Calm to Crazy in 60 Seconds
Or less…
Anxiety is the worst. I’m not talking about social anxiety or being anxious about a test or any sort of super specific worry. I’m talking general anxiety — the kind that can come from anywhere at any time and hit you like a Mack truck anxiety. People who have never experienced it often don’t understand it; why it’s so hard, why I can’t just take a few deep breaths and get over it. But, imagine if you will, that you’re sitting somewhere one day, perhaps at home, perhaps at a café, perhaps on a plane (always the most fun). You’re happy as a clam, and then all of a sudden, from the very pit of your stomach, rises this feeling, not wholly unlike wanting to vomit, and a torrent of “what ifs” flood your brain. Yes, “what ifs” are ridiculous, and one or two at a time are easy enough to dismiss. But try dismissing literally hundreds that hit you all at the same time. So many that you can’t even latch on to just one long enough to dismiss it. So many that you are choking on them, gasping for breath as your heart rate skyrockets and tears and sobs escape as if of their own volition and you end up rocking back and forth like a crazy person, clutching your gut, begging whatever deities are out there to just make it stop. And if all of that isn’t enough fun, there’s the other kind (yep, more than one!) where it’s a sudden and crippling feeling of fear and/or despair — similar to how Ron describes the Dementors in The Prisoner of Azkaban: “I felt weird…Like I’d never be cheerful again.” I think given the current state of the world people may find it easier to be empathetic toward such feelings, but until you’ve truly experienced a full-blown panic attack, I’m not sure I could even find the words to do it justice.
No, I’m sure. I can’t.
Obviously, the current affairs of the world are no friend to someone who deals with this crap, and I’ve for sure been more anxious of late. The maddening part is that it’s not even the disease that scares me into a stupor. Most of my most spectacular panic attacks have started with something truly mundane, like reorganizing my closet (although if you saw the state of my closet you might understand a little better…). I’ll feel just a little overwhelmed by the prospect and the next thing you know the floodgates have opened. I’ll be afraid for my aging parents and then afraid for my aging dog and then afraid that a jet might fly over and drop an engine on my building and then afraid that that crazy North Korean is gonna drop a nuke on us all and then… you get the picture. And no, I’m not exaggerating. The most asinine scenarios enter my head but in that state I can’t see them as asinine. A small part of my brain can see that they’re irrational, but it cannot convince my gut or the overwhelming part of my brain that’s telling that small part to shut the hell up.
Of course, all of this is exacerbated by my age. I’m at that fun stage of the game where my hormones are all kerfuffled, raging one moment and flat the next. Which, on the outside, is the equivalent of laughing one minute and crying seven seconds later. I’m surprised no one has tried to tell me I’m bipolar. When I had my hysterectomy a few years back, they warned that it might spur the menopause process to start a little earlier, even though I still have those hormone spewing ovaries (although after doing quite a lot of research on the subject, I’ve learned that perimenopause normally begins anywhere from around 35 to the late forties and can last up to ten years. Great. I think I’m at about year 3). Had I known what I was in for I would’ve told them to take the damn ovaries too. It’s not like they’re making me any younger.
But I can’t blame it all on the hormones. This condition goes back as far as I can remember; long before hormones kicked in. And I have known men (although far fewer) who have struggled with panickiness as well. A male friend of mine has recently begun experiencing anxiety in its severest form, bordering on agoraphobia, but, being a man with the man hormones, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Take my word for it, don’t try to be “manly” about it. Whether you’re actually a man or one of those women who hates looking/feeling weak. It’s not weak and it will drive you bonkers if you try to keep it in. If you don’t have a friend or a family member you feel like you can talk to, find a good therapist. Or at least an online support group. At the very least write it down. Getting it out can (sometimes) keep the crazy at bay. After all, that’s why I’m writing this.
But I should probably toss this coffee…
