Releasing Your Inner Adventure Junkie — When You Have Crippling Anxiety
Lessons learned from an anxiety-prone skydiver
“Sometimes we have to get really high to see how small we are.” — Felix Baumgartner
I was an anxious kid that grew up to be an even more anxious adult. In a sense, you could say that my body was always aching to experience more; while my scattered mind hushed those internal dialogues with affirmations of all the things that could, and inevitably would, go wrong from the trivial to the all-encompassing:
“Don’t raise your hand in class: you’ll look like a teacher’s pet.”
“Why would you ever audition for that play? You’ll forget your lines, humiliate yourself, and the world will come to an end!”
“Never go on a long hike. Or a short hike, for that matter. You’ll get lost in the forest and no one will ever find you.”
These battling monologues would continue into my twenties, ultimately affecting choices in careers, relationships, and hobbies (or lack thereof — unless you can call addiction, of any variety, a “hobby”).
I know what you’re thinking… I thought this was a story about skydiving??
Well, yes and no. It’s about what happens when an anxiety disorder meets an adrenaline-infused sport, and the fun chaos that ensues!
T o rewind a bit, my soon-to-be-wife (Laura) is an avid skydiver and has been for about 4 years. When she is not busy running marathons, organizing feline rescues for a local nonprofit, practicing law, and generally just being an extroverted go-getter, you can find her assuaging my own self-doubts and insecurities.
It was a match made in heaven!
Shortly after we started dating, I went on a tandem jump and felt incredible for overcoming what had been a fear for a while. Just imagine, ME — an overly analytical, scared of practically everything, agoraphobe — sitting in a tiny plane with 10 strangers in the middle of nowhere, jumping out of an aircraft at 13,000 feet above the ground.
The excitement that rippled through me sparked an interest in seeing how much more I could push that anxiety threshold. It was like a door opening just a crack, allowing a glimpse into the unknown.
Seeing my danger tolerance expand from non-existent to just slightly low, Laura purchased an introductory course for me to start the process of AFF, an accelerated free fall curriculum designed to teach students the skills to competently skydive. Throughout this intensive regiment (divided into 8 different categories — from the practical ground training, to supervised/instructor-assisted jumps, and finally solo jumping), I thought I was going to puke. In the best possible way.
It’s akin to that pounding in your chest as the rollercoaster slowly ascends, seconds pass like minutes, and you begin to teeter on the edge of sudden decline. Just when you think your heart can’t take any more stress, the train rattles across the rails at breakneck speed. You have never felt so alive.
Here, I should emphasize that the training provided during AFF is meant to mitigate the dangers that skydiving poses. This can definitely be a safe sport, as long as you’re both self-aware and observant of those around you, while also following the right emergency protocols. Research has shown that skydiving is actually safer than driving a car and the fatality rates for skydiving have remained consistently low.
Of course, as you would expect, there are inherent risks in any extreme sport; a margin for error that you consider when assessing whether those outweigh your desire to participate.
These concerns were alleviated by my enjoyment of the entire experience: that stomach flutter as our small Cessna slowly ascended to altitude; the camaraderie and high fives from fellow jumpers who all seemed to be in on some secret that the outside world wasn’t privy to; the initial adrenaline rush of leaping into the sky, into boundless emptiness full of possibility; and the sense of calm that washed over me after deploying my main parachute. The elation of landing — which at the time I had not finessed into anything more than sliding in before rolling around like a flopping fish. Still, there was pride in what I had just accomplished.
I was tackling my chronic anxiety head-on, and I was winning.
By the time I finished AFF, I had endured getting caught in unanticipated 30+ mph winds and safely landing off course in a neighboring prison (yes, you read that correctly, A PRISON). I had also successfully navigated a cutaway when I felt there was something off in my canopy (e.g., “cutting away” your main canopy to release a reserve parachute).
Soon after, I had completed the prerequisite 25 jumps needed to obtain my “A” license and passed the written exam, meaning that I was approved to fly solo, engage in basic group jumps, and pack my own parachute!!
To say that this was just an average achievement would completely diminish what people go through in living with generalized anxiety disorders. The ability to cope often comes with years of mental distress; walls that are gradually built, and seem nearly impossible to tear down. You become so nervous about doing anything that you ultimately do nothing.
Yet through a series of small victories, tenuous at first, my “fight or flight” responses began to surface in truly appropriate moments. Not in a semi-crowded grocery store, or for absolutely no reason while attempting to fall asleep during another insomnia-filled night. But when real stresses presented themselves that warranted such a reaction. Like focusing on how to safely jump out of a perfectly good plane.
The confidence that I felt the day after I received my license was unparalleled. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking I was Rocky or something. But I felt more like myself than I ever thought I could be.
Then it happened.
I was about to embark on my second jump of the day and I was mentally preparing myself after kind of a rough first landing. A landing that I attributed to being inexperienced, flaring too high, and nerves. All fairly accurate.
What I didn’t realize was much more disconcerting. There was another reason why I was having trouble that I frankly wasn’t knowledgeable enough to understand.
As I approached the landing zone, I repeatedly checked my altimeter and circled around the holding area; apparently you can anxiously pace on the ground or in the sky! Once it hit 1,000 feet I would begin my approach on the downwind leg of my flight pattern. There wasn’t much wind, which was out of the ordinary but didn’t seem like a big deal. 600 feet: entered the crosswind leg…300 feet, ready for that final leg into what minimal wind was present.
The next few seconds were a blur.
I flared a little too soon, no problem, on a forgiving canopy like the Spectre 170 that wouldn’t be an issue.
Wrong. Without warning, my canopy collapsed above my head and I quickly plummeted 15 feet to the ground. Dazed in a patch of dried grass, I tried to remove my helmet and realized that my right hand was hanging limply, devoid of function. What I later discovered from a friend, a more experienced skydiver, was that the brake lines were reversed on my canopy. This is incredibly rare, given that it had been fully inspected before purchase and then packed by a senior rigger. I was the anomaly.
Surprisingly, I walked away from the accident with just a bruised tailbone and a mangled arm, but no serious injuries beyond that. Honestly, it could have been much worse.
I did need to undergo surgery to repair the forearm fracture (both the radius and ulna were broken) and it went well; then, I went through about 4 months of physical therapy several times a week to regain full mobility.
After a year, I’m finally almost there — although there are lingering effects that are more permanent, I can at least function up to about 85%. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to do a push-up again…but did I ever want to in the first place??
Conclusion
You might assume that this would spell the end of my skydiving career, and you would be half-right. For now. While I have jumped since the accident, extraneous issues — aka, my mom’s death in April — have put things on hold.
There is a saying in the skydiving community, however, that really resonates when life is hitting you in unexpected ways: The sky will always be there.
It was there when I needed a way to expand my world beyond just an empty apartment or a bar, and it will be there when I’m emotionally and mentally ready to explore it again. Sometimes the more courageous thing to do is to not jump when your mind isn’t completely in it. Trust your instincts. And never let anyone pressure you into doing something you are not in a good space to tackle.
This is how I learned the positive impact of anxiety. Prior to last summer, I had defined myself in relation to how anxiety had inhibited my personal growth. Now I can understand its power to motivate us, prepare us for the challenges we have to face, while also emboldening us to take action.
It’s better to take a risk in trying something you could potentially love than to passively engage with the world. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
