Anxious? Don't Just Do Something. Sit There.

Before we separated, my husband had skid off the proverbial rails. Not surprising (except to me). He was my third husband, and I met and married him two years after he'd been released from prison.

In the 80s, he had been a crack-addicted bank robber. Yup. He served over two decades in prison, and when released, in my defense, he embodied the picture of redemption. For years he'd been in AA, meditating and doing yoga, all inside. He'd healed, or so it seemed. He was literally the poster child for a nonprofit bringing yoga into prisons.

It was good, for a while. Then … well, a lot of things. Most relevant for this tale, marijuana became legalized. He began smoking. And smoking. And saying he wasn't smoking. And stopping smoking. And starting. And lying about starting. Over and over again.

He grew unpredictable. He barked at my then-tween-kids and me; sneering around the house with thinly-veiled contempt. How dare I expect him to place items on low shelves (I'm under 5')? What's the big deal that he tossed my beloved chair (my mother's) across the room during a fight? It was only once! And my audacity, waking up before him in the morning and, keeping as quiet as I could be, making noise!

I didn't know he was smoking, but I knew something was gravely amiss. I was jumpy, wary, worried about and protective of my kids. I had to do something and it felt urgent. In marital therapy one day, he said he felt things were better. Over the prior week, I'd stopped engaging. When I climbed the counter to pluck a mug off a high shelf, I didn't mention it. When he said he "didn't care" what happened during my day, I smiled, nodded and turned to make dinner.

So when he said things were better, and I said they were actually worse, I was just keeping it to myself, he jumped up. "I'll make it better!" he spouted. "I'm leaving! I'm going to pack right now!" And he walked out. We separated that day, and a few months passed.

Meanwhile, my disengagement worked. 12-step programs say to "detach with love." I was trying, though many times I still "detached with disdain." I had gone to Al-Anon, learned it wasn't my job to fix everything for everyone, tout suite. Yes, I needed to make a decision, sure, but it wasn't time.

I set anxiety aside: Each time I felt stressed or anxious about what to do, I asked myself if it was time to decide. We were separated. My kids were safe and doing well. Much as I'd had a lifetime of forcing quick decisions and change now!, I finally realized there was only one person's behavior I could force or control: mine.

So when "What am I going to do?!" angst tickled my chest — I practically felt cortisol stress hormones rising — I checked in and soothed myself. Was today the day to decide? Nope. It's not time to decide. When it's time, you'll know. And almost magically, I let it go.

"I think he's a narcissist," the therapist admitted, the day he didn't show. She perhaps shouldn't have said this out loud, but I was grateful. I was a therapist, but almost all my patients were women, and I had a blind spot about narcissists. Blind ocean, more like.

"Naw," I said, incredulous. "But, ok, let's check." I opened my phone and tapped the DSM-5 app, scrolling to Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I began reading the criteria. There are nine, and at least five are needed to make the diagnosis. After each, we commented "yup," or (theoretically) "nope." As close as we ever got to "nope" was "maybe?" We agreed "yes" seven or eight times at least.

The truth was, my husband had been diagnosed with narcissistic and antisocial personality disorders long before, in prison. It was only I, in the flush of new love, who'd rationalized AA, meditation and yoga had healed him into the Adonis I wanted to see. My bad, and definitely my responsibility.

After reading the last criterion, I stared at the therapist. Suddenly, I knew. This was the day to decide. Calm and clear, I knew.

The next morning I attended yoga class before work: sweating and twisting and wringing my body out, breathing … then showering and walking to my car, clean and clarified. My phone pinged. It was him, though the therapist and I had asked him not to call. I considered ignoring. But I was ready. I slid my finger across the phone to answer.

"You say it's better at your house without me," he launched in, "and so does your son." (The therapist and I had implored him never to discuss marital issues with my kids, but he obviously had.) "So …" he drew out the punchline, expecting to call my bluff, "since you don't want me to move back, it seems the only thing for us to do … is to get a divorce."

I inhaled. Post-yoga seemed a divinely inspired time for this conversation. "I agree," I said. "A hundred percent."

 "Bu—! Wh— Were you even going to tell me?!" he couldn't hide his surprise.

"Yes," I said gently, "at our next appointment." I felt so at peace!

This phone call changed my life. Whenever I feel anxious, impelled to make a decision — do something! — I simply wait. When I want to tell my kids they shouldn't bike after dark, are dating the wrong person, might make a mistake by dropping a class, or even planning a wedding somewhere I suspect will not create their dream scene, I pause.

I remember feeling anxiously driven to get whatever it is off my plate, to feel better. Only, I rarely felt better when rushing for anxiety's sake. It wasn't time to decide, and I just created a helluva lot more worry. Needless and sometimes harmful, to me or those I love.

Instead, I check in. Is it time? Is it time to say what I think? Time to set that boundary, quit that project, make that commitment? I sense the answer and, without a doubt, feel calm, letting go. Until the next time the question bubbles up and I ask again, is it time? If it is, I know what to say, do, write or decide. If it isn't, I let go. Either way, I relax.

And you will too.

Diane N. Solomon Diane N. Solomon, PhD, is a Harvard-trained writer, Yale-trained nurse-midwife, and Oregon Health & Sciences University-trained psychiatric nurse practitioner and Ph.D. She specializes in well-being, women’s mental health, and adult psychiatry. Her personal essays and writing have been published widely, from HuffPost Personal to Psychology Today; Psychotherapy Networker to BMJ Supportive and Palliative Care, and many others. Read More