and discouraged, as the shadows of anxiety loomed over me. I found myself once again at its merciless mercy, drowning in the undertow of fear and self-doubt. The resilience that had once defined me now seemed elusive, as if it had never existed.
The very foundation of my identity crumbled. I forgot the path that had led me to hope, and I abandoned the positive messages that had once inspired others. In my despair, I felt like a burden, a weight dragging down those who cared for me. I could no longer perceive the path to healing, the path I had guided others upon. I was lost in the tumultuous sea of my own anxiety, unable to reach the shore of solace.
The buoyant anticipation I had once felt for the future now lay shrouded in doubt and uncertainty. It seemed as though I would never escape the fear and concern that had returned with a vengeance, that they would forever be my companions in this weary journey of existence.
In the darkest hours of my mind, it was my wife who became my beacon, a steadfast light that guided me through the tempest. She held me up, her unwavering support a testament to the enduring power of love and connection. Yet, I struggled with the belief that I could ever be free of anxiety’s grip again.
In the unpredictable ebb and flow of my mental health, I found myself adrift once more, lost in the vast expanse of my own thoughts. The promise of enduring peace had slipped through my fingers, and I grappled with the fear that I may never regain it. It was a stark reminder that the journey toward healing is not a linear path but a series of peaks and valleys, each offering its own lessons and challenges.
Despite this resurgence of anxiety, I hold on to the hope that the calm will return, that the storm will eventually pass. The messages of positivity and healing that I once shared may seem distant, but they remain a part of me, ready to resurface when the tempest subsides. In the midst of this relentless battle, I cling to the belief that the periods of peace and strength I once knew are not lost but merely concealed by the clouds, waiting for their moment to shine again.
Hayden Coombs 