In the corner of anxiety
It’s the space that’s terrifying.
The vast nothingness my mind contrives into my own personal dungeon of dread.
“I don’t know,” I sigh to no one, lying in my empty bedroom, still wrapped up under the covers. The clock reads 12:16 p.m. and the lull of the noontime sun peeks delicately though half-drawn blinds.
bzzzz. bzzzz. bzzz.
The sound sends a panic through my spine, and I can feel my pulse through my fingertips.
Even phone calls bring about anxiety.
I hit ignore (as always), groan that familiar groan, and pray to whatever deity who’ll listen that they don’t leave a voicemail.
It’s like this most days.
Unanswered messages, piles of undone laundry, a heap of mundane work that I can’t bring myself to touch. There’s a fog lingering in my head soaking up any ray of sunlight trying to make its way in.
And I couldn’t even tell you why.
“Where have you been lately?”
The question barely makes it through to my conscious, which is floating somewhere among daydreams of people and cities worlds away.
“What was that?” I ask, looking up at him through a haze of smoke.
He gulps the last of his beer.
“Where have you been?” he repeated. “I mean, you’re here now, but also you’re not. Did you even catch a word of Brandon’s story about how a hooker saved his life in Chicago?”
I take a generous drag of my cigarette and exhale a cloud of regret.
Drifting back to reality, I notice the chairs around me are now empty, and my friends are inside at the bar, ordering another round.
“Oh. No. Well not today, at least. It’s his most exhausted story, especially to customers at the bar.”
He sighs.
“Besides the point. You’re always in that head of yours. Snap out of it.” He snaps his fingers, and I think about kicking him in the shin. “Your friends — who love you and enjoy your company very much — we would like for you to actually hang out with us, please.”
He’s right, though. I can never seem to be present, these days. Always in a daze.
I just wish someone understood enough to talk me through it.
“Fine. I’ll buy you a shot, if you’ll shut up.”
He smirks. “There she is.”
Was she really, though?
A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
My psychiatrist — who insists on doubling as my therapist — had me spill my guts to him, and pinpointed its origins to a chemical imbalance in my brain coupled with an emotionally abusive relationship I was tangled in at the tender age of 18.
“GAD, for short,” he said.
“GAD-dammit,” I muttered to myself.
Persistent worrying or obsession about concerns that’s out of proportion to the impact of the event. Check.
Difficulty concentrating, or the feeling that your mind “goes blank.” Yup.
Worrying about excessively worrying. Ha, mega check.
While it’s nice to finally have an explanation for this fog-brain I’ve lived with my whole life, I can’t help but resent it.
Being labeled. Lumped into a category, a warning tag hanging from my side: “Fragile — Handle with care.”
I’m terrified of losing myself to the diagnosis.
These days, I often find myself swimming in alcohol and flirting with questionable substances.
“I’m a fan of anything that will help me chill the fuck out,” I declare, half-jokingly. (Humor is my second most utilized coping mechanism.)
It’s not uncommon for those of us living in the corner of anxiety to resort to substance abuse to silence the static in our minds. I wish I was the statistical anomaly, but here I am, double-fisting drinks on a Tuesday night.
Unfortunately, this type of mental escape is an accepted social convention, and therefore, no one thinks to stomp the brakes for us.
We don’t talk about it, mental health.
We inch cautiously around it, like a putrid puddle on a city street.
Some days, I just want to blurt it out to anyone who will listen.
“Hi, my name is Hetty and every day I surmount mountains to complete the simplest tasks and sometimes I drink until I can’t see, how about you?”
But you can’t say that at dinner parties.
Unfortunately, the stigma of mental illness is alive and well.
Despite great strides made to catalyze the conversation on mental illness, many of us continue to live in the shadows, locking away our deepest fears and darkest thoughts in fear of being labeled as weak.
Or crazy.
We don’t show our scars, even though others may very well have a matching set.
Instead, we don our cheery personas, wading through the waters of life, never acknowledging when we feel like drowning.
It breaks my heart, knowing that there are millions of others out there like me.
Lost at sea.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, finally tired of the silence, probably.
I give him a little smile and say, “I’d tell you, but you’d probably think I’m crazy.”
He returns the smile and replies, “Nice try, I already think you’re crazy. But it’s cool, I love you anyway.”
Something important to remember.
Beyond the psychotherapy sessions. Beyond the nights spent driving aimlessly, running from something invisible. Beyond the hazy veil of anxiety, there is still beauty to be found in the world.
Beauty in the mundane. A cup of coffee on a quiet morning. A puppy jumping into your lap. A message from a friend half a world away. A lover’s embrace.
The beauty that always exists, even when I feel trapped within the realm of my anxious mind. On days when it seems the world demands too much, it is this inspiration found in the mundane that keeps me going.
Because I am more than my illness.
Because behind the Prozac and the Xanax, there is still a person.
There is still the girl with an undying love for the written word, who loves the ocean and loves her mother, and who dances poorly but dances anyway.
Because beyond the corner of anxiety,
I am still,
very much,
me.
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