Hannah Gordon takes us inside the anxious mind.
___
I specifically remember a time when I was younger—I must have been seven or eight—when I woke up in a panic. I’d been anxious all night, which must have led me to sleep in my parents’ bed. I’m not sure what time it was that I awoke. I don’t even remember how long I’d actually been awake before I started panicking. My breathing was heavy, and it felt as though someone was standing on my chest. My hands and feet were tingling, and my stomach was queasy. I remember my mother reaching across the bed and putting her hand on my back.
“You’re okay,” she said.
I stayed awake for the rest of the night. I’m not sure if my mom even remembers this. It’s so strange, how vivid this memory is in comparison to others of that time.
Sometimes, in elementary school, I’d fake sick so I could stay home from school. I got good at it. I never had a reason why. I just felt nervous about nothing in particular. It would be a regular school day—no papers or tests—and I’d be filled with the most sickening dread. I’d cry if my mom wouldn’t let me stay home.
The feelings of dread would come and go. Most of the time, I was fine. Other times, I would lie in bed and will myself not to cry. I’d stare at the ceiling in terror.
|
This never struck me as odd. The feelings of dread would come and go. Most of the time, I was fine. Other times, I would lie in bed and will myself not to cry. I’d stare at the ceiling in terror. Nothing would be happening, but my hands would shake, and I’d pray for it to be over.
It got worse in high school, but I chalked it up to awkwardness. When I’d freeze up mid-conversation, my heart hammering in my chest, I just thought it was “typical Hannah” being awkward again. When I’d get queasy while out in public—even if it just was the Starbucks I’d been going to for years—I just assumed it was because I was a weirdo.
The first time I took Xanax, I was sixteen and at a friend’s house. Now, I know what you’re thinking:irresponsible kids and their drugs! Not quite. We were just hanging out, watching TV, and I told her about this “awkwardness.”
“I think that’s anxiety,” she told me. “I have it.” She offered me her Xanax.
It didn’t go away in college. I’d have, what I call, “one of those days” almost four times a week—I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and try not to hyperventilate. My friends would call or text, asking where I was in the dining hall that night, or why hadn’t I come to class? I had no answer for them, ever, so I’d just say I wasn’t feeling well.
It wasn’t until recently that a doctor told me I had anxiety. She asked how long it had been going on. I couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been.
What does anxiety feel like? It feels like seeing someone I know, someone I talk to on a regular basis, and suddenly being terrified, so much that words cannot come, and the interaction leaves me shaky and wanting to cry. It feels like hearing my roommate’s footsteps in the hall—a girl who knows me better than anyone else—and waiting until she goes back in her room before I leave, because my heart is hammering at the thought of interacting with her. It feels like getting called on in class and freezing, choking out words, and wanting to never, ever go to class again.
It feels like sudden and impending doom. The feeling that something bad is going to happen, any second now, but you have no idea what it could possibly be. You just have an intuition. So you stay under the covers all day to not risk it.
|
It feels like sudden and impending doom. The feeling that something bad is going to happen, any second now, but you have no idea what it could possibly be. You just have an intuition. So you stay under the covers all day to not risk it.
It feels like being in a room full of your friends, the music loud and happy, and suddenly you can’t breathe. Your lungs wheeze, and no one notices you’re struggling for air in the corner.
It feels like a cigarette in your hand, even though you don’t smoke. You just needed to get out of that party. You needed to get out.
“Where the hell have you been?” your friends ask when they come out to the porch and see you there, alone. “And why are you smoking?”
“We’ve only been here for five minutes,” another says. “And you already need a cigarette?”
It feels like not having an answer for them.
It feels like blowing the simplest situation out of proportion. I’m a nanny, and the other day, I was supposed to pick the kids up from school. It was my first time getting them. I parked the car and waited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes. I’d arrived early, of course, but as it came upon the twenty-minute mark, I started to panic. What if I had to go inside to get them? Did I have to? What if I called their mom and asked, and she thought I was so incompetent that she fired me? What if someone kidnapped the kids, and that’s why they hadn’t come out yet? I turned off the car. Got out. Stood by it. Got back in the car. I was sweating. I was envisioning missing child flyers and amber alerts. I couldn’t breathe anymore.
I finally went inside the school and walked to a classroom, except I didn’t know which one it was. I supposed I could ask, but I ended up walking around the halls, feeling like I was inside a nightmare.
I found them, eventually, and it turned out I did have to go inside the whole time. They weren’t kidnapped. No amber alerts. I didn’t lose my job. Everything was fine.
That’s how it feels.
It’s hard to talk about these things with people. They brush it off. Everyone gets anxious, right? I suppose, but not everyone feels anxious just existing.
I’m not like this all the time. Some days, I am able to get out of bed. I am able to talk to my roommates with ease, and I’m able to go out into the world without being afraid of it. Just not as often as I’d like.
Originally published on RealTalk.
Photo—slεεpµ╬dεmoñ™/Flickr