Trying to cultivate patience as an anxious person is “like trying to use a croissant as a fucking dildo. It doesn’t do the job and it makes a fucking mess.”
I have always considered myself an impatient person. Ever since I was a kid, I remember counting the seconds until I could plunge in the pool after eating, pulling at my mom’s legs in any waiting room, secretly cutting my own hair while my mother napped because my appointment at the hairdresser’s the next day was just too far away.
Fast forward to my teenage years. Waiting for exam results was absolute torture. Listening to my geography teacher tell us his life story felt like being buried alive. The ride home from school felt like the longest, most stretched out period of time, a world-record-breaking extension of time.
And now, here I am. Still as impatient as ever. I need answers now. I need to know exactly what tomorrow’s plan is, now. I need to figure out the answer to the universe now. I need to heal all wounds I accumulated over time, now.
I realized this very recently, when my in-laws visited. I noticed that I was always in a rush compared to everybody else. We were all on vacation, yet somehow I didn’t act like it. Nobody noticed except for me. I kept comparing my pace to everybody else, and I was just on the go all the time. For what? Nothing. I was on vacation for God’s sake.
When we would go sight-seeing, I would keep walking at my fast pace until I would finally realize that everyone, except for me, stopped to take it all in. And that’s when it hit me: I never stopped to take it in. I never had the patience to. Now, I can understand being too busy to do that, but this wasn’t a moment of busyness, it was a moment of presence.
I can apply this to all aspects of my life. I would rush through my morning showers even though I would wake up much earlier than when I would start writing or working. Or just completely skip them. When I would feel the physical need for a workout, I would look for a 10 to 15 minutes workout. And as much as I love cooking, I wouldn’t dare make my own lunch because it would be too much time wasted.
And there it is! I’m constantly afraid of wasting time, of losing time. It’s been ingrained in me, by my environment growing up as well as this fast-paced society we all live in. Therefore, I don’t have the time to be patient.
Now you would understandably ask: what does this have to do with anxiety?
I’ll tell you. If I allow myself to rest, that would mean I would need to have patience with my body and mind to rejuvenate. It would mean that I would allow tedium to settle in. Which means that I would have to be… are you ready for this?... patient.
I will never be able to express the amount of guilt that comes with allowing time to move through me. I have been consciously trying to rest lately, and not once did I not feel like I was letting myself, my husband and my world down. Even if everybody and everything around me would beg me to do so. I would give in but eventually I’d end up feeling like I didn’t deserve it. I simply choose to believe that I don’t have the time nor the patience for it.
Patience would require surrender. Something very unfamiliar to an anxious body. However, being impatient is no longer an option. I have chosen a new career path, one that requires this very messy croissant. I can’t rush my way to culinary greatness, and frankly I don’t want to. I want to take the time to savor every drop of knowledge accessible to me.
I no longer want to rush. I want to enjoy life. I want to drop into every single present moment. I want to taste joy, melancholy, beauty. I want to enjoy the process of chasing after my dreams.
And so, this brings me to the one conclusion that my anxiety hates to reckon with. I choose to work on being more patient. I choose to allow tedium and stillness to flow through me. Even though flowing isn’t necessarily the action behind both concepts, but baby steps friends, baby steps.
Beautiful realisation Jihene ❤️❤️