This post is a deviation from my usual. I’m sharing this now because I have never shared it before, and sharing it aligns with my newfound belief that everyone’s story matters. I think I’ve always believed it, but never quite articulated it until now. I’m going through a kind of existential crisis where I am looking for meaning in my life and what my purpose is. And I’m finding that my story can be part of that purpose. But that’s for another post. In this post, I want to talk about anxiety.
I’m thinking of the time when I was struck by a particularly bad episode of anxiety — probably the worst I’d experienced since I first developed anxiety in my early 20’s. I had to go on leave from work while I went to live with my parents for a few months, adjusting to medication and continuing with therapy.
I spent so many days at home, suffering from agoraphobia, not wanting to leave the house for any reasonable amount of time. I took myself out of life. For those unfamiliar, agoraphobia at its extreme can be pretty debilitating. It developed as a result of my panic attacks. I never wanted to leave the house because I felt that that was where I was safest from having them. It’s pretty scary when you feel like you’re a prisoner of your own mind and your body has betrayed you by having these extremely scary and unpleasant physical expressions of the anxiety within. During that time in my life I didn’t know if I’d ever be “normal” again. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to do little things like take the subway, go shopping, sit and eat at restaurants — participate in life again — without experiencing all the discomfort and fear. But I kept thinking there had to be a way.
I felt like a dancer who suddenly stopped dancing because she forgot the steps but the music kept playing. And as long as the music kept playing, I had to dance. I just didn’t know what steps I could improvise since I forgot the original ones. But slowly it came to me, with patience, surrender and self compassion.
Everyone around me wanted me to get better at their pace, which was a lot faster than mine. There were times when I’d have fights with my parents because I didn’t want to go outside at all. The physical pain and symptoms of anxiety (some of it due to insomnia caused by the medication during the adjustment period) were beating me down. My family wanted to help and push me to recovery, but in the name of self compassion I dug my heels in and made it clear that I would accept their help at my own pace, not theirs.
Gradually, and so very very slowly I learned a new dance. The road to healing was not a smooth one. It was full of bumps and fits and starts. Those felt like the most hopeless days of my life, and I honestly never saw myself where I am now, stronger than I had ever been.
This was back in 2015. I’ve resumed living my life since recovering from that time, doing things I didn’t think I’d ever do again. Fully functional, going to work, dating, etc. That time in my life has been humbling. It’s the times when you’re brought to your knees that you realize just how helpless you really are. And they force you to go inside yourself and figure out how to survive. For me it was also a time of renewing my faith in something bigger than myself.
I’m thankful for the small things I used to take for granted like being able to take the subway and completely relax on the commute while listening to podcasts, taking and enjoying random wanderings around my neighborhood and anywhere. Being able to go grocery shopping. I appreciate these things so much better now because I know that there is no guarantee that I will never be in the same place I was 3 years ago again. Given the right ingredients, it could happen again. Except this time I have better ways of coping and I take better care of myself so I don’t reach that point if I can help it.
I still have times when I get overwhelmed, but I now very very rarely experience anxiety with the same intensity as I used to (though like I said, there’s no guarantee of anything. I just do my best.). And I no longer fear it. I have accepted it as part of how I’m wired, but not who I am. No part of me judges myself for it anymore or feels disappointed when I have one of my now rare panic attacks.
So if there’s anyone else out there who might feel like it’s never going to get better, know that it can and it will. If it happened for me and so many others whose stories are similar to mine, there’s no reason it can’t happen for you. The music is still playing. Keep dancing — even you start out with just a side to side shuffle.
