Mind My Broken Leg

When I was 11 I broke my leg. I went to hospital and sat on a hospital bed. A doctor covered the injured area in bandages and a soothing cream. My mum and dad fussed around me, telling me I was brave. No one told me to get up and stop being silly, no one told me the best way to heal it was to just ‘get on with it’. Generally it was acknowledged that ignoring the fact that the leg was broken and continuing as usual would’ve been madness.

Anxiety surrounds you like a thin, malevolent vapour — seeping into the pores of your skin, the fibres of your clothes, the quivering nerve endings and sparking neurones. It is the invisible tyrant, a crackling red atmosphere that makes your eyeballs itch and your chest feel full of water. I remember having one of the most severe panic attacks I have ever had over brunch with my boyfriend and his family. The vapour descended — so thick and so fast that I could hardly see what was in front of me. And yet I sat there, speaking, smiling — the invisible burning man in the midst of an unsuspecting crowd. It was like my body and my mind were being rent in two, part of me standing alone on a black plane of terrifying isolation, part of me in a sun-soaked room surrounded by safety and warmth.

Eventually the attack got so bad I had to excuse myself from the table and go and lean outside against the wall. My boyfriend came outside and rubbed my back with gentle bemusement. ‘Feeling better now?’ he said with nervous hopefulness as I gulped down fresh air. ‘Shall we go back inside?’ I was forcefully reminded of being wheeled out of the hospital with my broken leg. Imagine if my parents had said ‘right now, you’ve had your little episode — up you get, stop fussing’.

For a long time I forced my anxiety down with a rough hand, spurred on by shame, because those around me could not understand what they could not see. Broken legs are there — external, tangible, localised, contained, mendable. People know how to feel about them; they bring grapes and sign their names on the grubby cast. What’s more, they are treated with proper levels of care and attention. Through the helpless terror that would cloud my vision during a panic attack, I would often see that same helplessness reflected back at me, in the eyes of the person in front of me. I’d be met with limp advice like ‘just stop thinking about it’ or ‘you’ll feel better in a minute’. They may as well have told me to ‘walk off’ a broken leg.

I find the legitimacy of anxiety being constantly called into question because there is a basic assumption that what we cannot see must be insubstantial, microscopic, easy to bat away like a bad smell that has wafted across our path. People need to understand that, when in the throes of anxiety, someone is as disabled as if they were on crutches. It must be treated with care, patience and most importantly — treated with respect. Respect as something real. All too real.

Author: Storm

Originally published at comeasyouareblog.com