Anxiety Is My Friend

My life, up to this point, had been a perpetual cycle of shit. I was used to the world throwing me curve balls and constantly knocking me down. I expected it. As my mom always told me, “Expect the worst, hope for the best.” I was 18 by now, a solid 6 months into only my second job ever.

I was all too familiar with the dark parts of my mind, the parts that tended to trapeze into melancholic thoughts. I had learned to cope with caffeine, cigarettes, and self-deprecation and, up to this point, it had never failed me.

Because I knew myself, or I thought I did. Looking back now, I didn’t know anything. But I had survived a childhood of poverty (sharing a single room and bed with my parents and younger sister for years), I had survived two severe car accidents- and learned to cope with the corresponding PTSD, I had made it past self harming and was on the road to recovery, I made it through dropping out of high school but still making it to college, and I had survived my first real broken heart.

I trusted myself. I was confident in my ability to make it in the world because I was so sure I could always count on myself to pull through. I had lived with anxiety since I was seven but I never blamed myself because there was always a reason for it. But this day had changed everything.

I was sitting in the car with my mom, finishing a cigarette before I went into my shift at work. It was early evening, around 4 pm. She had made a remark about my scars; I was finally back to wearing short sleeved shirts in the summer. I had finished my cigarette and suddenly felt unwell, though I hadn’t been able to pinpoint what was making me feel so off. “I don’t feel very good.” I had told her. It was summer and it was hot and my damn sports bra was too tight. “I feel like I’m not getting enough oxygen.” I said to her calmly.

“It’s probably just the heat.” She told me.

“Yea. Probably.” I brushed it off and took a deep breath before saying goodbye and heading into work. I was a line cook at this pizza place.

I clocked in, saying hellos to passing coworkers, and went to the make table to begin orders. I was looking between the screen and the pizza I was attempting to arrange pepperonis on, when I felt a sudden wave of terror wash over me. I grabbed the edge of the table and closed my eyes. I took deep breaths, but I did not feel good. I couldn’t place it. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. My manager passed me, lightly touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t think so.” I rushed out, moving to the small break table we had and sitting down. A vibration had started inside me, where my rib cage opens up to meet my stomach. It grew and grew until it radiated up my chest, through my arms, and down my thighs. The world swam and my vision danced. My lungs wouldn’t work. They couldn’t expand as the crushing weight settled upon me. My chest heaved and my senses dulled to everything around me. I couldn’t hear past the rushing in my ears, the furious beat of my heart in my chest demanding my lungs take in oxygen. To work like they were supposed to. Doom settled over me like a death sentence. I was going to die. I knew it like I know the sky is blue. I tried to stand, to regain control of my failing body. My legs gave out. My muscles retreated in, locking up my legs up and forming my hands into uncomfortable stone. My feet tilted in, my ankles tried to bend unnaturally. My wrists flexed in so far that pain radiated throughout. The joins in my hands bent my fingers into a fist on one had wonky C shape on the other and then stuck. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My lips tingled and my tongue felt too big for my mouth. My speech slurred as I tried to speak. “I’m going to spontaneously combust.” This is what they talked about. This was it. My sudden unexplainable end. I laid on the floor while my manager frantically called 911.

“I think she’s having a seizure.” I had barely heard her say. I couldn’t move so I stayed on the dirty, cold floor. Bent up and terrified. I wanted to close my eyes and never open them again. I wanted to float away. I could feel moisture at the corners of my eyes, leaking out and leaving a trail down my face. I just laid there. I don’t know how long it took. But eventually, I could breathe again. My manager helped me into the chair and the paramedics arrived. My hands were still bent and stuck and painful. My mind was foggy and I was so very tired.

“It was likely a panic attack.” The paramedic said. I sat, dumbfounded. I couldn’t accept it. It couldn’t be.

“But I wasn’t feeling anxious.” I defended myself. They explained more. That as I hyperventilated, oxygen was cut off from my extremities, causing them to lock up. I couldn’t make sense of it. What about the vibration in my chest? What about the feeling of doom? It didn’t make sense. Back and forth I went with the paramedics until I couldn’t keep up. They offered to take me to the hospital to monitor me, but at this point the worst of it had gone. And I didn’t have insurance so I declined.

My manager sent me home and I remember that I had to have help clocking out because I still couldn’t use my hands. My mom picked me up and I went home. But I couldn’t accept that this was anxiety. I had anxiety my whole life. We were two peas in a pod by now. So, I went to my doctor.

She said the same thing. It was a panic attack. The world dropped from under my feet. Because this was the first time that I realized I could no longer trust myself, my body, my mind… they had all failed me for no apparent reason.

The first month was brutal. I was having panic attacks up to three times a week. Each one would hold the same devastating effects. My body was always left sore and tired; my mind a blob of incoherent thoughts. But the more devastating toll it took was the one on my mental state.

I had lived 18 years in uncertainty and instability. I prided myself on my ability to handle almost everything. My depression demon had sank its claws into me at the young age of 12, and anxiety years before that. I cannot begin to describe the relationship that develops with mental illness in those young ages. I became comfortable with my mental state because I understood it. It was like this separate part of me that I hated, but couldn’t fathom living without. I knew how to navigate life, and my mind, in a way that worked.

But now my mind was betraying me? And in cahoots with my own body? I felt betrayed by myself. Who was I supposed to trust now? Who was going to tell me everything would be okay?

I didn’t know where to go from there. I was completely and utterly lost. It was as if everything I knew was ripped away from me, and why? Because I couldn’t breathe properly? I felt ashamed and angry. I no longer trusted myself doing things alone. I asked my mom to drive me everywhere. I called out of work more and more. I couldn’t go to the store alone. I couldn’t make phone calls anymore.

I fell and I fell hard. I’d like to say this is some sort of prodigal son story, but it’s not.

While my panic attacks abated and evened out, only occurring when I’m especially stressed or lacking sleep, they’ve never gone away. Neither has the general anxiety. While I wish I could say that I fell back into myself, relearned how to trust myself, I didn’t. I haven’t.

Most days, I ride to work with my mom even though I’m a whopping 25 years old now. Sometimes while I’m at work, I shut the door and hide in the bathroom until my heart rate settles back into a normal rhythm. If I have to leave my house, I beg my fiancé or sister to go with me because the thought of going alone sends my body into overdrive. Every noise in my apartment sets me on edge. Was that the water heater or is the apartment about to explode? Did I just hear the door open? Is that smell something burning or the heat?

I wish I could say this was another journey of self discovery, but it wasn’t. Most days, I’m just pushing through. Some days, I feel confident enough to drive with the windows down. But all days, I’m just trying to reach okay.