| January 2017. Tuesday. 9:15am. The First. |
My mother and I sit shrouded in the gray interior of my 2006 Toyota Highlander, heated to a comfortable 68 degrees. We gaze over the dashboard at a boxy office building, the brick walls of which are barely visible through the torrent of snow that hurls itself down from on high. Mom and I are consistently, perpetually fifteen minutes early to everything. God forbid we pull into the parking lot at 9:26am and are pressured so much as to actually tap our feet as we stand in the hall and wait for the elevator. With fifteen extra minutes to traverse the short distance between the car and the door and ascend two floors, there is no foot tapping. There’s certainly time for it, but no need. We are not anxious, we are not rushed.
Except I’m anxious, and my heart rushes against my ribcage with so much force that I feel it might burst out of my chest altogether. I haven’t seen a therapist in five years. Of course, I’d been to the middle school guidance counselor and confided in various youth pastors, but the need for an actual, certified psychologist hadn’t risen in five relatively anxiety-free years.
I’d known it had been too good to be true.
Or had I? Over the last half-decade, I’d worked hard to keep my mental illness in check; employing every “tool” in my psychological tool kit. I’d journaled, built up a strong support system, dabbled in sports to balance out hormones - proving to my entire high school that I’m probably the least athletic human on the planet. I’d thrown myself into my schoolwork, maintaining a 3.5 GPA or higher from 6th to 12th grade. I’d stayed organized. I’d even taken a leap and started college a whole year early in an attempt to pull the beginning of adulthood closer, because grown-ups are invincible.
It was in the beginning of that first year of premature undergraduate studies that I learned how much it sucks to fall into the foolish pattern of believing that I can control everything, only to realize I can’t.
It was in the beginning of that first year of premature undergraduate studies that I learned how much it sucks to fall into the foolish pattern of believing that I can control everything, only to realize I can’t.
| July 2016. Wednesday. 3:28pm. The Beginning. |
It started with a conversation with my best friend.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because all you talk about is college.” (I’d received my acceptance letter a mere two days prior.)
“I’m happy.”
“I’m happy for you. But could you chill?”
And so I did. Or at least, I tried. But it’s difficult to “chill” and tone down one’s excitement when a dream seventeen years in the making abruptly, unexpectedly comes true. Why couldn’t she understand that?
I did my best. I attended football games and bonfires, met friends for coffee. I went to concerts at the high school and cheered on my friends who remained in the ensembles, groups, and teams that I’d let go of in order to move forward. I tried to be present.
Soon enough, I recognized that I was no longer wanted.
| October 21st, 2016. Friday. 4:26pm. Alone. |
Verbatim, “It’s hard to date somebody who everybody hates.” My boyfriend of nine months, embarrassed by the fact that nobody at school liked his girlfriend. All of our friends were used to be mutual. As I was invited to parties less and less, so was he, because he was associated with me. It was me or them; a decision neither of us had foreseen we would have to make when I began school.
I was alone. Having neglected to put effort into forming new relationships at college due to the distraction of the high school drama happening at home, I found myself isolated and lonely. I was neither here nor there...nor there; not really in high school, not officially in college, rarely at the house. Where was home? Who were my friends?
This is When the Hope Left
I got sick in November. Sicker in December. Three weeks passed, and I hadn’t stepped foot in a classroom. In college terms, this meant academic suicide. And yet somehow I managed to stay afloat from my queen-sized sickbed, because at the end of the day, school was all I had. I took one final from home. I crawled to campus for the second, scribbling out a timed, six-page essay from beneath a heavy black cloud. I got a D. I am not a D student.
The third exam, I postponed until January.
My brain, my body, my aching spirit.
When people are nervous, they often describe the physical sensation as having "butterflies." Little winged creatures fluttering around in their intestines, batting against the sides of their stomach, poking the liver and pushing their way up into the esophagus, causing that anxious rising feeling. The anxiety bubbles upwards and floods the senses until all you are is jittery and uncomfortably warm.
When I explain my anxiety to someone, I don't tell them about butterflies. I tell them about frisbees.
Imagine having a frisbee surgically implanted in your stomach. Then when you're anxious, the frisbee begins to heat up and move around. A stomach isn't large enough to accommodate a frisbee. Therefore, when the frisbee starts to move, your intestines twist and bend in the most unnatural ways. Cue the nausea. Cue the debilitating fear that you might be sick in front of all these people, all over this desk, right now. Anxiety piled on top of the anxiety that was already there.
An excerpt from a journal, November 1, 2016
Shaking. Crying. Nauseous. Left brit lit again because I was going to be sick if I stayed any longer. How do I do this?
Anna said to talk it through with God. I’ve tried. Don’t know if he’ll ever respond. Some mornings are better than others, but they all carry the common theme of crippling nausea. This would be much more manageable if it weren’t for the nausea.
And now I’m the girl who leaves in the first ten minutes of class. Twice. And I can’t go to Kristen until 3. I feel alone in the place where the majority of my friends are.
At least I haven’t thrown up in a few days. At least ILA is over now, so I have one less thing to do. I left in the middle of that, too. Yesterday. Anxiety is preventing me from living my life. I want my life back.
This is When the Hope Left
I got sick in November. Sicker in December. Three weeks passed, and I hadn’t stepped foot in a classroom. In college terms, this meant academic suicide. And yet somehow I managed to stay afloat from my queen-sized sickbed, because at the end of the day, school was all I had. I took one final from home. I crawled to campus for the second, scribbling out a timed, six-page essay from beneath a heavy black cloud. I got a D. I am not a D student.
The third exam, I postponed until January.
My brain, my body, my aching spirit.
| About Frisbees. |
When people are nervous, they often describe the physical sensation as having "butterflies." Little winged creatures fluttering around in their intestines, batting against the sides of their stomach, poking the liver and pushing their way up into the esophagus, causing that anxious rising feeling. The anxiety bubbles upwards and floods the senses until all you are is jittery and uncomfortably warm.
When I explain my anxiety to someone, I don't tell them about butterflies. I tell them about frisbees.
Imagine having a frisbee surgically implanted in your stomach. Then when you're anxious, the frisbee begins to heat up and move around. A stomach isn't large enough to accommodate a frisbee. Therefore, when the frisbee starts to move, your intestines twist and bend in the most unnatural ways. Cue the nausea. Cue the debilitating fear that you might be sick in front of all these people, all over this desk, right now. Anxiety piled on top of the anxiety that was already there.
An excerpt from a journal, November 1, 2016
Shaking. Crying. Nauseous. Left brit lit again because I was going to be sick if I stayed any longer. How do I do this?
Anna said to talk it through with God. I’ve tried. Don’t know if he’ll ever respond. Some mornings are better than others, but they all carry the common theme of crippling nausea. This would be much more manageable if it weren’t for the nausea.
And now I’m the girl who leaves in the first ten minutes of class. Twice. And I can’t go to Kristen until 3. I feel alone in the place where the majority of my friends are.
At least I haven’t thrown up in a few days. At least ILA is over now, so I have one less thing to do. I left in the middle of that, too. Yesterday. Anxiety is preventing me from living my life. I want my life back.
I hate feeling helpless. I hate feeling like I’m not trying hard enough.
An excerpt from a journal, November 27, 2016
I will be normal again.
I will be normal again.
I will be normal again.
It will be okay.
It will be okay.
It will be okay.
An excerpt from a journal, November 27, 2016
I will be normal again.
I will be normal again.
I will be normal again.
It will be okay.
It will be okay.
It will be okay.
An excerpt from a journal, December 6, 2016
Doctor’s yesterday. Doctor’s today. Platelets too low. Anxiety too high. Depression descending. Don’t hit your head, don’t get hurt. Brain could bleed. All the episodes of Grey’s Anatomy where someone has a brain bleed and dies are flooding back. And there’s no medication for platelets. You just have to wait. I am not a patient person. “Been trying to fix my mind, but that shit’s broken.”
An excerpt from a journal, December 23, 2016
Feeling very slow. My hand feels mushy right now as I try to write this out. Tense. I’m anxious, and yet there’s nothing in the next week, even, to be anxious for. It’s Christmas Eve eve, and I’m supposed to be joyful. And yet I don’t feel joy. I don’t feel anything at all.
Doctor’s yesterday. Doctor’s today. Platelets too low. Anxiety too high. Depression descending. Don’t hit your head, don’t get hurt. Brain could bleed. All the episodes of Grey’s Anatomy where someone has a brain bleed and dies are flooding back. And there’s no medication for platelets. You just have to wait. I am not a patient person. “Been trying to fix my mind, but that shit’s broken.”
An excerpt from a journal, December 23, 2016
Feeling very slow. My hand feels mushy right now as I try to write this out. Tense. I’m anxious, and yet there’s nothing in the next week, even, to be anxious for. It’s Christmas Eve eve, and I’m supposed to be joyful. And yet I don’t feel joy. I don’t feel anything at all.
An excerpt from a journal, December 24, 2016
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart.
I am. I am. I am.”
With fifteen minutes to wait for the elevator.
I limped into the office, trailed closely by my mother. She hadn’t left my side in weeks. I checked in at the desk, unsure of how to pronounce my new therapist’s name. Mom and I sat down in gray chairs, speckled with more gray. Why did every doctor’s office seem to use that same triangle pattern?
The tears started flowing even before my name was called. I peered through the curtain of saltwater to see a thin-faced woman with streaks of auburn in her chocolate hair. She was wearing a thin, flowy scarf that recalled a willow tree. She had kind eyes. I stood, clutching my winter jacket to my stomach.
The appointment was casual. One of two “getting-to-know-you” sessions. Establishing the doctor-patient relationship. Laying the foundation for a productive six months. I never asked her how to pronounce her name. That didn’t seem to be important at the moment. Nothing seemed important, really. I guess that’s why I was there in the first place.
Another appointment two hours later. Mom and I wasted the time in a coffee shop, pretending to be okay. The second office was a lighter shade of gray, with the ever-present doctor-y triangles dancing on rough upholstery. I got the green light to begin medication, and so I did. It didn’t start to work for four days, and my spirits fell further still. But when it did kick in, the triangles started to look more purple than gray.
I’ve only been once. I sat crammed into the backseat of our old Ford Windstar, nestled tightly between a large blue cooler and a sleeping bag. The drive was long. I tried to read, but carsickness wracked my body and I resorted to staring out the window, keeping my eyes fixed on the solid yellow line on the side of the road. They say that helps.
I watched the country go by. Iowa. Illinois. Indiana. Kentucky. We pulled over each time we crossed into a new state to take the cliche American Roadtrip “look where we are now!” photo under the ten-foot signs. Final destination; Arlington, Virginia.
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Suddenly the view beyond the solid yellow line became the center of my focus. I sat next to that blue cooler in absolute awe of the sprawling green hills; truly, relentlessly green. Trees for miles and miles. Somewhere beyond those trees was the sea, and it was reassuring to me somehow to realize that saltwater and forest could exist so close together.
In the week that we were there, Virginia became a symbol of balance and peace for me. That small, oddly tropical world felt centered in nature and grounded in a history centuries old. I expected to feel overwhelmed, exploring a city that had roots extending back to the birth of the nation, but instead I found comfort in the notion that I was suddenly a part of something greater. And truly, I thought, that’s the way it is all the time. I felt small, but not in a negative sense. Like I fit here, just right. A little piece to this great big, incredible puzzle.
Virginia felt right.
I’m early, as usual. But this time, I’m alone. I’m able to do these kinds of things by myself more and more often, now.
She asks me how I would rate my anxiety the past week, on the familiar scale of 1-10. I give her a number - significantly lower than the number I gave during our first meeting together, four months ago. Progress. She writes the number down on her ever-present yellow legal pad. That’s where my secrets are.
We move on from numbers and delve into a more specific topic. I tell her how it felt in the moment. Dark. Scary. Flashing lights. Someone yelling. Everything gets copied down onto the yellow pages. She helps me process it, asking clarifying questions and encouraging me to go back to that night, even though it’s hard. I hold buzzers in my hands, feeling them pulsate alternatingly in my fists; supposedly connecting the right and left halves of my brain. It’s called EMDR. We’re paying a lot for it, but it works.
“And how do you feel now?” Her voice interrupts the buzzers as she flips the switch on the tiny control panel to turn them off. I feel peaceful.
“Where did you go?” she asks. I went to Virginia.
“Why Virginia?” I think about rolling green hills and a simultaneous seashore.
“How’s your frisbee?” she asks. I do a mental body scan.
“Smaller,” I respond in that quiet voice that admits a hint of pride. “Virginia shrunk the frisbee.”
-Sylvia Plath
| January 2017. Tuesday. 9:15am. Colors Again. |
With fifteen minutes to wait for the elevator.
I limped into the office, trailed closely by my mother. She hadn’t left my side in weeks. I checked in at the desk, unsure of how to pronounce my new therapist’s name. Mom and I sat down in gray chairs, speckled with more gray. Why did every doctor’s office seem to use that same triangle pattern?
The tears started flowing even before my name was called. I peered through the curtain of saltwater to see a thin-faced woman with streaks of auburn in her chocolate hair. She was wearing a thin, flowy scarf that recalled a willow tree. She had kind eyes. I stood, clutching my winter jacket to my stomach.
The appointment was casual. One of two “getting-to-know-you” sessions. Establishing the doctor-patient relationship. Laying the foundation for a productive six months. I never asked her how to pronounce her name. That didn’t seem to be important at the moment. Nothing seemed important, really. I guess that’s why I was there in the first place.
Another appointment two hours later. Mom and I wasted the time in a coffee shop, pretending to be okay. The second office was a lighter shade of gray, with the ever-present doctor-y triangles dancing on rough upholstery. I got the green light to begin medication, and so I did. It didn’t start to work for four days, and my spirits fell further still. But when it did kick in, the triangles started to look more purple than gray.
| About Virginia. In July. |
I’ve only been once. I sat crammed into the backseat of our old Ford Windstar, nestled tightly between a large blue cooler and a sleeping bag. The drive was long. I tried to read, but carsickness wracked my body and I resorted to staring out the window, keeping my eyes fixed on the solid yellow line on the side of the road. They say that helps.
I watched the country go by. Iowa. Illinois. Indiana. Kentucky. We pulled over each time we crossed into a new state to take the cliche American Roadtrip “look where we are now!” photo under the ten-foot signs. Final destination; Arlington, Virginia.
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Suddenly the view beyond the solid yellow line became the center of my focus. I sat next to that blue cooler in absolute awe of the sprawling green hills; truly, relentlessly green. Trees for miles and miles. Somewhere beyond those trees was the sea, and it was reassuring to me somehow to realize that saltwater and forest could exist so close together.
In the week that we were there, Virginia became a symbol of balance and peace for me. That small, oddly tropical world felt centered in nature and grounded in a history centuries old. I expected to feel overwhelmed, exploring a city that had roots extending back to the birth of the nation, but instead I found comfort in the notion that I was suddenly a part of something greater. And truly, I thought, that’s the way it is all the time. I felt small, but not in a negative sense. Like I fit here, just right. A little piece to this great big, incredible puzzle.
Virginia felt right.
| April 2017. Friday. 9:15am. Hope. And Frisbees. And Virginia. |
I’m early, as usual. But this time, I’m alone. I’m able to do these kinds of things by myself more and more often, now.
She asks me how I would rate my anxiety the past week, on the familiar scale of 1-10. I give her a number - significantly lower than the number I gave during our first meeting together, four months ago. Progress. She writes the number down on her ever-present yellow legal pad. That’s where my secrets are.
We move on from numbers and delve into a more specific topic. I tell her how it felt in the moment. Dark. Scary. Flashing lights. Someone yelling. Everything gets copied down onto the yellow pages. She helps me process it, asking clarifying questions and encouraging me to go back to that night, even though it’s hard. I hold buzzers in my hands, feeling them pulsate alternatingly in my fists; supposedly connecting the right and left halves of my brain. It’s called EMDR. We’re paying a lot for it, but it works.
“And how do you feel now?” Her voice interrupts the buzzers as she flips the switch on the tiny control panel to turn them off. I feel peaceful.
“Where did you go?” she asks. I went to Virginia.
“Why Virginia?” I think about rolling green hills and a simultaneous seashore.
“How’s your frisbee?” she asks. I do a mental body scan.
“Smaller,” I respond in that quiet voice that admits a hint of pride. “Virginia shrunk the frisbee.”
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