The Silent Wordsmith

Deep in thought, he reached for his brown-leathered journal, which appearance gave off the vibe of an ancient book filled with secret maps to hidden treasures. He opened the blank page after the one on which he made the last entry some time ago. He glanced at the overwritten page on the left and looked at the end of it. It read, “Amen!” He wondered what it was that he’d written about last time. He skimmed through it. He realized he’d forgotten the previous deep thought he engaged in that had caused this entry into the journal. Seldom were random thoughts entered into the journal. Ones that did usually were the consequences of thoughts and emotions not fully developed or understood. This one, however, made it in with what appeared to have been the most profound thought he ever had.

Since childhood, anxiety had been like an unwanted relationship, painstakingly attached and always around but with the possibility of getting rid of it. But the cause of his anxiety was not that easy to get rid of. It was like having a permanent, incurable disease. A disease cured only by a doctor who lived in another realm. But even with this realization, he tried finding its cure through “experts.” But these experts didn’t help. Their methods were futile. The disease was here to stay, and the resulting anxiety would become his inevitable companion.

The anxiety always lingered around. It would sometimes creep up out of nowhere to say hello, then disappear as quickly as it had arrived. But it never went entirely away or too far off, lest he’d forgotten its gripping feeling of despair. Nevertheless, he continued living. Unbeknownst to him, there were some tough days ahead. Some days, he felt he could take over the world. Other days, much more, were filled with humiliation, embarrassment, and a sense of hopelessness. And anxiety would again appear, waiting with open arms like a mother waiting to embrace her long-lost child.

Many years would go by. It hadn’t been easy. But by the time he became an adult, the cause of his anxiety was bearable and, surprisingly, manageable. However, some of his aspirations in life had to change because of it. He’d settle for a career to minimize its effects, though some days were so hard to bear that he’d cry himself to sleep. Yet he’d continue. He didn’t understand how or why, but he did. He had responsibilities. Bills, a mortgage, and taking care of others that depended on him. “No time,” he’d say to himself, “no time.” There was no time to think about his anxiety. No time to dwell on the cause of his anxiety even though it engulfed his mind. There was no time to acknowledge the hidden pain he’d been carrying.

And so, he’d get up still, waking in hopes the new day would be better than the last. At times, he’d be apprehensive about it, unsure of the circumstances the day would bring compared to the previously unfortunate ones that had dealt him. “What surprises does this day bring?” he wondered while brushing his teeth. “What do I say in this situation?” he thought while tying his boots. “What word should I start this phrase with?” he muttered. “What letters do I avoid in this sentence if I’m in that particular scenario?” he anxiously wondered. By breakfast, he’d spent a day’s worth of brain power on hypotheticals. Still, he kept on going. “No time,” he’d say to himself, “no time.” And so, more years went by. More responsibilities to tackle presented themselves while anxiety grew. Until a time came to make time.

He’d forgotten about himself. He tended to the needs of life, the wants of others, the responsibilities of a man, and the obligations of a husband and a father. But after one terrifying anxiety attack, his “no times” had become “must-have time.” It didn’t matter that the cause for his anxiety since childhood would never go away. What mattered most now was his sanity, his mental well-being. In an attempt to calm his anxious-prone thoughts that now have been conditioned by years of avoidance, one of his therapeutic approaches was an unexpected hidden talent he’d developed as a kid: the art of writing.

He’d conditioned himself to internalize his emotions instead of vocalizing them. This caused him to retreat to his thoughts, analyzing and deciphering the world through non-verbal cues. He’d become an expert on reading people, detailing their intentions. He’d also become the best active listener anyone could meet. He wasn’t fond of expressing his thoughts until it was necessarily essential to do so. But not being the first to speak allowed him to truly listen to what others said while also thinking about how he’d respond to their needs. This eventually transformed his cognitive language and naturally developed his written acumen and penmanship since detailing his life scenarios in his mind was second nature, as an author details the scenes in a book. He’d found the remarkable gift he once wondered about through his weakness and pain.

Now, having been actively journaling for five years, he found himself less anxious and in deep thought, finishing an entry in his ancient-vibe brown-leathered journal, ending it with the following:

“For I may never know why I was born this way and endured life with this ‘thorn on my side.’ But I shall be grateful for the man I’ve become: a man of enduring perseverance, quiet strength, and imaginative intuition with the help of the Almighty God. Amen!”