You are sitting still, listening to music. There’s usual chaos happening around you and you’re quietly watching your friends play ping pong like they do every Friday night. Only this time, you are thinking. And thinking. And thinking. The music is swirling and you just sit as you listen to your head taunt you. Your chest is tightening, like your shirt is too small but it’s not made of cotton. It’s like it’s made from unforgiving leather that doesn’t move when you breathe-- it feels like it’s a sick spin on dominatrix attire. And your eyes swell with tears. You know you’re about to cry, but then you know you will stop the fun your friends are having.
You know you’re about two therapy-breathes away from melting. So you stand. Robotic and wild, leaving your headphones dangling from your ears and your phone on the table that sits in front of you. There is no sound. So you walk quickly, avoiding eye contact and praying you have the strength to swing the nearby bathroom door open and the energy to throw yourself inside. One of your friends asks, “Are you okay?” Your legs are suddenly pendulum ropes, your feet are weights. But you’re still walking. You arrive at the bathroom door and reach for the knob. There is contact, but no grip. So you turn to the nearby corner as your significant other reaches for you. He swings you around and looks for your eyes behind mats and tresses of hair. Your balled fist fights through the tangle of arms and hands to come rest on your chest. You are sobbing now. No words, no sound from you, but tears. He asks, frantic, “What’s wrong?” You just pound on your chest with your fist. He understands. You are swept up into a reassuring embrace. “Hold her and she will come down,” he thinks. The game has stopped. There are only eyes now and the night has slowed. You’re, both, exhausted and wired. Returning to your seat, everyone who was standing is now around you. Your significant other sitting at your right hand, coaxing it. You feel like you’re back to the old version of yourself. But he reassures you, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” I write all of this as a simultaneous combination between an explanation and a coping mechanism. I have a lot of anxiety about writing this post about anxiety. The irony. I don’t know what it’s like to not have anxiety. As a child, anxiety showed its form in odd ways -- freaking out about a car driving too close to me, being afraid of people who don’t blink often, and even being so afraid to ask my teacher to use the bathroom that I would hold it until I got home that afternoon. I have lived with fear my whole life. I thought when I came to college that I would figure myself out more. I would be able to handle my anxiety because I was now completely in control of my life and what was in it. And for freshman year, that was probably how it was. But sophomore year has proved to be a whole different beast. My degree program is not difficult. I do readings everyday, I post discussion questions, I go to class, I write a few papers, and I go home. But I have had more panic attacks and days where I am unexplainably unhappy than I ever expected to as an adult. I recently started a new job where I am the Editor-in-Chief of the independent student newspaper and a teacher’s assistant 4 of the 5 days that the campus is open. It doesn’t sound hard-- in reality it isn’t hard at all. But top the school-work and work-work that I have to do with an anxiety disorder and you have the most unproductive concoction imaginable. And for a perfectionist, that’s exactly what you want to avoid like the plague. But here I am. I am living with that concoction. My fiancée has grown to know what the onset of a panic attack looks like. I hate that it’s something he had to be able to identify by the look on my face, but it is immensely helpful. I used to think it was selfish for girls to call their boyfriends home from work because of personal issues until I had to do it myself less than a week ago. I woke up feeling paranoid, but thought that I could make myself busy and keep my head from going too dark. The moment I got out of class and had the afternoon to myself, I felt the tension in my chest. I was using my breathing techniques I had learned from therapy years before, and felt that I was really panicking, so I texted River and told him I needed for him to come to me when he got out of class. When he got to me, he immediately hugged me as I tried to keep myself together. Ladies, get you a man like River. The day got worse after that, as I was still dealing with a lot of anxiety that ended in a severe panic attack. But I consistently had to remind myself that fear is not reality and that panic is not a constant. Since that day, I have been considering going back to therapy for anxiety and depression. It is healthy to have an outlet like a therapist to help sift through the crap that you think. It’s a hard decision for me to make. It is easy to say that we need to raise awareness of mental illness, but it’s not easy to raise awareness of a problem to those we love because we don’t want them to worry or think that we are “crazy.” So to people with family members who have mental illness, take the time to understand that saying that they are having a hard time is not as easy as it sounds. It’s not as cut-and-dry as a lot of people make it out to be. Asking for help, whether professional or personal, is a hard thing to do. I’m writing this as sort of a way to bridge the gap for those who think that when teens get out of high school and believe that these problems just go away-- sometimes, they don’t. There are places on college campuses that sometimes offer free counseling, and if you identify with these struggles, do not hesitate to seek help. Whether that be a professional, a family member, a friend, or a cynic, there is always someone who can help. You don’t have to endure anxiety. There are techniques and resources that are available to you, even if you aren’t in college. To those who live with anxiety, understand that it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be anxious. And it is okay to ask for help. - A cynic
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AuthorGabrielle Willingham is a young Arkansan woman who sees the importance of simultaneous cynicism and optimism. Gabrielle is currently working on a MA in Communication with a focus in gender studies and political science. Archives
January 2021
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