Anxiety Left Me Weak, But It Made Me Stronger
During my most recent panic attack, I burrowed into myself. Knees drawn to my chest, and arms crossed tightly around my shins, I became as still and small as possible, as if to hide from looming peril. Of course — and this is just one of many ironies about anxiety — the only threat was in my own mind. I was alone in my home, late on a Sunday afternoon in December. No one and nothing was going to get me. But the adrenaline surging through my veins nonetheless poised me for danger. And for that hour or so, all I wanted to do was hold, and protect, myself.
This was far from my first panic attack, though I consider it my worst. It persisted longer than any had previously, and this was my first experience with derealization: a disorienting and terrifying sensation that reality, the world, life, are permanently slipping away. While panic attacks are always unbearable, this one additionally felt like a betrayal; for the first time, I was receiving professional help for my anxiety. How was it possible that I had gone almost ten years without a panic attack, but now that I was actually in therapy and taking medication, I suffered through the worst one in my life?
Mercifully, the panic attack ended — although, in the moment, they never feel like they will. I realized right away that I would need time to recover, to be alone and take care of myself. Given how precarious my mental health felt following my panic attack, I knew I would need more than my standard day or two off from work. With the blessing of both my therapist and my primary care doctor, I took an entire week.
I teach high school English in Baltimore to students I cherish so much, I call them my lovelies. Teaching generally makes me feel happy and purposeful, but I knew I couldn’t be around them in this immediate aftermath. I’ve always been a proponent of taking a mental health day (or two) from work; I do this not only because I recognize it as imperative for my own well-being, but I also want to be mindful of the impact my moods have on my lovelies. Chronic obstacles — poverty, violence, loss — beleaguer them. About half of my students were born and raised in Baltimore, one of the nation’s most dangerous cities. The other half come from countries across the globe, settling, at least for now, here.
All of my lovelies are resilient and brave. None of them need a teacher who feels too unsteady to do her job.
While the people-pleaser and overachiever in me cringed at missing this much time, and the nurturer in me felt like I was abandoning my treasured students, I also knew that I needed to heal. There were moments that challenged me, like the day after my panic attack when a lovely texted asking where I was — his brother had been killed overnight, and he wanted to talk. Even in that difficult moment, I knew I had made the right choice.
For five days, I woke up and fell asleep when my body wanted to. I stayed in my pajamas and wrote. I went to the gym, and ran errands. I had an extra therapy appointment, and made sure to spend time with people who would make me laugh.
Every day, I would hear from a different handful of lovelies, all concerned that I wasn’t in school. I missed them all, but I was also relishing in the time away from grading assignments and attending meetings. Although my response to them that week was a bit premature, I believed it would be true eventually: “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
When I returned to school, I didn’t trust that my anxiety would remain manageable. Because I couldn’t count on my own mind, I had no choice but to focus on what I could control: primarily, to whom and what I said yes. If I minimized my amount of obligations, and committed only to what I must, or wanted to, at least that would prevent me from feeling overwhelmed. Spending as much time as I could doing what I found rejuvenating or enjoyable would keep me focused on the positive.
It’s not that my panic attack has led to an epiphany about how I’d like to live my life; rather, I’m accumulating various little lessons that, incrementally, are changing my mindset. Lately, I’ve been unapologetic about setting firm professional boundaries. I’ve declined requests for early morning or weekend meetings. I’ve loosened some of my perfectionist tendencies. I’ve even begun to practice detachment, forcing myself to acknowledge the limited amount of influence I have in my lovelies’ lives.
That said, I’ve remained vigilant about one lasting influence I hope to have on them: the necessity of knowing our limits. During any given class I’ve taught over the last eight years, there has been a roomful of young people who have already endured more upheaval than I can imagine. While the fact that they continue to laugh and love in spite of their ongoing challenges speak to their tenacity, I hope to minimize their struggles in any way I can. Beyond teaching critical thinking, reading, and writing skills, I also hope to impart to them, through example, that sometimes we all need a break, or help, or both.
Here’s another irony about anxiety: it drags me to my lowest points, which has taught me to insist on elevating my quality of life. Living with anxiety shows me that not only do I want to feel safe and be happy, but I deserve to. It has only been since this last panic attack, however, that I’ve learned how to make this my reality.
I didn’t realize the magnitude of this shift until I recently googled myself. The essay I’d written during my week off of school, The First Time I Cared About Myself More Than The Consequences, had been syndicated at another publication. Without my knowledge (or blessing), they had retitled it, “I Feel Overcome With Guilt For Taking Time Off Work For My Anxiety.”
For most of my life, this title would have aptly described how I felt about my time away from work. But now, seeing these words attributed to my experience — one so pivotal and recent — I felt as though I was about to read someone else’s story.
I don’t feel guilty that I took care of myself when my anxiety left me at my weakest. I feel grateful.
This essay was originally published as a guest essay in the newsletter, My Sweet Dumb Brain, which includes additional resources and guided exercises each week.
