I’m stressed, and anxious. There, I said it, publically, no less. People who know me have, of course, known this all along. But you didn’t hear it from me, until now, at least. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been going around telling everyone I’m just fine, saying things like “the changes are really hard on my family,” and “my SO and kids are not coping very well with the prospect of moving, or this, or that.” I told my SO this weekend that I am perfectly calm and at peace with the decisions we are making right now. That all will be as it should be (which I happen to firmly believe). I’ve been saying “shhh” and “calm down,” kissing foreheads and giving hugs, keenly tuned to the psyches of those around me. But the truth is, I’ve been focusing on the issues and well-being of friends and family as a means of avoiding my own. In the meantime, I have been sleeping less and less, writing less and less, and eating more and more. At best I have been frenetic. At worst, scattered. I have found myself forcing down a continuous stream of generalized worry. I have had a stomach ache for two days now. All the while I have refused to admit that my life is raising my anxiety level, and have thus denied myself healthy outlets for my stress.

The thing is, I know myself. This is nothing unmanageable, with the right coping skills in place. Not at all. But by not admitting it, I have let my stress build up into something that is taking a toll. Like eleven years of packratting in our home, I have stowed away anxiety, let it build up, until it seeps out the edges, takes on a life of its own.

So now I am admitting it. I am saying to you all, not for sympathy or empathy or any recognition, I’m stressed out. Plain and simple. I’m saying this for myself, so that I can get on with the business of dealing with it.