I Had Anxiety Before I Knew It Was Anxiety

I had never thought of myself as an anxious person.

For much of my life, anxiety wasn’t a word I would have used to describe myself. Then, several years into Parkinson’s, things began happening that I didn’t understand.

I experienced anxiety before I understood that what I was experiencing was called anxiety.

When My Body Took Over

One of my earliest memories was around 2016. My family was getting ready to go somewhere, and I became overwhelmed. I was shaking badly enough that when I got into the driver’s seat, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to drive.

My wife had to drive instead.

I remember the sadness of that moment. Driving had always been something I could do. Suddenly, something happening inside me was interfering with something that ordinary.

At the time, I didn’t have a name for it.

I Hid in a Restaurant Bathroom

Another time, I was at a restaurant when the anxiety became overwhelming.

I went into the bathroom and stayed there for more than twenty minutes.

I paced. I moved along the wall. At one point I hid in a stall because I didn’t want somebody coming in and seeing me like that.

The longer I was gone, the more pressure I felt about being gone. And the more pressure I felt, the harder it became to walk back out.

That became its own loop.

I wasn’t hiding because I didn’t want to be with the people outside that bathroom. I was hiding because I didn’t want them to see what was happening to me.

Eventually the Anxiety Moved Into My Thoughts

Over time, anxiety wasn’t only something I felt physically.

My thoughts could start racing too.

A situation that once would have been manageable could suddenly feel much more complicated. I could begin thinking through everything that might go wrong, what I needed to do next, whether I could handle it, and how I would get myself out of the situation if I couldn’t.

Sometimes Parkinson’s symptoms joined in. My hand might shake more. I might sweat. Then noticing those symptoms could give me something else to worry about.

Driving Became Different

Driving became one of the places where I noticed this change.

When I lived in the Dallas area, I sometimes chose back roads instead of the more direct route because the traffic and complexity of the larger roads could feel like too much.

There was a cognitive part to this too. It wasn’t always easy for me to separate anxiety from the changes I was experiencing in thinking and confidence. If I wasn’t completely confident that I could process everything happening around me, that uncertainty could feed the anxiety.

So sometimes I took the longer route.

It costs me time. But sometimes time is cheaper than anxiety.

California Showed Me How Quickly It Could Escalate

A trip to California gave me another example.

Airports already involve a lot of moving pieces—finding the right place, keeping track of what you’re carrying, watching the time, figuring out where you’re supposed to go.

Then, while I was in Los Angeles, I got lost.

Once I became anxious, thinking clearly became harder. And once thinking became harder, I became more anxious.

My tremor could make using my phone harder at exactly the time I needed the phone to help me figure out where I was.

Again, one problem began feeding another.

Even When Someone Else Was Driving

Giving up control of the driving didn’t necessarily make the anxiety disappear.

If I was in an Uber, I could find myself watching the route on my phone.

I knew the driver was supposed to know where we were going. That was the whole reason I was in the car.

But I still wanted to see the route.

I wanted to know where we were and where we were headed.

Sometimes Anxiety Kept Me From Going

There have been times when anxiety affected whether I went somewhere at all.

Other times, I went—but I spent so much of the experience managing what was happening inside me that I wasn’t fully present for what was happening around me.

Sometimes anxiety kept me from going. Other times I made it there, but anxiety kept me from really being there.

I Never Found a Reliable Trick

I wish I could say I discovered one thing that reliably stops anxiety when it starts.

I haven’t.

At one point I was prescribed medication for anxiety, although I don’t remember enough about that treatment now to say much about it responsibly.

I also haven’t noticed a reliable pattern where I can say my anxiety consistently appears when my Parkinson’s medication is ON or OFF.

For me, it has been more complicated than that.

What I Wish I Had Known

If I could go back to those early experiences, I wish I had known that anxiety could become part of life with Parkinson’s.

I had never considered myself an anxious person, so when these things started happening, I didn’t recognize them for what they might be.

That is something I would want another person with Parkinson’s to know.

Don’t assume something can’t be anxiety simply because anxiety wasn’t part of who you were before Parkinson’s.

And don’t assume you have to figure out by yourself what is causing a new or changing symptom. Anxiety can overlap with other Parkinson’s symptoms and other health issues, and it is worth discussing with the appropriate healthcare professional.

What I Wish Other People Understood

Parkinson’s can make anxiety look dramatic from the outside.

A hand may be shaking. Someone may be sweating. They may suddenly need to sit down, leave a room, or step away.

When that happens to me, having everybody react strongly can sometimes add another layer to what I’m already trying to manage.

Patience can help more than panic.

For years, though, my instinct was often to prevent people from seeing any of it.

I Spent a Lot of Time Hiding

That restaurant bathroom wasn’t an isolated idea.

Throughout my Parkinson’s journey, I have often tried to hide symptoms.

I didn’t want the tremor to be seen. I didn’t want people watching me struggle. I didn’t want to become the center of attention because something my body was doing shocked everyone around me.

But there is a contradiction in that.

If I spend years successfully hiding what Parkinson’s is doing to me, how are the people around me supposed to understand how difficult Parkinson’s has become?

I’m beginning to think there is a difference between people simply seeing my Parkinson’s and people understanding what they’re seeing.

If people already understand that I may need to sit down, lose my balance, shake, or have other visible symptoms, I don’t necessarily have to spend all my energy pretending none of it is happening.

I’m still learning what that means for me.

But maybe part of what I’ve wanted all along wasn’t for people to stop seeing Parkinson’s.

Maybe I wanted them to understand what they were seeing.