Recently, I was having lunch with my beloved friend Sharyn when I mentioned how anxious I was. She nodded and said calmly, “Yep, you’re the most anxious person I’ve ever met.” But then she said something startling. “You vibrate on a frequency I’ve never felt or seen before in anyone. You’re like a human hummingbird.”
Hearing that was like a little—and wonderful—electric shock.
If I had a previous image of myself, it was always Screaming Banshee, pure panic in human form, worried about everything because I learned early that the world wasn’t safe. How could it be when my homelife was always presto-changing from loving to rage and then back again?
If my father was coldly cruel, my mom and older sister were, at first, lovingly warm. When I was little, I stayed glued to my mom’s side. My sister was my best friend. They told me life was dangerous, that the only way to stop worrying about something was to imagine the worst so you would be prepared. (I worried more.) But then, by third grade, I wanted more independence, to have my own thoughts, to wear the clothes I liked, to spend time by myself. I saw it as freedom. My mom saw abandonment and lashed out with attacks. No one liked me because I was ugly, she snapped. I was lazy and selfish. My sister quick-changed toward me, too. We used to spend hours happily immersed in writing stories together, but when I began writing on my own, she tore apart my room to find my work, and then yelled that it was my own damn fault that these new stories were stupid junk. All I wanted to do was stop the shock and hurt of those voices, so I grew quieter and smaller until they would quick-change back again to loving, suggesting ice cream or a walk, as if nothing had happened. No wonder I was so baffled and confused. And anxious.
It didn’t get easier when I left for college. I worried constantly that someone might yell at me, a doctor, a professor, a friend. In college, I flitted from boy to boy because how could any of them really love me? How could I trust that? I broke off with boyfriends before they could leave me, marking myself as a party girl, when truthfully, I was desperate for love, and just keeping moving so I couldn’t be a target for anyone’s anger or disappointment.
It was exhausting, all this anxiety. Therapy helped. And so did marrying a calm, smart, funny music journalist who made me realize that I was allowed to ask for things without fear of being yelled at. That I didn’t have to be afraid that every interaction with another person could inexplicably go south. And if someone shouted at me for no reason, he told me, then they were the problem, not me. Little by little, I began to believe him, and then to advocate for myself. When my mother called, furious with me over some perceived slight, I was able to tell her, “I love you, so please call back when you’re calm.” (She did!) I began to see how my sister’s anxiety was a kind of prison, keeping her from moving out of her unhappy life, but when I tried to help, I was bluntly shut down, and then blamed. It made me afraid for her, and then for me, because what was I missing in my own life because of anxiety?
I pushed myself. I test-drove what it was like to go up to strangers at a party when I was shaking inside. I moved from asking for things I needed via email to being able to do it face to face. With a great deal of work, I’ve gotten better. I carved out a successful career as a novelist. My friends’ and my husband’s loving constancy soothes much of my anxiety away.
I’m kinder to my anxiety, too, because it’s actually given me positives by being a kind of driving engine for me. I’m incredibly productive and focused in my work. I’ve published 13 novels to acclaim. I’ve won awards. I’ve never missed a deadline. I never give up. I know now that when I get anxious, I need to ask myself, is there a real reason for worry? And if not, I put my laser focus somewhere else, losing myself in writing or jumping on my trampoline or rearranging every drawer in the house, anything to keep the anxiety from taking root. I also ask people now, are you mad at me, and when they say no, of course not, I believe them. If they say yes, I then want to know why so we can settle it. I tell people when I’m worried or unsure because I’ve come to believe emotional transparency is the way to feel safe, seen, and authentic.
So back to that lunch. As soon as my friend told me I was a hummingbird, I felt like I was looking at myself anew, overwhelmed with relief. Yes, hummingbirds seem anxious because they never stop moving and their wings clatter, but they are also unique and beautiful, a kind of bird that doesn’t seem possible, and yet there it is. It also didn’t seem possible for me to survive such an earthquaking household growing up, but not only had I done this, but it has led me to a rewarding life.
Don’t get me wrong. Anxiety is still wired into my DNA. But now, that image of that hummingbird acts as a talisman. It’s a new way to reframe that killing anxiety from Screaming Banshee to wild, gorgeous bird, going my own personal mile-a-minute way toward a richer, more anxiety-free life.
