Before Kyle died, I didn’t understand what anxiety was.

I know that sounds stupid. But it was an abstract idea to me; something other people struggled with. I now understand I had anxiety, but it before was just… me. It was my normal; the air I breathed. It never felt dangerous or volatile. It was just a part of how I perceived the world.

I knew what it was well after it started being a problem. Grief took up the space and energy I previously used to manage my anxiety (or at least, mask it). It pushed it up toward the surface, forming a caldera in an exterior I’d carefully managed previously. Anxiety became a sine wave that could throw off the equilibrium of a day, dictating whether I could press on with my plans or needed to retreat to safety. It became something I had to consciously manage instead of instinctively manage, and that difference is tremendous.

I’m bitter about the wasted energy. I’m ashamed I don’t feel like I spent equivalent energy on him while he was alive. I’m angry I can’t control it. I’m so deeply exhausted I’m writing blog posts about this shit instead of focusing on what’s ahead.