The moments we want to give up and why they matter
/Only a few close friends know that I suffer from PTSD and generalized anxiety disorder.
In any given day, in any given moment, my mind is on the ready. It is prepared to leap into survival mode at the first sign of threat, real or imagined. This is most days, every day. If I walk across the parking lot of my apartment and see a large, burly man coming toward me, in one millisecond my mind races to several plausible (but highly unlikely) conclusions.
He could track me down and rape me when I least expect it.
He could get in his car and run over my dog.
This is my mind’s attempt to keep me safe—by projecting the worst possible scenarios in perfectly normal settings. Basically, my mind urges me to give up most days, to run for cover, to only stay in the safest possible places (my apartment, my car, my boyfriend’s house).
I wish I could say that after 11+ years of on-and-off cognitive behavioral therapy and counseling that these moments are few and far between, but they're not. The human mind doesn't have an on/off switch, however, with some patience and understanding (and some hard work!) the relationship we have with our minds can become more manageable.
The human mind is a powerful thing, and, in my case I was able to train it to play a little bit nicer. With thanks also to a meditation practice, instead of running for cover, I now have a gap where I become curious and let reality have a say in what I’m experiencing.
Every day I have a dozen or more opportunities to give up. Hide here, stop writing this, give up that dream. Thankfully most people don't live like this, and their opportunities to give up (I hope) are much, much less frequent. But in those moments I still think there's something poignant about them. Why?
Because the moment we want to give up is the exact moment we recognize what matters most.
There's a terribly uncomfortable moment of truth when we think about giving up. Outside the casual, anxiety-ridden responses I described earlier, dozens of times in my life I have given up and moved on. Sometimes these were things that needed to be let go, and sometimes there were things I was too frightened to see for what they were. The moment I think about giving up, I've noticed a set of questions arise:
Am I a failure? Do I love myself enough to keep going?
Did I wrongly imagine this would be successful? Should I take it all back?
What would my life be like if I gave up? Can I live with the consequences?
Would I be proud of myself for moving on?
It turns out that how I answer those questions is the answer itself. If I hear a heavy, loud voice barreling down on my self worth or safety, I know I've got a few wires crossed and it's time to let the decision sit to the side. That is, I know I'm not in my right mind when the voices informing my decisions are condemnatory or extreme. And until I sense that still, calm voice, I won't make any choices either way.
Giving up shouldn't be confused with moving on, though it often is. Sometimes a separation or a break is wise and necessary. Other times it's a cop out, and the difference can be tough to decipher. Over time, it gets easier and I can attest to that.