Isolation and Anxiety

Mental health transparency is becoming a more and more mainstream with each passing year. I know more about my friends’ mental health concerns than I ever expected that I would. I know who struggles with depression, who struggles with anxiety and I think it’s amazing that they feel like they can share those struggles in an open forum without feeling like they will be ostracized because of it.

I guess that’s not 100% true. For every person who understands that their loved one is clinically depressed and takes the time to figure out how to support them, there is another person who thinks “not being depressed” is as easy as just making the decision not to be. But that’s a 1 to 1 ratio where I feel like even 10 years ago, that was probably a 1 to 2 ratio or even 1 to 3. And that’s progress.

Through these friends I get an idea of what it means to be clinically depressed or to struggle with anxiety. And as they discuss the things they experience, especially with anxiety, I find myself relating to their struggles.

I wake up at night and then stay awake because my mind is processing intense thoughts about things, over which I have no control. Everything from analyzing the plot of a book, movie, or television show, to rehashing conversations I had with people days, weeks, even years ago.

I dread asking people in food service for extra things or to fix something. Even something as simple as a straw or extra napkin. And that extends to asking retail employees for access to fitting rooms or rest rooms, or to get something off a high shelf.

I dread calling anyone on the phone. Even friends. It is often a minimum fifteen-minute debate between calling the person and getting it over with or sending them a text or email and handling it that way. Text messages have been one of the greatest blessings in my adult life.

If I contact anyone – by phone or text – and they don’t respond in what I have deemed (probably arbitrarily) an appropriate amount of time, it automatically becomes my fault. I have wronged them in some way and they are now angry and avoiding me. When they finally answer, I’m fine, the anxiety is alleviated. Until the next time.

But I didn’t use to be like this.

I am naturally an empathic extrovert. This means that I understand and even absorb the emotions and energies of the people around me (negative emotions tend to have a higher absorption rate than positive ones, much to my chagrin) and being near other people actually energizes me. Even if I don’t always interact with them, just being among a crowd recharges my batteries. It also means that forced isolation is excruciating. It’s one thing, as an extrovert, to choose to spend time alone. If being around other people recharges my batteries, it makes sense that when I want to intentionally let that battery run out, I’d want to be alone. But when “alone time” is a way of life more than a choice, it has an extreme effect on … well, everything.

In college, I was outgoing and socially involved. I didn’t just have one social circle, I had several. And I never stressed about anything. My extroversion had a constant supply of energy to charge from.

But, now, outside of the occasional family gathering and my job, I am, for the majority, socially isolated. I make a practice of doing something that connects me to the kinds of people to whom I want to be connected every six weeks or so. I go to concerts, try to spend time with friends – which is a challenge, given my friends are all a minimum of 250 miles away; also part of my less than optimal situation – and recharge, for lack of a better word.

In those situations, when I travel to the place where my people live and when I am at a concert, I don’t feel anxious. Sometimes I even talk to strangers in line before the concerts. I don’t worry about things that are beyond my control. I don’t spend ten, fifteen, twenty minutes mentally preparing myself for social interaction.

Being a socially-isolated empathic extrovert is at the crux of my symptoms of anxiety but breaking free of my isolation definitely seems to help. I am not saying this as a suggestion that people with anxiety struggles – clinically diagnosed or not – just need to get out of their heads. I am not saying “you just need to find a hobby or be around friends and you won’t be so anxious.”

I am simply saying that my isolation is the biggest part of why my struggles with anxiety are only getting worse and why my attempts to feel less isolated have increased from a couple times a year to every 6-8 weeks. Why wouldn’t I want to put myself in a place where I feel better?