Edited by: Lasya Adiraj
TW: Mentions of anxiety, panic attacks.
Note: The name of the article is credited to and borrowed from Love Poems for Anxious People, written by John Kenney, a New York Times best-selling author.
Anxiety. It’s not so much a feeling anymore. It’s like an uninvited guest that shows up, more often than expected, and doesn’t leave until I practically beg and cry and run out of breath. It doesn’t leave, not until I chant to myself “I am fine” and drown myself into oblivion. It’s someone that makes me overthink practically all that goes on with me, makes me second guess every decision I’ve ever made, compels me to think about how I could’ve done things differently like I did something wrong. It makes me question everything I say, even the most intricate details and peculiarities, which is why I’m used to over-analysing and reconstructing everything.
It makes me shut down in situations where I’d like to be the most alive. It makes me cry at the most random of times, with unspoken expositions hanging in the air, leaving me to figure it out for myself, all by myself. It forces me to isolate myself; it forces me to stray from what’s urgent and important; it snatches away my need to sleep and rest and leaves me fatigued, jaded, and frazzled. It gaslights me into believing that everything is my fault, and even when it isn’t, it makes me believe I contributed to it. It is the reason why I hate confrontation and conflict and the reason I don’t speak up even when I really want to.
It makes me not want to face people, communicate with them, and stops me from having the best conversations of my life. It makes me avoid eye contact with anyone I come across, preventing me from connecting with their souls. It makes me stutter even when, innately, I know that I’m confident. It swoops in and breaks my words. While it gives me time to explore every option possible for any task, it also pushes me into a loop of self-criticism and doubt. It is the reason why sometimes I don’t feel comfortable in the way I look or with the attires I clad myself in.
Simply, it’s the reason why I can’t easily place orders in restaurants; why I can’t ring the doorbell and enter first; why I can’t raise my hand in class and speak my mind; why I cry during moments of disagreement; why I feel overstimulated in a big crowd; why I bite my nails constantly; and why I have a love-hate relationship with coffee. It’s why I zone out; why I always shake my legs and I’m fidgeting; why I always have an abundance of excuses, why I lose my focus more than usual; why I have brain fog; why I over apologise; why I always ask for reassurance; why I can’t explain why I’m randomly moody or irritated; and why I get angry when someone tells me to “calm down and get over it.”
Most of all, it makes me feel like everyone despises me, has a vendetta against me, and that no one wants me. It makes me feel deeply unloved and worthless. Even when I am so loved. And appreciated. And cared for. It makes me think otherwise. Now take all of that and prolong it for as long as you can think of. That’s how long it lasts. In essence, it grabs onto me and doesn’t let go for months and months.
I am always overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the physicality of it. Because my heart always wants to jump out of my chest, it excels in acrobatics. Because my palms and my underarms basically produce rivers of sweat. Because my breath is not controlled by me but by my racing mind and thoughts, where I take colossal breaths due to the lack of them. Because my entire face tingles and vibrates like the surface of a speaker does. Because my hands shake like they’re trying to stir a drink. Because there’s a knot in the pit of my stomach that even the sharpest of fingers can’t untangle. Because my body makes me want to puke my organs out. Because my eyes roll around, looking all over the place as if trying to catch onto stillness and peace. Panic takes my being in a chokehold.
There is no point in denying it, you just have to accept it and live with it. Of course, there are medically proven ways to better deal with and reduce anxiety but that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I’m sure that can be figured out through the internet as well as professionally. I’m just here to explicitly and honestly tell the world that this is how bad it can get. I’m sure that many others like me don’t like getting advice on how to tackle it, we just want you to show your concern by acknowledging that these things can happen and that you’re going to be there for us. It’s the nicest thing anyone can do for an anxious person.
Personifying it into an uninvited guest doesn’t do me any good, since I’m giving it an abstract identity and as a consequence, revealing the hold it has over me, due to the importance it is receiving. But to deal with it, I also need to understand it. And this is the way to go for me. So to say, it affects me and many like me. It affects us silently sometimes, and also loudly sometimes, it has many facets. But we manage. Somehow, we do manage.
As a concluding note, I’d like to say that I’m okay, I’ve learned to live with it and I’m doing better!