a letter to my partner for when I’m in my anxiety

Post Warning: The upcoming post delves deeply into the vulnerable experience of anxiety and an anxiety attack. It draws inspiration from a client who generously shared her own anxiety journey and its impact on her relationship with her partner.

I understood exactly where she was coming from. Our discussion inspired this post. This post encapsulates my client’s sentiments, conveyed in my own words, utilizing descriptions of anxiety that I’ve previously shared with my husband, RJ, when I, myself, have been “in the anxiety.”

I hope that you’ll find new meaning and feel seen through these words. However, the content about anxiety becomes intense, so please prioritize your well-being. If it feels overwhelming to read, consider bookmarking this post for a time when you're better equipped to engage with it. Know that you are not alone in your anxiety experience.

I also encourage you to use this Letter in a way that suits your needs… whether it’s during discussions with your counselor and/or sharing it with your loved one and discussing the letter together. One thing about anxiety healing is that we can’t go it alone. Anxiety isolates. In my clinical work, we focus on two crucial aspects: (1) cultivating self-awareness of my unique anxiety patterns and (2) fostering awareness in others about these patterns (other-awareness). This involves learning how to articulate feelings and challenges to loved ones for mutual understanding. Healing happens in community — where we are free to share, be seen, and understood without judgement. I hope this post empowers and equips you to share your anxiety experiences with your loved one(s) — whether it’s a partner, parent, friend, or support person. Know that you’re not a burden, and sharing isn’t a weight to carry. You’re not alone.

A QUICK NOTE** if you happened to come across this blog post first, perhaps through a friend’s share, and we’ve not had the pleasure of meeting yet, feel free to introduce yourself by saying hello on Instagram and Subscribing to my weekly email newsletter for anxious achievers. Looking forward to connecting with you soon! Thanks for being here, however you got here! - Dr. Nicole

A Letter to My Partner for When I’m “in my anxiety”…

Dear My Loved One (Partner/Parent/Friend),

Right now I’m in my anxiety.

Deep in my anxiety.

I’m in my anxiety and it’s spiraling and I can’t see which way is up and which way is down.

Right now I’m in my anxiety, and I’m on a wild bus ride. And Anxiety is driving the bus.

You see, I’m a passenger on the wild bus ride right now.

I’m a passenger and Anxiety is driving. Anxiety is in the driver’s seat. I’m in the back of the bus somewhere. Bumping around. I’m no longer in control. Not sure which way is up and which is down. Anxiety is driving and I’m not in control. This I know. And everything is moving fast, spinning, and I can’t see which direction we’re going in.

No, actually, Anxiety is driving the train. Not the bus. I’m on a train. A fast moving train. A long, powerful, fast moving train. And Anxiety is driving. This train-isn’t-stopping.

I can’t get off the train.

I don’t know when this train ride will stop.

I’m not driving the train.

I can’t get off the train.

You see, Loved One, I’m really struggling on this unstoppable train right now with Anxiety driving.

It’s scary.

—

Kind Loved One, when I’m in my anxiety it feels so scary and overwhelming. Terrifying. Especially when I’m in the anxiety spiral.

The anxiety spiral is the scariest part to be honest.

By the time I’m in the anxiety spiral, the train is out-of-control, full-steam-ahead. In the spiral I’m not sure what’s happening, both in my body and my mind. My mind is racing at this point. Spiraling.

Spiraling down. Spiraling up. I don’t know anymore.

Sometimes I know when the spiral’s coming. Sometimes I know when it’s happening. I can recognize, “Oh my gosh this is happening. I am feeling anxious. Panic.”

Sometimes I don’t know when the spiral’s coming. That’s scarier. Sometimes I don’t know when it’s happening. Sometimes I’m doing everything I can just to get to the next moment. I breathe slowly to quiet the loud voices and noises as best I can.

In the spiral, the voices are loud.

The voices tell me things like, “You’re an idiot for feeling this way” and “They think you’re crazy” and “You are crazy” and “You’re always going to be messed up like this” and “You’re gonna mess this [relationship] up.” These aren’t chill voices. These are negative, abusive voices.

Sometimes the voices tell me even worse things about myself than I’m sharing with you now. Horrible things.

Those voices… I don’t like to think about those voices.

In my anxiety, the voices are so loud. I can hardly hear any other voice. Especially your voice. Your kind voice telling me, “It’s going to be okay” and “I’m not mad at you” and “I’m here for you” and “What do you need?” I can’t hear your voice when the negative voices are blaring in my head. They’re so loud. So negative. So intense. I can’t shut the megaphone off. Not while I’m in the spiral.

—

Loved one, when I’m in my anxiety, I really really don’t want to be in my anxiety. I want to be anywhere else. I want to be somewhere else. But I can’t get anywhere else. I’m in the anxiety and Anxiety is in me, and we’re swirling around… like Harry Potter and Voldemort in Book 7 (Movie 7, Part 2)… when they’re flying around Hogwarts, intertwined and tangled. You remember that part? And then Harry and Voldemort combine and become one, for just a moment, and we (the movie watchers) don’t know who’s who. Yeah. That’s me and Anxiety. Tangled and trapped. One, if just for a moment, with Anxiety. I feel trapped. I’m trapped and drowning. I am Anxiety.

And it’s loud.

And wild, annoying music is playing on the loud speakers. And people are yelling at each other in the corner. And a baby is crying somewhere. And… the chalkboard-with-nails sound. Someone’s chewing loudly. Literally everything sounds awful in here.

That’s what the spiral feels and sounds like. I really don’t want to be here in the spiral. It’s a disgusting place.

—

Loved one, when I’m in my anxiety, I want so badly to be present with you. The negative voice tells me that you’re going to leave me. That I’m “too much” and my anxiety is too much. “How will anyone ever be able to love me, with this?” The negative voice tells me it’s going to be like this forever… the medication isn’t going to help, therapy isn’t going to help, nothing’s going to help. Give it up. I feel hopeless. Exhausted.

The worst part? The negative voice sounds sneakily like my voice. It becomes my only voice.

In my anxiety I tell myself I’m a burden. I’m a burden on you, on my friends, on my family, on everyone. This is what Anxiety (or is it my voice?) tells me. I’m a burden. I’m messed up. Something is wrong with me.

—

Loved one, when I’m in my anxiety, I worry about every little insecurity. Insecurities flood in and paralyze my mind. They deflate any hope I have left.

I worry about everyone hating me. I worry about the texts that I didn’t respond to or that others didn’t respond to that I sent. “Do they hate me?… They hate me,” I think. I worry about the future. I worry about my health. I worry about my relationships. I worry about our relationship. I worry about my plans for next summer. I worry that my heart is beating so fast. I worry about… taxes. “Oh my God, how do taxes work?” And the IRS. “Who is the IRS??” I worry about that. I worry about every-little-thing I said in a conversation six months ago. I worry about how weird my voice sounds. I worry and I worry and I worry.

In my anxiety, I worry about more serious things, too. I worry that I’ll be this way forever. I worry that no one will love me. I worry that I’m really messed up. I worry that no one will understand or believe me. I worry that I’m making it all up… that I’m the only one in the whole universe that feels this way. I worry that you won’t understand. I worry that you’ll learn all this about my mind and hate me for it. I worry that I’ll be alone.

—

Loved one, when I’m in my anxiety, my body feels wrecked. I’m tired. My stomach hurts. My digestion sucks. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. My heart is in my throat, and I want to cry and cry and cry. My arms and legs feel weak. My face feels tired. My heart feels tight. Sometimes I don’t even want to move. I sit paralyzed, staring at the wall, because my body. just. won’t. cooperate. When I’m in my anxiety, my body won’t operate, yet my mind spins so fast.

I try to go for a walk. I try to breathe. I can’t breathe. What’s the point? Coping skills don’t work. I’m too far gone in the spiral. The anxiety is too tight. The anxiety is a snake, squeezing my body and mind, ready for the kill. The anxiety is a hamster running around in my brain. The anxiety is a drip-drip-dripping water faucet that won’t shut off. I feel tired. I want to sleep. I don’t want to move. Ever. I want to sleep. I can’t sleep. My anxious mind won’t let me.

—

Loved one, in my anxiety, I am so sorry that I feel anxious.

I am so sorry that I put us through this. Actually, I’m mainly sorry I put you through this. I feel guilty. I’m to blame. I make your life more difficult, more complicated. “I’m too much for you”… that’s what the negative voice says. “They’d be better off with someone else.” These are the things I believe to be true in my anxiety. I know they’re not true. But I believe them to be true in the anxiety. Logic does not exist in the anxiety.

—

Loved one, in the anxiety, I want you to know that I am fighting.

In the anxiety, there’s a small window where I see the other side. The negative voices are loud, but there are moments when I hear another voice. There are moments when I hear your voice. I hear your voice saying, “I love you” and “You are so brave” and “We’re going to get through this” and “I’m not going anywhere” and “Let me give you a hug.” In the anxiety, I can hear your kind voice.

There are moments in every spiral when your kind words sink deep into my being. They sink deep and, for a moment…

settle.

For a moment, your voice becomes my voice. It sounds like me. This kind voice is different from the negative voice. It’s gentle, quiet, encouraging… hopeful? “Is that hope? Is the train slowing?”

The more that I accept your unconditional love for me, the deeper the kind voice takes root in my mind and in my heart.

—

Loved one, thank you. Thank you for your words of life and for your support. When I’m in the anxiety, I cling to your love. Your love empowers me to love myself. I love myself. Or, if I’m real honest, maybe I’m really really trying to love myself? Anyways, I’m working on it. But I sure do love you.

Even in the anxiety, I am me. I am not the anxiety. It is not my anxiety. The anxiety is not me.

Thank you for deeply seeing me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you.

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Disclaimer: This blog is not intended to substitute professional therapeutic advice. Although I’m a mental health professional, no content on this site, regardless of date, should ever be used as a substitute for direct professional advice from your doctor or other qualified clinician. Talk with your healthcare provider about your health concerns and before starting or stopping therapies or treatment recommendations.

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