Anna* fought sleep. Every day, from morning till night. Children, home, work. She was chronically sleep-deprived, and there was no one to help. And she was deeply anxious. Everything depended on her. One small mistake, any slip, and she wouldn’t manage. Losing her job would mean losing everything.
The anxiety appeared early in the morning, when she was getting the children ready for school. At work it stayed with her until evening, pushing her forward, not letting her stop. Anna was a responsible person by nature. She couldn’t leave work when everyone else did. She stayed longer to do more, to reduce the risk of losing her job.
In the evening, there’s nowhere left to run
When she returned home late in the evening, she took care of the children and the household. She went to bed after midnight. And when she was finally alone, with nowhere left to run, the anxiety would rise before sleep. The time to rest had come, but she couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Then Anna would desperately start thinking about plans for tomorrow, just to escape the anxiety. And in the morning, it all began again.
The day she fell asleep at work
One day Anna “broke.” In the office, in her own room, she fell asleep in the middle of the day. She had no strength left to resist and simply blacked out for half an hour.
She woke up in horror — work was waiting and grabbed at it in a rush. Unexpectedly, she felt energy and strength inside. That day she didn’t do more than she had planned. Everything was as usual. But in the evening she still had the strength to smile at her children.
A strange experiment with sleep
Anna decided to try an experiment — when she felt herself shutting down, she didn’t resist. She went to her office or a meeting room, set a timer for half an hour, closed her eyes and let herself fall asleep.
The effect was noticeable. She thought, “It seems I pushed myself too far, fighting sleep. It felt as if something terrible would happen if I fell asleep. But nothing did.”
But the anxiety remained. And Anna still couldn’t fall asleep when the time for it came. She could only pass out from exhaustion.
The anxiety felt too unclear. Too big to deal with alone. To understand it, she went to see a psychologist.
A psychologist
At one of the sessions she told him about her experiment with sleep. How she had resisted at first, and then allowed herself to shut down — and somehow it became a little easier.
The psychologist repeated her own thought:
— It seems you stopped fighting that moment when your strength runs out and allowed yourself to simply switch off.
Anna nodded.
Then he added:
— I wonder what happens when you stop resisting not that state (sleep), but the anxiety itself. If I understand correctly, you usually start doing something right away, thinking, planning, just to avoid feeling it and distract yourself.
Trying not to run
The idea felt a bit strange. What connection could there be? Sleep and anxiety seemed like completely different things.
But she really was always running. Into tasks, thoughts and into plans. Just not to be alone with the anxiety. The moment she stopped, it caught up with her.
At some point, she decided to try not to run.
When it catches up
And then the images began to appear — at first connected to her external life. The worst things that could happen. Losing her job. Not being able to pay for the apartment. Her children getting sick. Complete helplessness.
These were her personal horror films. And she remembered one scene from a movie she had once watched. A woman surrounded by zombies — from all sides, so many of them, reaching for her, grabbing. Nowhere to run. Only fear, despair, and helplessness.
That was exactly how she felt. When she stopped distracting herself and allowed the anxiety to rise, it only got worse.
Such different kinds of anger
She was ready to quit working with the psychologist. That’s the mild version. She was very angry with him.
He had suggested that she stay alone with what she was so afraid of.
At the next session, she told him all of this.
She suddenly caught herself thinking that she was angry not only at him.
She remembered how she used to be angry at herself. Constantly. For being weak, tired. For not coping well enough.
And now something had shifted. She and the anxiety had separated a little. And for the first time, the anger was not directed at herself, but at it.
It was as if the anxiety had gained a face.
It hadn’t disappeared. But it had taken shape. And somehow, it felt a little weaker.
The turning point
She was quiet for a moment and then suddenly said out loud:
— And the saddest thing is that I’m alone with all of this…
And she began to cry.
He silently handed her a tissue.
She wiped her eyes, looked at him, and after a short pause said:
— It’s strange… I used to be angry only at myself. And now — at it.
He nodded.
— It seems you’re seeing it as something separate from you for the first time, — he said.
She sat in silence for a moment.
— If it’s separate… then it’s not all of me, — she whispered.
*- The name is fictional; any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.