"HOW IT FEELS TO BE ANXIOUS ME"
MISHKA MAULIK
Irrationally quick pulse. Inconsistent, shallow breathing. Blinding chest pain. Trembling. Sweating. Crying. Red sparks flash across my eyes, literally shutting me out from the world, and trapping me inside the pitch blackness of my own mind. My throat has closed off, and when I try to open my mouth to scream for help, my breathing ceases. Alarms blare in my head as my body grows heavier, desperately trying to fend off the attack, but the pain is too much and I collapse to my knees. Thoughts streak past my battered mind, flashing before my eyes in a distorted mess as they careen into each other. I can’t breathe. I am going to die. Please help me. Can’t breathe, please help, please. I feel like I’m dying. Can’t. Please help. Going. To. Die. The panic consumes me, drowns me, kills me. I know I cannot fight this any longer, and so I give in, begging for the release I know death will give me, while simultaneously feeling my breaths grow more inconsistent, more rapid, because I don’t want to die. This is how I’m going to die, but I don’t want to die. I know nobody can hear me, and in a way this does not bother me, because I am the only one who can save myself now. Just get up, please. Please, I don’t want to die. You have to help me, please. I beg myself to fight, but the panic has taken over, and no efforts on my part can stop what I know is about to happen. Even as my eyes roll in the back of my head, even as my body sways slowly for a minute before crumpling, my mind still hasn’t shut down. The last thing I hear before the dark overtakes me is a voice. Vindictive. Spiteful. You can’t win, it mocks me, and I know this to be true. You’ll never change. You are going to die.
With symptoms eerily reminiscent of a heart attack, my anxiety becomes even more terrifying of a disease. Just like the black widow spider, whose venom shuts down a victim’s nervous system before devouring it, anxiety demolishes my body before poisoning my mind. But unlike the spider who moves on to another victim, my anxiety looms over me, a constant reminder that life will never get better, that it will feed off my fear and sap my strength until it finally obliterates me. What started off as a whisper in my mind, a rude yet underwhelming presence lingering in the back of my mind, has slowly grown to an abusive voice magnified by a bullhorn. What were once small comments- That shirt probably makes you look fat, and since your face isn’t exactly ideal, do you really think you can afford to look so bad?- are now assertive statements. You look so ugly, how can anyone stand to be seen with you? It’s you they always talk about- how ugly you are, how stupid and annoying you are. They don’t like you, don’t you get that? As a child, I was conditioned to believe that “sticks and bones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me”. Of course, when my parents drilled this into my head, they weren’t exactly anticipating that all the negative “words” were only coming from myself. Nor did they imagine that the insults were much more complex and damaging than playground jeers. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will destroy me.
As far as invisible disabilities go, anxiety (in my opinion) seems to be one of the most difficult to explain, because of how utterly mundane my fears are. Is there even an acceptable way to RSVP “Yes” to an invite, and then cancel mere hours before the event? How do I explain that the beautiful dress I bought, the dress that garnered multiple compliments from everyone who saw it, the dress that I couldn’t wait to wear, now makes me look so ugly that surely I’d be a laughing stock if I had the gall to show up in it? How do I explain that I would love to come, but I can’t go out and buy a small gift beforehand because what if I put my card into the chip reader the wrong way? Then I would be holding up the line, and everyone would laugh and say to themselves “Look at this girl. She must be so privileged using her parent’s money to buy gifts for people who probably don’t even like her, but she can’t even use a credit card!” While parties seem like an obvious reason for my fears to arise, my anxiety also manifests in other seemingly innocuous situations. When my friends drop their pencils, and I flinch as if they’ve slapped me, their confusion fuels my fear that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to fully fight off the fears that shackle me, and nobody will ever be able to help me. How do I tell my friends, who delight in the fact that their heavy metal loving, sarcastic, dark humored classmate falls off her chair when they drop their water bottles or make sudden movements, that I’m not simply overacting for their amusement, that I thrive in a quiet environment, and that their unexpected actions can send me spiraling? Hey guys, I know that it’s quirky and funny that I freak out when your water threatens to spill onto the floor, and while I think it’s funny too, I’m actually experiencing a sensory overload that has the potential to induce a relentless panic attack, and I can guarantee if that happens, none of us will be laughing. As pathetic as these anecdotes seem, I don’t detail them so that my peers and friends will have sympathy for me, or stop messing with me. In fact, as much as the unanticipated motions scare me, I welcome them, because I realize just how ridiculous it is to feel afraid all the time. Sometimes, my attempts to fix my fears seem futile, but as time passes, I understand that I don’t have to come to terms with my anxiety; in fact, I know I can fight it.
Irrationally quick pulse. Inconsistent, shallow breathing. Blinding chest pain. Trembling. Sweating. Crying. Red sparks flash across my eyes, literally shutting me out from the world, and trapping me inside the pitch blackness of my own mind. My throat has closed off, and when I try to open my mouth to scream for help, my breathing ceases. Alarms blare in my head as my body grows heavier, desperately trying to fend off the attack, but the pain is too much and I collapse to my knees. Thoughts streak past my battered mind, flashing before my eyes in a distorted mess as they careen into each other. I can’t breathe. I am going to die. Please help me. Can’t breathe, please help, please. I feel like I’m dying. Can’t. Please help. Going. To. Die. The panic consumes me, drowns me, kills me, but I know I can fight this, so I refuse to give in; instead I conjure up the techniques my therapist taught me to fight off my fear. I latch my hands together, pressing as hard as I dare, not minding that my nails draw blood from my palms, and focus all my energy into calming my breathing. Deep breath in, slow exhale. The pain hasn’t subsided, but I can feel my breaths slow, grow more consistent, and my fear diminishes while my confidence slowly increases, like rain evaporating when the sun finally emerges from the dark, rumbling clouds. You’re going to be okay, you’re not going to die. I know nobody can hear me, and this no longer bothers me, because I am the only one who can save myself now. My body is still too weak to rise, but I am no longer in any danger of losing consciousness. My mind has abandoned its shut down-procedure, and even though there is still a presence in my head desperate for me to lose this battle yet again, the voice that once commanded me to fail has shrunk to a whisper. You’ll never change, it murmurs, but I now know this to be false. Because I have changed, and even though the pencil clattering to the floor still makes me jump, even though I still have days where I think everyone hates me, even though I still hesitate to slip on my beautiful dress, I no longer consider these minuscule fears important enough to dictate my life. And while I’ll never figure out how to correctly put my credit card in a chip reader, at least I finally understand I have complete control over my mind and my life.
With symptoms eerily reminiscent of a heart attack, my anxiety becomes even more terrifying of a disease. Just like the black widow spider, whose venom shuts down a victim’s nervous system before devouring it, anxiety demolishes my body before poisoning my mind. But unlike the spider who moves on to another victim, my anxiety looms over me, a constant reminder that life will never get better, that it will feed off my fear and sap my strength until it finally obliterates me. What started off as a whisper in my mind, a rude yet underwhelming presence lingering in the back of my mind, has slowly grown to an abusive voice magnified by a bullhorn. What were once small comments- That shirt probably makes you look fat, and since your face isn’t exactly ideal, do you really think you can afford to look so bad?- are now assertive statements. You look so ugly, how can anyone stand to be seen with you? It’s you they always talk about- how ugly you are, how stupid and annoying you are. They don’t like you, don’t you get that? As a child, I was conditioned to believe that “sticks and bones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me”. Of course, when my parents drilled this into my head, they weren’t exactly anticipating that all the negative “words” were only coming from myself. Nor did they imagine that the insults were much more complex and damaging than playground jeers. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will destroy me.
As far as invisible disabilities go, anxiety (in my opinion) seems to be one of the most difficult to explain, because of how utterly mundane my fears are. Is there even an acceptable way to RSVP “Yes” to an invite, and then cancel mere hours before the event? How do I explain that the beautiful dress I bought, the dress that garnered multiple compliments from everyone who saw it, the dress that I couldn’t wait to wear, now makes me look so ugly that surely I’d be a laughing stock if I had the gall to show up in it? How do I explain that I would love to come, but I can’t go out and buy a small gift beforehand because what if I put my card into the chip reader the wrong way? Then I would be holding up the line, and everyone would laugh and say to themselves “Look at this girl. She must be so privileged using her parent’s money to buy gifts for people who probably don’t even like her, but she can’t even use a credit card!” While parties seem like an obvious reason for my fears to arise, my anxiety also manifests in other seemingly innocuous situations. When my friends drop their pencils, and I flinch as if they’ve slapped me, their confusion fuels my fear that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to fully fight off the fears that shackle me, and nobody will ever be able to help me. How do I tell my friends, who delight in the fact that their heavy metal loving, sarcastic, dark humored classmate falls off her chair when they drop their water bottles or make sudden movements, that I’m not simply overacting for their amusement, that I thrive in a quiet environment, and that their unexpected actions can send me spiraling? Hey guys, I know that it’s quirky and funny that I freak out when your water threatens to spill onto the floor, and while I think it’s funny too, I’m actually experiencing a sensory overload that has the potential to induce a relentless panic attack, and I can guarantee if that happens, none of us will be laughing. As pathetic as these anecdotes seem, I don’t detail them so that my peers and friends will have sympathy for me, or stop messing with me. In fact, as much as the unanticipated motions scare me, I welcome them, because I realize just how ridiculous it is to feel afraid all the time. Sometimes, my attempts to fix my fears seem futile, but as time passes, I understand that I don’t have to come to terms with my anxiety; in fact, I know I can fight it.
Irrationally quick pulse. Inconsistent, shallow breathing. Blinding chest pain. Trembling. Sweating. Crying. Red sparks flash across my eyes, literally shutting me out from the world, and trapping me inside the pitch blackness of my own mind. My throat has closed off, and when I try to open my mouth to scream for help, my breathing ceases. Alarms blare in my head as my body grows heavier, desperately trying to fend off the attack, but the pain is too much and I collapse to my knees. Thoughts streak past my battered mind, flashing before my eyes in a distorted mess as they careen into each other. I can’t breathe. I am going to die. Please help me. Can’t breathe, please help, please. I feel like I’m dying. Can’t. Please help. Going. To. Die. The panic consumes me, drowns me, kills me, but I know I can fight this, so I refuse to give in; instead I conjure up the techniques my therapist taught me to fight off my fear. I latch my hands together, pressing as hard as I dare, not minding that my nails draw blood from my palms, and focus all my energy into calming my breathing. Deep breath in, slow exhale. The pain hasn’t subsided, but I can feel my breaths slow, grow more consistent, and my fear diminishes while my confidence slowly increases, like rain evaporating when the sun finally emerges from the dark, rumbling clouds. You’re going to be okay, you’re not going to die. I know nobody can hear me, and this no longer bothers me, because I am the only one who can save myself now. My body is still too weak to rise, but I am no longer in any danger of losing consciousness. My mind has abandoned its shut down-procedure, and even though there is still a presence in my head desperate for me to lose this battle yet again, the voice that once commanded me to fail has shrunk to a whisper. You’ll never change, it murmurs, but I now know this to be false. Because I have changed, and even though the pencil clattering to the floor still makes me jump, even though I still have days where I think everyone hates me, even though I still hesitate to slip on my beautiful dress, I no longer consider these minuscule fears important enough to dictate my life. And while I’ll never figure out how to correctly put my credit card in a chip reader, at least I finally understand I have complete control over my mind and my life.