I used a poem that I’d written when I was 13 called ‘I’m in There’ as the starting point, and from there (using old journal entries and poems) began documenting my experience with anxiety through various periods in my life: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. I also talked to friends and colleagues about their experience and understanding of anxiety.

The poem that came out of these explorations ended up taking me three years to write, and later developed into a short theatrical film and collaboration titled: Left Opened.

One of the main reason the writing process took so long, was that (in developing an understanding of anxiety) there were certain narrative structures I was trying to avoid.

Avoiding Popular Narratives – My Writing Goals

I didn’t want to write an inspirational poem, and by that I mean… I didn’t want to write a prescriptive poem who’s narrative focus was an aspirational journey towards triumph — I wasn’t sure that a poem about mental illness should be treated as a hero’s narrative with an enemy and a victor. But then, I also didn’t want to write a static poem that dwelled too heavily on the discomfort I’ve associated with anxiety, without any awareness of my own autonomy, nuance, and imagination. 

What I wanted to write, was an explorative poem that was neither combative nor complacent; finding a middle ground between these two extremes was difficult.

When I considered my experience with anxiety, the action of conquering was pretty top of mind. I did actually want to conquer anxiety; I did want to position myself as the hero. As a child I had wanted this, and as an adult this was still the ending I envisioned. If I didn’t defeat anxiety by the end of the poem, wouldn’t I be left looking like a victim? 

I didn’t want to finish writing ‘Left Opened’ feeling more certain of anxiety’s hold on me than I had before I’d started. 

The Metaphors

In the book ‘Metaphors We Live By’ (a book that ended up having a big impact on this project) linguists George Lakoff and Mark Johnson argue there are culturally prevalent metaphors we all know and use, which help us to collectively conceptualize the otherwise ephemeral concepts we encounter all the time as a society. Concepts like time (time is a moving object) and love (love is crazy, love is a journey) can only be understood through comparison; through metaphor.

I was inspired by their argument. They didn’t write about mental illness in their book, but I felt strongly that metaphor applied here too. I started mining the poem I was writing for metaphors and found that the same two kept appearing. 

The metaphors I’ve associated with my mental health are: 

• Anxiety is my enemy
• Anxiety is my container

After being diagnosed with chronic anxiety in 2001 (when I was 12 years old), it was through these metaphors that I developed my personal understanding of anxiety. I had to live with anxiety. It was through the lens of these metaphors that I strategized on the question of how to thrive.

If anxiety was my enemy, my strategy was fight.

With a certain amount of stamina, I’d attempt to muscle into my psychology and fix — persistently and methodically —  everything about who I was. There was a long period in my life where I identified as a ‘self-help junkie’. I remember very clearly the feeling of panic as I raced to fix all of my imperfections. Head down, I dedicated myself to the work of rebuilding, improving, and transforming; I wouldn’t stop until I’d made myself completely and irrevocably okay. Anxiety was an enemy that I needed to destroy. My freedom depended on it.

But this ended up being a problematic metaphor for me, since I also considered anxiety one of my distinguishing characteristics — the principle way I identified and talked about myself. 

I was left feeling incredibly isolated, lonely, and somewhat exhausted. 

And so, my relationship to anxiety transformed into container.

If anxiety was my container, my strategy was to watch and understand
— overtime, maybe I would discover the cracks. 

I leaned hard into the belief that I was trapped inside this container. I explored my relationship to this metaphor in my journal and through my poetry; imagining that I lived inside of a box, and that anxiety stretched around me as the walls of that box. What kind of building material was anxiety? Would the walls eventually decay, or would the structure of this box outlast me? How did those around me perceive my container; my containment? I explored all of the nuances of the ‘container’ metaphor, and through that process, it seemed like I was really getting to know myself.  

And I was, but only in relationship to this metaphor. No amount of searching or defining would highlight a narrative where the walls didn’t actually exist; where there was no cage — no barrier — between me and the world. 

What These Metaphors Hide

According to Lakoff and Johnson, every metaphor we use highlights certain entailments  — those necessary consequences and/or beliefs that accompany a way of perceiving a concept —while hiding another. 

Both the enemy and container metaphors highlight this idea of isolation and separateness. You are engaged in a solitary fight against a force that is in some way external to you… a force with sinister intentions, that it is your responsibility — and yours alone — to either live with or destroy. 

These metaphors hide the body and the way an individual may actually sense or experience the sensations associated with the word ‘anxiety’ in the present. Without this awareness of the body, I only know I am anxiety. Changing that experience becomes an intellectual challenge — something to think my way out of. 

These metaphors additionally hide my inclusion in a community. I become blind to my interconnectedness with and responsibility to those around me.

Although it didn’t start out that way, Left Opened became an exploration of the me:against metaphors that I think are quite entrenched in the way we think about anxiety, and many forms of mental illness. 

These metaphors necessitate an inspirational narrative response. Fight and win, or break free. You are either the hero or the victim. If these are the metaphors, there’s very little room for any other response. So, although I had initially tried to avoid a ‘heroes’ narrative, I explored that necessity of having one in this poem… but I didn’t stop there. 

I had a question. An inquiry. 

What other metaphors for mental illness could there be? Is there a metaphor that highlights what the ‘enemy’ and ‘container’ metaphors hide?

A New Metaphor

In their chapter on ‘new meaning’ (Metaphors We Live By), Lakoff and Johnson talk about the importance of creating metaphors that are:

“outside our conventual conceptual system, metaphors that are imaginative and creative. Such metaphors [would be] capable of giving us a new understanding of our experience. Thus, they [could] give new meaning to our pasts, to our daily activity, and to what we know and believe.”

A new metaphor for anxiety would place less emphasis on ‘why’ and more on ‘how.’ Not just ‘why’ do we suffer from anxiety, but ‘how’ do we suffer from it. Not just ‘what is anxiety’ but ‘how does it feel to have anxiety?’ 

Here’s the new metaphor that I’ve been playing with: Anxiety is an invitation.

I like this metaphor because it leaves room for personal interpretation. You can finish it however makes sense for you, and the way you finish the metaphor can change from moment to moment. When I work with this metaphor, I can recognize the way my anxiety has invited me to speak, to hide and rest, to connect, and to be creative.

The ‘invitation metaphor’ highlights creativity and participation — your personal sensorial experience of anxiety matters here, and you are invited to meet it, and hear what it has to say. This metaphor highlights the type of listening that happens in stillness, when we notice the quality of our breath and the sensation of our feet on the floor.

The ‘invitation metaphor’ hides the idea of an end goal; a destination where anxiety ceases to exist. Rather than being a force to escape from or destroy, the sensations (and the relationship I have with those sensations) become something to dialogue with… to learn from. 

Conclusion

I still experience anxiety. It has not gone away. It’s here, twittering and contracting my diaphragm and making me watchful and careful, and that’s okay. But thinking about anxiety in this way has provided me with a sense of autonomy, nuance, and imagination in regards to my mental health. 

I can name my experience ‘anxiety’ and that naming is helpful, but I’m becoming more aware of (and curious about) the metaphors which colour and influence that naming. To experience anxiety doesn’t necessarily have to mean that I’m engaged in a battle or trapped in a box. I’m curious about a conceptualization and embodied understanding of anxiety that includes the possibility that anxiety is a friend. Perhaps, instead of berating anxiety for existing, there is an opportunity to dialogue with the discomfort and include it in my life; include all that anxieties’ invitations have to offer me.

I’d like to clarify that these are not the only metaphors for understanding anxiety. These are just the ones that’ve resonated for me. If thinking about anxiety in this way resonates with you,  I’d love to encourage you to find your own metaphors. 

Further Reading

The book ‘Metaphors We Live By‘ by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson was a great source of inspiration while writing Left Opened (the poem) and this accompanying essay. I was further inspired by the following books:

• ‘The Meaning of Anxiety‘ by Rollo May
• ‘The Wisdom of Insecurity: A Message for an Age of Anxiety‘ by Alan Watts
• ‘The World I live in‘ by Helen Keller

I was also inspired by my experience with breathexperience Canada (and their work and study of the allowed breath) and CreativeMornings Vancouver (where I’ve been learning about the value of community).

*Rather than purchasing these books on amazon, I’d like to encourage you to find them at your local bookstore.