AFTER A LIFETIME LIVING WITH ANXIETY, I'M STILL LEARNING

I’ve had a lot of time to think since I quit or lost my volunteer job which involved taking seniors for bike rides on trishaws along scenic bike paths in Vancouver. I posted about the incident last week but the circumstances actually happened a month ago. In a nutshell, my anxiety—and the complexities of $25,000 e-bikes—got the better of me. 

 

I feel great shame over the episode. I don’t think most people would understand what happened. I’m not even sure I understand. Despite having anxiety all my life and being officially diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety and Social Anxiety shortly after receiving my first mental health label a dozen years ago, Major Depressive Disorder, I have never been able to independently apply any of the strategies for de-escalating anxiety in the moment. In mood disorder groups, individual therapy, hospital and group home settings, I’ve learned and practiced strategies as guided exercises, but they never come to me when I’m actually in crisis. I also carry with me a bottle Xanax for emergencies, but I only remember it as an option long after the anxiety episode has passed. Anxiety has a way of blocking the ability to think coolly and rationally.

 

I decided early on after being discharged from my first stint in the psych ward that I would be open about my mental health struggles. In fact, twenty minutes after being released, I ran into a friend on the street and blurted where I’d been and why. We grabbed a coffee and my friend proved to be a supportive listener. I was released on a Friday and returned to my job as a school principal the following Monday, everything about daily life still a massive challenge but children have a way of making me smile even when I’m struggling. It was school staff who noticed I was “off.” It took two months before I was finally open with them.

 

I often blog here about mental health, I used to journal about it, I’ve spoken on panels and been on a CBC podcast. I’m also writing an essay collection about mental health and I’ve taped a ten-episode podcast though I’m stuck as to the technical aspects for adding music and launching it. Most often it’s my eating disorder that is the focus of discussion but I mention anxiety and depression as well. Men are less likely to seek help for their mental health and I am determined to be an open example of someone who has accessed formal supports and continues to need them.

 

Despite all this background, I am disappointed with how things played out in a volunteer setting. As stated, I didn’t attempt—or even think of—any self-care strategies, but I’m satisfied (“proud” seems like a stretch) that I articulated that I have an anxiety diagnosis and I was in the midst of an anxiety episode. In a crisis, there is often a fight-or-flight response and I chose the latter. I needed to exit the situation, pronto. I didn’t just cancel my ride, I quit the program. I had experienced anxiety before every single ride and worked my way through it on my own so that I could show up and, once I had two seniors seated in the trishaw, enjoy the experience with them. But the anxiety could not be contained this time and I felt it would only increase if I kept returning to the site. 

 

While I disclosed my condition, I did not advocate for myself. In the moment, that wasn’t realistically possible. I didn’t have the composure. I’d fallen apart enough in front of a new employee I’d only met once before and I needed personal space to recover. 

 

Still, the next day I received an email from the director of the program whom I knew. It took another twenty-four hours to read it. He wanted to know if I would like a conversation about things before I was removed from the volunteer list. I declined, instead writing about how much I valued and supported the objectives of the program. Basically, keep doing all that good stuff…without me. 

 

If I’d had my druthers, I would have had that conversation, maybe even in person. I realize that the program is about seniors, not about me as a volunteer. Still, in my background as a school principal and a special education teacher, I knew that what made my volunteering so anxiety-inducing was the fact that each of the highly specialized $25,000 e-bikes was operated a little differently and I often stumble when trying to figure out gizmos and gadgets. There’s a term, reasonable accommodation, that comes to mind. For me, it wasn’t reasonable that I show up for each volunteer shift not knowing which bike I’d be operating from a fleet of eight. I had taken notes on my phone regarding how to operate a couple of them and, if I’d been assured I could expect to use one of them each time, I might still be a volunteer. The firm expectation that I had to know how to operate all of them is what triggered the anxiety. The work-around for someone with a mental health disorder would have been easy to implement. The director may have disagreed, but I didn’t even put the idea out there. It could have been an educational opportunity. 

 

In spite of my openness and my desire to be an advocate, I pedalled away, embarrassed and crushed over the fact I’d failed in a volunteer role. Admittedly, I’m relieved, too. The situation, without an easy modification, had proved too much. Still, I’m left with knowing what my disability prevented me from doing rather than feeling empowered by what I am able to do despite challenges I have. It’s been a learning experience for me, if no one else.

 

 

 

 

 

STILL GOT IT

I’m teary today. It comes with being scared. I’ve just past the five-month marker for severe food restriction. 

 

Funny, I used to count months in terms of being in a relationship. With that kaput, it’s about months of food deprivation. Segued smoothly from one to the other, with one month of numbing and hoping for a change of heart in between. 

 

I’ve gotten myself into a troubling spot. It could all be fine. I’ve been restricting food for decades. I’ve been at this level—and worse—before but never this long. 

 

This past week, I went for a reassessment of my eating disorder. I’d gone undiagnosed for so many years and then in 2017, I was finally told I had anorexia nervosa. I cried. It was a strange relief to finally hear that something I’d long felt was “off” with me was indeed an issue. I felt seen, understood. The label mattered. I could receive support from psychiatrists, counsellors, dietitians, nurses and occupational therapists. I could finally be present with others who had eating disorders, hear their stories, nod along. They could listen to me and nod back. I was with compassionate people who understood the struggle.

 

Throughout 2018 and 2019, I tried everything available—outpatient support, hospitalization, a group home. I was connected but neither my behaviours nor my mindset changed. Due to funding issues and the high demand for support for persons with eating disorders, my access to support was cut off after two years as a matter of course. I left the program knowing I officially had a problem and realizing I was stuck. I could sit out for six months and then seek service again, but I didn’t see the point. Without progress, I was taking someone else’s spot. 

 

I was fine. My life was different than others. Not as carefree; more rules of my own making. But it was an existence I could live with. 

 

In my two-year relationship, I was open about my eating disorder. I invited questions and answered honestly when the occasional discussion came up. I did everything I could to try to minimize the impact of my rules during our shared experiences. I exercised when it would have the least impact. I restricted but also ate regular meals, full portions. I even questioned which of us was the more disordered eater. His intake always seemed less. 

 

In the end, my rules were cited during the breakup. I’d been open about my mental health challenges, including those beyond the eating disorder. I don’t think he ever truly understood. I had unpacked all my “baggage” within the first week of us being together. I really wish he’d said his “No thank you” then and shown me the door. An early exit would have been more humane.

 

My reassessment took two hours. (There were already two updated blood tests and three ECGs on file.) As things shifted to talk about programming available to me, I interrupted and said, “So…I still have an eating disorder?”

 

“Yes. Severe. Anorexia nervosa.”

 

The “severe” was new. I knew this but hearing a professional say it was difficult. I wanted to break down but fought it off. With a hand, I was able to wipe away the few tears that welled up and finally trickled down my cheeks. 

 

Early on during the appointment, she told me I needed to cancel my upcoming travel plans. I am scheduled to be away for six weeks and this is delaying my cardiology appointments as well as access to eating disorder programming. I shook my head. Part of my trip is about building on social connections that are vital to me since, in Vancouver, I am rather isolated from deep relationships. I also managed to convey over the rest of my appointment how travel lifts me and how I even eat more when my routine has to adapt to different environments. I treat myself more. I allow things that are no-gos on home turf. 

 

So, yes, travel before treatment. The interventions have to wait. My decision. Still, it is scary. There are more what-ifs about my physical health now. I’ve heard a couple of frightening things from my family doctor and my psychiatrist. The remarks shook me so much I knew not to ask any follow-up questions. I was too startled and I couldn’t handle any more detailed information. I most certainly won’t be Googling.

 

Make it go away.

 

The information. The eating disorder.

 

The problem, however, is just what I said during my reassessment. “I can’t stop.” It was another teary moment. She nodded. We both knew this. That’s an inherent part of having an eating disorder, especially one that is severe.

 

I don’t sleep well. I don’t exercise well. Basically, I don’t function well right now. Nightmare scenarios play out in my head. I’m hoping travel will offer the distraction it always does. Let my mind and body rest. 

 

Let me be ready when I return to will some sort of change for the better.

 

  

HOW TO MEANINGFULLY CHECK IN WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES

Okay, last week I bemoaned the fact that people say, “I’m here for you” when their follow-up words and actions indicate otherwise. I needed to unload. I needed to leave readers with food for thought…maybe some introspection and some tweaking of their own interactions. 

 

It’s nice to be nudged instead of nagged.

 

Still, I feel this post is a necessary complement to last week’s. Mental health still has its stigma. It’s hard to wade into unknown waters. Perhaps my perspective regarding what I’d want may provide guidance to navigating heart-to-heart conversations with your own friends and family who may experience mental health challenges.

 

Let me preface things by saying I have had a few good conversations lately in which I’ve felt heard and understood. One of my closest friends moved to Montreal six months ago and I flew there for a weeklong visit. She’d known I was struggling, partly with depression but primarily with my eating disorder, and we were talking about it in-depth within the first hours of the visit. Another person is a new friend whom I met for a second time for a glass of wine on a deck overlooking Jericho Beach and the Burrard Inlet. To be clear, both these people have been open with me about their own histories involving eating disorders. There is nothing that compares with talking with people who can knowingly nod—Been there, done that…or something like that. These people are dearer to me for letting me lean when I’ve needed to. Their understanding is implicit, but it is expressed, too. I’m not expecting a friend or family member to provide that caliber of support. That just wouldn’t be fair.

 

Still, whether it’s an eating disorder or any number of other mental health conditions—on my Insta account, I describe myself as a hoarder of MH labels—one basic tenet that I want people to know is that the condition is not a one-day thing. It’s not like someone saying they’re “depressed” because their team lost a game or you lost a key document when your laptop crashed. It’s not like when someone says they’re “anxious” about a date tomorrow night or have anxiety over an upcoming job interview. Without further information, these are presumably non-clinical cases of sadness and worry…regular emotions situationally arising in predictable contexts. In such cases, listening to the person requires being in the moment and perhaps a next-day or next-week follow-up. “Hey, did a tech guy recover your lost document?” “How’d the date go?” Done. 

 

If you don’t have the same mental health diagnosis, your understanding of what someone is going through requires more information…from THAT person. In a nutshell, it’s about asking open-ended questions and then actually listening, even seeking further clarification.

 

“How are you doing?” is a starting point. 

 

Often, I don’t trust that the person really wants to know. Even if they listened well on a previous occasion, I tend to assume it’s a default question with a default answer: Fine. Okay. Good. Sometimes I even reflexively say, “Super!” It comes from a boss of mine who used that word to define her mood and most everything else. It’s a basic word but, when used by an adult, it comes off as surprising. We’re socialized to not be so enthused…unless our team has a big game and we’re wearing a block of cheese as a hat. At meetings, I entertained myself by tallying spoken “supers.” My punishment? The word found a prominent place in my own vernacular.

 

You don’t get a gold star for asking “How are you?” to a depressed person. Upon first ask, the answer is rarely, “Not so good” or “I’m struggling.” That only comes as a first response if they truly trust you, if the two of you have a track record of meaningful check-ins or if they just can’t even fake an “Okay.” If anything, I’m less trusting after being more open. Too many times the other person has gone out of their way to shut down the gloom. Good god, it's Debbie Downer again. Sometimes they reach too quickly for a diversionary tactic, such as an upper from the movie Up: “SQUIRREL!”

 

To let the person know you really want to know, you have to express that, maybe by even naming the context:

 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“What I mean is, how are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

“Last time you were feeling depressed. What’s your current mood?”

 

I think there’s an assumption that naming a mental health condition is invasive. Tread lightly. Be the holly-jolly friend. Be the pick-me-up.

 

Yeah, that’s just grating. Obnoxious even. If I’m depressed and you’re playing the role of cheerleader, I want to flee. I want to block your number. You and your “super” this, “super” that” are not good for me. (I really must expunge that dang word.)

 

Here’s an obvious statement that nonetheless needs to be stated: If you’ve never had, say, an eating disorder, clinical depression or been diagnosed as bipolar, there’s an inherent imbalance in knowledge and experience. This is not the time to play Match Game. To talk about when you went on a diet and then—Presto—suddenly stopped, isn’t going to connect you to someone with an eating disorder. It sure isn’t helpful advice. It shows a complete dismissal of what the person with anorexia or bulimia is going through. 

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. You don’t need to come up with an anecdote about how you can relate because you can’t. A person doesn’t talk about a bout with the flu to respond to a cancer patient going through chemo. A person doesn’t mention a broken wrist to relate to someone who has had their leg amputated. A person’s appendectomy doesn’t come up when someone is scheduled for brain surgery. 

 

Relating is often part of empathy, but sometimes understanding comes from listening and letting all that’s said digest, the nods coming not from “been there,” but “I hear you.” 

 

One more key point: Don’t try to fix your friend or family member. All I want and need is to be heard. Just talking about a current struggle releases some of the inner chaos. Just be present. Be there.

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. Keep nodding from gained understanding. That’s all.

 

For my eating disorder, I’ve dealt with the following professionals, all in multiples: medical doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, dietitians, occupational therapists, counsellors, art therapists, cardiologists, group home attendants, medical technicians, adapted exercise instructors and spiritual therapists. I’ve also been in support groups for people with eating disorders. My team.

 

I’ve had different teams for depression, anxiety and being bipolar. Smaller but still a full enough roster so we could don uniforms with garish colors and stand beside a head-scratching mascot for a team photo. None of that happens. I don’t want to start a mental health scrapbook. 

 

Think about it. If whole teams of professionals can’t fix me, there isn’t a suggestion or piece of advice you say that will suddenly make all the pieces of me fit together better. 

 

“Why don’t you try—” STOP!

“Have you thought about—?” STOP!

“If I were you, I’d—” STOP!

 

I’ve had well-meaning people complete each one of those statements. Many times. It only simplifies what is complex, and not in a helpful way. It negates the entire conversation. It isolates the person with the mental health condition. You don’t understand. 

 

It only increases the chances of the next check-in to go as follows:

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“No. I really want to know. How are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

 

A pat on the back for you. Now the chat can move on to something more enjoyable. Your “crazy” cat. That new show on Netflix. Are Ben and Jennifer—oh, yeah, “Bennifer”—actually going to make it? 

 

Sure. They’re fine, too.

As a postscript, I'll say that reading and learning about eating disorders may help you understand and support your friend or family member. I'm cautious about this recommendation. We all know how Googling anything medical may lead to misinformation or may offer dire and overly broad statements that don't apply to particular individuals. I spent ten minutes searching "how to support a person with an eating disorder" and had to stop. Despite clicking on government-related posts, I still found inaccurate information and advice that made me cringe. This article is okay though it still raised issues for me. Perhaps the best thing to do is to ask the person directly, "How can I support you? What helps? What doesn't?" 

Ask. 

They may shrug you off, but it sure beats asking nothing and having the person think you are yet another person shrugging first, their struggle being something taboo.

 

 

 

TOO MUCH GINGER (Part II)

 Too much ginger?

Apologies. This was supposed to be a humorous post. I don’t know what it will turn out to be now. Anxiety has a way of taking over everything.

 

A couple of nights ago, I had a miserable sleep. It wasn’t much in terms of a sleep at all. Call it a miserable, prolonged awakening in lieu of sleep. I blamed pumpkin pie. It’s a seasonal scapegoat. (Really, when was the last time you ate pumpkin pie in February?) I figured I’d eaten too much pie over the course of the evening, but there were other possibilities too, if I broke the pie down into the particular ingredients. (This is the kind of thing I do during unwelcome, prolonged awakenings.) I’d gone heavy on the ginger which probably wasn’t great on the stomach. Too much nutmeg and cloves as well. The pie shell’s expiration date was two years ago, the egg whites’ Best Before date was five weeks ago, maybe six, and it’s possible both the pumpkin puree and the sweetened condensed milk were outdated, too. Maybe this was the type of pie TikTokkers eat on a dare after they get bored swallowing cinnamon. (Yes, I’d been overly generous on that spice as well.) I wasn’t, however, in the mood to make and post a video at three in the morning after wrestling pillows and sensing that dark circles had settled under my eyes. They’ve taken up permanent residence, but surely they were undergoing a fresh paint job for that football player look, only sad and scary.

 

Pumpkin pie probably didn’t deserve my late-night or next-day wrath. I’ve had four nights in a row with sleep taunting me. 

 

You sure you want it? 

 

Isn’t flopping, tossing pillows and wrestling with sheets and blankets much more fun?

 

All that movement burns calories, you know.

 

If sleep taunts, anxiety bullies. It’s been having great fun at my expense. I’ve been downing aspirin to subdue a headache that keeps popping up, today crossing over into the migraine zone. My stomach has been busy shooting pain and clenching innards to cause constant discomfort. My brain won’t slow down.

 

Sometimes there is no clear cause for an anxiety visit. It just shows up. No call ahead. No text. Quite rude, in fact. I’m here. You’re gonna want put on a pot of coffee. Maybe one of those big urns. 

 

This time, however, I know why it’s here. Evan and I are off on another trip, this time for three weeks. While I always get excited about travel, there are always a few matters that give me the worries beforehand. As I mentioned in my prior post, the one where I viewed pumpkin pie as a nemesis (sorry!), I don’t have a big enough suitcase for either the length of travel or the weather variability, with current temperatures ranging from a low of -15 in northern Colorado to 95 in Miami. I’m going suitcase shopping tonight.

 

The bigger issue is that I’ll be meeting Evan’s parents on this trip. It’s not just going to be a pleasant lunch at the Olive Garden wherein I search for more intelligent, conversation-extending ways to say, “Mmm, breadsticks!” We’re staying with them for a full week. And not just any week, for those of you familiar with the American calendar. We’re there for Thanksgiving, a much bigger to-do in the States than in Canada. Bigger than the Fourth of July, bigger than Groundhog Day—seriously, Hallmark, why haven’t you exploited that?—sometimes bigger than Christmas. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, star billing goes to the one your grown children show up for. Evan’s Colorado visit makes Thanksgiving the big one for 2022. 

 

That would be big and stressful enough since the boyfriend of nine months—Me!—is in tow and, good god, he’s a vegetarian. “But it’s Thanksgiving! He’ll at least have a little turkey, right? What do you mean he won’t eat the stuffing if it’s cooked in the bird? What the hell is mushroom gravy?”

 

If too much ginger is at play, the ginger is me, a big redhead who likes a few blond highlights. Call it a hunch, but I think they’re really excited I’m crashing Thanksgiving. 

 

But there’s the Open House first. I got the invitation on a group text. “Come say hello to Evan and James!” Evan later texted that his mom had selected “green jade moss and grass” for the color theme. My colors. I had to ask if he was serious. He wasn’t but my sense of humor suffers rapid decline when anxiety lurks. And Evan may need to learn when it’s the right time to joke around.

 

Open House, no joke.

 

Evan’s mom has stated she’s invited all Evan’s friends, but Evan insists they’re her friends. No matter to me. A houseful of strangers sounds like all kinds of fun. I’m an EXTREME introvert, by the way. 

 

Among the guests are Evan’s stepbrother and wife, driving in from Wyoming…or maybe the tip of Argentina. I don’t know. I’m only hearing half of what Evan says at this point, which happens to be the half that included him saying, “They’re MAGA people. But nice.” Hopefully there’s a hat rack in the front hall for them to hang their red caps. I will politely excuse myself to go to the bathroom if they mention Mar-a-Lago, the My Pillow Guy or start an impromptu rally, chanting, “Build that wall!” I may have to lie and say I’ve got overactive bladder syndrome. And diarrhea. 

 

Often at house gatherings, I drop to the floor and play with the dog. I’m in luck when it’s a slobbering golden retriever that rolls over and insists on a three-hour tummy rub. “Yes! Yes! Who’s a good boy?!” The nifty thing is that Evan’s mom is partial to miniature schnauzers like me. She’s had four, I’ve had three. But none of them will be available for a paw shake, much less a belly scratch. They’re all dead. Making the boyfriend’s mother cry is not cool at an open house. 

 

So…no dogs to keep me occupied. Evan’s parents have two cats now. I love all animals, but some not as much as others. Cats are clearly in the “not as much” cat-egory. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I admire cats from afar after getting scratched up by neighbors’ felines as a kid and cat-sitting a devil cat for one very long week in my thirties. “Yeah, I think she’s possessed,” my friend said after returning from his trip. No chance I’m going to crouch down and allow two Himalayans to draw blood from my face and arms during my big debutante affair. My sudden screams may cause a lot of troublesome red wine spillage.

 

Speaking of wine, Evan told his parents I don’t drink. He clarified by tagging on the word “much.” Critical add-on. But his brevity had already incited panic in his mother. “No turkey? No alcohol?! Is your boyfriend a mannequin?”

 

I drink. A glass, sometimes two. No one’s going to mistake me for a hardcore partier. I would think that’s a positive, especially at an open house. Wouldn’t want to break the Waterford crystal or Evan’s second-grade pottery collection, a charming set of ashtrays displayed on the living room hutch. (I too made ashtrays in elementary school. Such were the seventies. Did Philip Morris fund our arts programs?) If I have to, for the sake of making a good impression, I’ll allow generous pours to refill my wine glass and then dump the Chardonnay in the bathroom sink when I’m making another of my runs to duck out of a conversation about guns in churches. 

 

I just double-checked the open house invitation on my phone. It’s four hours which initially makes me think, FOUR HOURS?! Damn. But then I feel thankful. There’s an end time. That’s something. Seems like I’m shifting to glass-half-full territory. May there be no spills, no overconsumption causing me to diss about Melania and no serious cat scratches causing me to bleed too profusely. After a week of meeting the parents and half of northern Colorado, I’m sure I’ll enjoy sunny southern Florida. I’ve had melanoma but worries about skin cancer are nothing when put in the big picture of the trip that lies ahead. A sunburn might make cat scratches blend in nicely.

 

But then, Evan did say I needed to pack high fashion clothing for going to dinner with his client in Key West and more trendy, arty wear for when we hit Miami to see his best friend. There’s a fancy schmantzy weeklong art gala that’s in Miami while we’re there. Events galore!

 

WHAT?! 

 

So, once again, I should apologize for disparaging pumpkin pies. They probably don’t cause restless, sleepless nights of tossing and turning. Any correlation with unrelenting tummy aches and constant migraines is likely coincidental. It seems there may be other factors. Still, I’m not going to pack my Ativan. Even if it helped me refrain from heated MAGA debates, kept the wine steady in hand and allowed me to make nice with the kitties for a few minutes, I don’t think I’d make a great impression if I curled up on the living room sofa and finally fell into deep dozing during my big debut. 

 

I’ll handle all of it. Or I won’t. What’s three weeks anyway? 

   

 

 

 

 

RIDING THROUGH A MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS

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.