Life WITH Anxiety
A Not-Love Story
I spent 2.5 days with an ocean view I only saw through a glass window pane from the 18th floor and nursed a headache on the plane ride home that was incurable with a Diet Coke, 3 Advil and delightful fairy fiction.
I crammed my blazer into my carry-on, not even a year-old and covered in EWR scuff marks, and put in my air pods with phantom music to avoid conversation with my seatmate who kept sneezing, rubbing the tops of his thighs and deep diving far-right literature in large font.
I am mostly a gracious traveler, giving sympathetic smiles to mothers juggling babies who hate being crammed in corners; helping with seatbelts, diaper bags, and woven beach totes with “Miami” in red embroidery thread across the front.
Most would never know the level of panic I slam down as soon as the engine rumbles. The bile I swallow as the wheels retract back underneath and the clouds become passengers I never asked for. The skies have never been friendly to me, the land beneath me lost in candy floss.
How does one remain grounded when the literal earth beneath my feet is gone?
I calmly unpack my water bottle, clinking with the good ice from the Italian restaurant by the gate while internally rehearsing my death. Everyone I hold dear knows exactly how much I love them. My children have a village who will provide for them. I have life insurance.
My chest constricts and the pain I never know is an anxiety or a heart attack begins. I take three slow breaths, in. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
I begin the litany of love lists: blueberry coffee, ranunculus’, the way old books smell, piping hot baths, cherry red nail polish, trench coats.
I measure the odds of landing versus not landing.
Eventually, I close my eyes and accept that I am not the pilot nor a superior being who controls the weather. My body releases my shoulders from my ears, my palms dry out, and my chest stops aching. I can breathe without shuddering. I do not believe this will be my last day on earth. I emerge with shaky sea-legs plane-side, with a deep knowing of the badassery I just exhibited, in search of the closest bathroom, and perhaps, a dirty martini. (Blue cheese olives, please. Also on the love list.)
I am afraid close to all the time.
I used to live in desperate search for a cure. The ability to sever its ties to my physical body, its tight fist in my chest. I went from doctor to doctor to doctor. I followed all of their recommendations, assessments, and prescriptions. Nothing helped.
Not until I stopped trying to find ways to live without it- and began to find ways to LIVE-with It.
I wake several times a week with a pounding heart and a cold sheen of sweat. It is almost always 2:30 am. I used to cry in frustration. I will be so tired. I will never make it through the day. I won’t survive.
Sometimes, I still do. But mostly now, I press my palms to my heart and whisper, It’s ok. The stars are awake. Sometimes I make a cup of tea. Sometimes I read a little or do what everyone tells you not to do and watch a movie. My heart eventually slows. I get warm again. I’ve never not made it through the next day.
There is a Buddhist teaching (that I will over-simplify and possibly butcher) about when anxiety knocks on your door, you should invite him in for dinner- but when dinner is over, remember it is your house and show him the door.
The image of inviting anxiety in to dine has, oddly enough, given me incredible comfort. Maybe because I know he is only trying to protect me. Maybe because he is simply a spotlight on what I most treasure and value. Maybe because, from a certain lens, he was born out of the darkest moments I have ever faced- and was the solitary witness to my survival, over and over. He is the only one who has seen the whole story and watched me emerge victorious. Every. Time.
I’ll pack again in a few weeks. I’ll put three green tea bags and four kind bars in between the folds of my black pajama set with the white piping ( I can only wear long-sleeved pajama sets in hotels, bare arms on unknown sheets freak me out). I’ll panic about meal plans, medical emergencies, homework, and friend drama in my absence. I will cry in the Uber on the way to the airport and check for my ID too many times only to find it in the same place it always is.
I will emerge on the other side, meet beautiful people who really want to make a difference, and do work I am proud of. I will not eat as well as I should. I will promise to take more walks, breathe more fresh air and set time limits on my phone. And when anxiety comes for me, I will invite him for dinner- would he settle for complimentary pretzels? And then gently show him the door, until the next time.
Because I am deeply interested in living, and they seem to be a packaged deal.
Maybe my anxiety and your anxiety can have a meal together and we can be chatting on the veranda.