We live curated lives on social media. A tastefully garnished brunch at a trendy restaurant. A smiling couple with a sunset in the background. A buff shot doing dumbbell curls at the gym. Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. Living the best life! But what about all those unfiltered shots that got deleted? (Jeez, Frank, could you at least try to smile?) And what happens between pictures?
I’ll admit that my life, as portrayed through posted pics, looks pretty good, too. Why would I post a shot of me scowling? Why would I even think of that moment as time for another selfie? Same goes for my Saturday nights on my sofa doing crosswords and my cottage cheese lunches, spooned straight out of the container. Real life has a whole lot more colors; they just happen to be all the muted tones and lots of grays and browns. (Is brown anyone’s favorite color?)
I try to make this blog about real life. I strive to be honest. I share my struggles. I’d like to think people can connect more to these moments, to feel reassured when they or someone they love struggles as well.
Yesterday was a whopper in terms of struggling. I got up before my alarm, but felt tired and peculiarly famished. (I have an eating disorder and don’t allow myself to eat until noon. (Hello, cottage cheese!) Sometimes I’ll cave and have a banana, but not until 10:15 at the earliest. Those are the rules. People with eating disorders have lots of rules.) I knew that the combination of fatigue and hunger wouldn’t bode well to start my normal writing routine so I chose to do my ninety-minute daily walk first. Wake up those endorphins (which I swear are mythical beasts), feel refreshed. Then get to it.
Half hour into my walk, I felt my mood was off. This happens. Don’t panic; keep walking. It’ll pass. But it didn’t. Things didn’t worsen; there was just this pesky little cloud lurking. At that point, I couldn’t even give it a label. I decided to stop in a café and treat myself to an oat milk latte. That’d do it. My go-to drink order, a nice walk—the rain that had been forecast was even holding off. I’d get back on-course.
Except I didn’t. When I returned home, I still wasn’t feeling I could write. This never happens. I firmly believe in a quote ascribed to both W. Somerset Maugham and William Faulkner: “I only write when inspiration strikes; fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” It’s the writers’ version of “Just do it.” (Writers can be so wordy.)
For the next forty-five minutes, I gave it a try. I tried some writerly tasks that weren’t actual writing. Alas, it failed to fool me. (Damn, it had worked SO many times before.) I headed out on a writerly errand, printing copies of some documents on my flash drive. Sometimes I need to see my work on paper instead of on a screen. The copy shop is only a block away so it wasn’t even much of a diversion. Less time than falling into a black hole extremely tangential “research” on the internet. Still, during all this time since my morning walk, my feeling of being off gathered momentum. By the time I was back home again, it had gained a label:
Anxiety.
This isn’t working, I told myself. I’ll try writing after lunch. Cutting myself some slack is rare. Kudos to self for allowing it. I wouldn’t get my allotted amount of writing in, but it would be okay. Quality over quantity. Or something instead of nothing.
My anxiety continued to rise. Why? What was happening? This wasn’t about writing. This was something bigger, something I couldn’t control. I’m an extraordinarily logical person. If I could identify a reason, I could come up with a sensible response. Or I could at least understand it. Okay. Yes. Now I get it.
Nope. That bugger was like a party crasher at the wrong address: Well, I’m here anyway so let me just have my fun.
Wouldn’t leave. Rudest guest ever.
My anxiety spiked to a new high. I was frightened. I didn’t know how to handle it. I tried to rest, but that was hopeless. It’s hard to rest when your house is on fire. I thought about calling my psychiatrist. He’s a new guy, doesn’t really know me. I couldn’t do it. I thought of friends. A few names popped up, but I dismissed them all. My reflex of childhood came to mind: Mom? Nope. She wouldn’t understand at all. I’d only worry her (even though she claims to be the picture of perfect mental health) or she’d say trite things that would trigger me.
I don’t think you’re getting enough Vitamin C. Try some orange juice.
Why don’t you stand in front of the mirror and smile?
This is what happens when you live in a big city. Cities are dangerous.
Seriously.
I suddenly remembered that a previous psychiatrist (who retired early—did I cause that?) had prescribed me a medication for anxiety emergencies. In four years, I’d only taken one pill. I searched the pill bottles in the bathroom vanity for twenty minutes. (Man, I’ve been on a lot of different psychiatric meds.) Found it. Took one. I figured it’d be like Ativan which I’d been given in hospitals before. Twenty minutes and I’d be calm and sleepy.
Nope. Somehow, my anxiety found another level. It only took ten seconds to Google a crisis line for my province. I made sure it wasn’t for people contemplating suicide. I couldn’t have my call get in the way of a suicidal person having someone to talk to. I punched in the numbers, let it ring twice, panicked and hung up. No particular reason. This is what anxiety does.
I paced. I picked up my phone, put it down again. My breathing got shallower. Tears were running down my face even though I didn’t feel like I’d been crying. I called again and forced myself not to hang up.
I got a voice recording. “If this is an Emergency, call 911. Otherwise, leave your name and number at the beep and we’ll get back to you.”
Well, okay then. This is how to respond to a crisis. I managed to leave my message, explicitly stating that I wasn’t suicidal, my voice shaking the entire time. I tried four or five times before I could articulate my phone number. (Since I hadn’t spoken out loud at all during my crisis, it was jarring hearing how fragile I sounded.)
I found an unfinished crossword and lay on the sofa, reading clues, filling in nothing at all, crying, entire body shaking, waiting. The hospital is four blocks away. They would admit me as they’d done before. On those occasions, what I’d needed twenty-four hours of care. One full day of observation and recovery. But I knew if I went there, they wouldn’t let me out, as they hadn’t before. Nine days in the psych ward; fifteen days in the psych ward. I continue to contend that I didn’t experience clinical anxiety until during that first hospitalization. Going to Emergency this time was NOT an option.
Twenty minutes later, the crisis line called back. We talked for about ten minutes, my voice quivering the entire time while a nice lady stuck to her script, restating whatever I said. “So I’m hearing that…” Yes, yes. You’re listening to me. Got it. No advice. No probing. I’ve never been good with scripted psychology. I’ve had counselors and psychiatrists hand me worksheets, even a PowerPoint presentation once. Nope. Next, please.It’s why I chose to end the call. I could see it wasn’t going anywhere and I worried about other callers who’d had to leave messages and were waiting. Maybe this kind of thing would actually help them. I thanked the nice lady profusely. She was a volunteer. Good for her. Truly.
I have to admit it did help a little. Saying things out loud—to another person—had some benefit. And, more importantly, my anxiety pill seemed to kick in. I climbed into bed and slept for an hour and a half. Unheard of. I haven’t been able to nap in the day since I started taking various meds several years ago.
I woke up, still anxious. At least I’d had a ninety-minute reprieve. I thought about writing. Impossible. I went outside and ran in a light rain for an hour and a half, choosing a route I knew wouldn’t have many people on it while also allowing me to run by the water which usually calms me. By the time I was home and showered, I was anxious all over again. I couldn’t shake the sucker. I’d never before experienced such heightened anxiety for such a prolonged period.
That’s when I surrendered. I couldn’t read anything substantial, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t listen to music. I’d scrolled through all the apps on my phone umpteen times. I went on Twitter and asked followers for photos or memes of anything to help distract me. That was as much as I could process. People came through, sending puppy pics, silly selfies and telling me about a jazz festival in New Orleans. Bless them. I was embarrassed to reach out to strangers but, as vile as Twitter can get, I’ve seen people offer support to others many times. I’ve tried to do my part, too. It was enough to help me ride out the evening and turn in early, my heart pounding forcefully as I lay on the mattress. I knew I’d never fall asleep. But I did. Exhaustion will do that.
New day. Anxiety gone. I don’t generally write on Saturdays so I showered and headed out for a couple hours of walking. All good. My chest still feels tight, a reminder that that mess of a day yesterday really happened. Wounds take time to heal. This applies as much to mental health as physical health.
I am okay.
I knew this. I knew I just had to get through yesterday, as scary and unpleasant as it was. I can’t possibly count the number of times I’ve heard other people with mood disorders repeat the phrase “This too shall pass” during group sessions, but it’s true. In the moment when things are so intense, it’s hard to believe that. Anxiety and depression can feel utterly unbearable. It’s about waiting for the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that. I’ve waited for months at a time when it’s been depression. Still, it does pass. I’m proof of that. I hope others who need a reminder will remember this post.
I’m glad I called a crisis line. I’m glad I reached out for distraction on Twitter. I’m glad I’m choosing to blog this. Tonight, I might just order takeout. (We’re still in lockdown.) Something tasty, something that looks amazing to update my Instagram. I’m back in the “real” world.
2 comments:
Oh, man, I LOVE this post. Thanks for having the courage to share the unvarnished, unhumourous (not a word, I know, but it fits), very real Gregory. I understood this from beginning to end. I so get it.
How many times have I experienced anxiety, had no idea why, and become pissed off at it? Like I say to Chris sometimes––so he knows it's happening to me (because I'm tired of pretending it's not there)––anxiety has no logic. It makes no sense. And the more we try to make sense of it, the less sense it makes.
So, when it happens, I've learned to just let it be. Because, the more you fight anxiety, the more anxious you get. In fact, here's some advice, which I learned when I attended ten sessions on anxiety with Fraser Health over two years ago. When anxiety knocks, let it in. Embrace it. Own it. Because you know what happens? You discover nothing's there. It's just a bunch of smoke.
Breathe. Accept. And, above all, be gentle with yourself.
Yes, this too shall pass. It always does. (Now, if I could just remember that when I have trouble sleeping at night.)
Thanks, Rick! For the feedback and the advice. I felt it was important to write this while I was still "recovering," with the experience so fresh, its impact on my mind and body still vividly within grasp. I want people to relate and maybe do a little better than I do, remembering that anxiety may have to be something to just accept and wait for it to pass.
It's strange that I do this rather well when it comes to depression. I offer a begrudging greeting, much like Jerry acknowledging Newman on "Seinfeld."
Hello, Depression.
Often, that's enough. I've burst the menace's bubble. I've spoiled its fun. Depression vamooses. When it does stick around, I have a playlist of songs that correspond with the mood. Okay, then, dude. Let's "celebrate" this. Fight it? Nope. (Weirdly, Michael Jackson's line from his McCartney duet, "The Girl Is Mine," pops into my head now: "Paul, I think I told you, I'm a lover not a fighter." That line has always made me both cringe and smile.)
At one time, Depression was Enemy Number 1. Man, the things that dude could do to me! Somehow though, Anxiety has proven to be a tougher foe. I catch glimpses of it every day. I get teary which is embarrassing because I'm usually encountering strangers on a sidewalk. While I dab at my eyes, head down, I bat the bugger away. Done! Gone! (Funny how those two words don't rhyme. English is weird.)
Every so often, however, Anxiety strikes as a tsunami. The force is too great. I'm too foggy-brained to understand what's happening. When I do, I can't think effectively. I panic. It's ABSOLUTE TERROR, no exaggeration. I fall so fast. No brakes, no parachute. My (now retired) psychiatrist observed it once and, quite frankly, I scared the hell out of him. I won't get too science-y but, when we face what we perceive as real danger, the survival response is Fight or Flight. I try both. Sometimes simultaneously. It's counterintuitive for me, in that degree of crisis, to say, "Oh, hey. Welcome, Anxiety."
I suppose that, in writing this post, there's a hope that it might also help myself the next time around. Remember when...? Maybe I'll be able to pull it up, skim it if I can't read it word for word. Maybe then, I'll be able to embrace it. Or at least make room for it, like an unwanted house guest that I couldn't pawn off on anyone else. This post will perhaps remind me that fighting and fleeing, while seemingly admirable--I'm not going to take this lying down!--can be futile against the full force of the most savage form of Anxiety.
Here's hoping!
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