A Brief History of My Anxiety

Today some high school chums are gathering to visit with our band teacher. He's here for music festival I believe and I have not seen him in about 20 some odd years. I recall him being funny, talented, and a wee bit feisty. I rather want to attend, but here's the thing: It means going out in public and spending even more of my weekend with people.

People? Arrrgh!

I don't expect you to understand this at all, but aside of my extremely introverted nature, I am also one of those who experience anxiety. I spent yesterday evening with a small group of friends having a delightful time. Today I planned to keep to myself to recharge, but oh yeah! There's this thing, which requires being around people again. It's going to drain my battery again. But it's so much more than that.

Lucky cat. I'd get asked never to return if I pulled an escape like this today.

I make jokes about being a hermit, a recluse,  as well as a crazy cat lady. As with all good jokes, there's a healthy dose of truth in them. It's been a few decades since I first recognized that something was a little different. Teens always have that feeling of pressure or isolation or feeling different, but I actually started to develop a real sense of dread about some things and situations. It impacted my ability to do math first. I could do problems, I could talk through them, I could explain how to do them in class, but put a fricking algebra II trig test in front of me and I'd most likely bomb it. That lovely reaction followed me to college. Thankfully, my professor recognized the issue and willingly gave me time after a test to work through the problems the way my high school math teacher did. I eventually passed.

Sine! Consine? Umm, tangent maybe?!?

The anxiety also impacted me in band. In junior high, I got moved up a band class unexpectedly. Not only that, but I received a solo as third chair; my other two section members  looked at me quizzically. I didn't get it either, but I played that solo and it went fine. Then in high school, I got first chair and a solo again. However, things started falling apart. It came time to play a solo at a concert and I totally choked. I sat there, frozen, and my choice was clear: Sit there dumbly or flee. Maybe puke. I felt like puking, but I sat there dumbly as the poor second chair fellow took up my slack. This teacher coming to town today might not remember that event, but I do. Vividly. I got teased for it. I was too afraid to admit it, but something paralyzed me that night, and it would return.

I played French horn, but you get the idea.

The next year, I had another freaking solo that I could play just fine as long as no one was listening. One of the trumpet players who I had known since grade school commented to me after I practiced it before class that I sounded great. Now I just needed to do so in front of people. Instead, I wound up having my first ever full blown panic attack in the ladies' bathroom at a small school somewhere in Idaho...maybe it was Washington. I can't recall, but there I was on the floor of the women's bathroom trying to breathe. I'm fairly certain my band teacher will recall that episode. I sat out the concert that night and my second, two years my junior, played that solo from then on.

I'll just be over here...blending into the background thanks.

I'd like to say that my anxiety stopped there, but that'd be a lie. I don't have panic attacks like that anymore thankfully, but I have had other fun symptoms that make going out of the house to meet up with perfectly friendly people a real struggle. It's a constant state of awareness and needing to weigh the risk versus reward of social situations. I have missed work at times because I just couldn't bring myself to the leave the house. It's like all my muscles are tense and I am wound to hyper-awareness and again the idea of bolting is preferrable to staying in whatever situation I happen to be in at the time. For example, I luckily had a friend at my 10 year reunion who helped me escape. I could feel the panic rushing that night and the drone of voices just pushed me to my breaking point. If she hadn't facilitated my escape, I know I'd have had another full blown panic attack. Most likely in the bar bathroom this time. I learned never to go to a social event without my own set of wheels that night.
I have canceled plans with friends because I was so overstimulated that I couldn't form coherent thoughts. The ruminations that keep me awake at nights about stupid little minutae won't give up. The heeartbeat that thumps and flops in my chest. Irrational worry and scenarios play out in my over-effective and adept imagination. The little voice inside that just tells me that no one really wants to listen to me talk because I'm not all that interesting or noteworthy. Crumpling into a crying ball of snot and trembles when it feels like walls are closing in. Looking at people I meet with skepticism and doubt as to their trustworthiness when they've done absolutely nothing to warrant my suspicion. I have been irritable over situations that totally didn't warrant my over the top flash of rage. I immediatly regret when my irritability gets out like that, but it's apparently part of the anxiety joyride.

What? It's totally fun. Really.

Before you feel compelled to message me solutions or to call, text, or comment about therapies. Don't. I appreciate it, but I do have certain things that help me manage most days. Yoga is lovely. Binaural meditation beats help. Breathing techniques are good.Time alone helps. Diablo 3 helps. Listening to my cats' purrs helps. Dancing helps. Blogging helps. Protecting my at least 7 hours of sleep a night helps. Medication though can suck it. Between the low sex drive, inability to orgasm, socially inappropriate sweating, and night thrashings, I just don't want more pills.

Admit it. There's something enormously satisfying in seeing Mr. Rogers flip off the camera. Fuck you Cymbalta, Effexor, and Paxil!

Anxiety disorders suck. That's the short of it. People who have them, do the best they can. I don't want my anxiety to ever conquer my joy of living, but it's incredibly difficult some days. I look at the young poeple who come to school every day, and I feel respct for each and every time they choose to keep putting one foot in front of the other despite their crushing anxiety. Drawing from the well of personal courage takes immense strength and fortitude. May yours be ever full.