It's about time for a superhero origin story: anxiety edition

Maybe you can tell I have anxiety because it's written all over me and everything I do. It comes up a LOT, and I don’t just mean in every single post I write (though that seems to be a thing as well). But the thing about mental illness, in my own personal experience, is that it acts sort of like a quiet background soundtrack to the rest of your life. Sometimes, the volume is turned down. You still hear it, but there’s enough going on that you drown out the sound most of the time until the rest of your life quiets as well. Then, there are times when someone (WHO DID THIS?) cranks the volume until you feel the bass beat pounding against the insides of your skull and you’re left stumbling, grabbing at walls for balance as you drag yourself through this shell of a life you have right now. A passive participant, rather than an active one, as you do whatever it takes just to simply survive the day.

So I wanted to take some time to talk about my own experience with anxiety, what it felt like before I was diagnosed, when I swung back and forth between complete denial and hesitant acceptance of the possibility, as well as what life is like now that I’ve been diagnosed.

I do want to be very clear: this is my own personal experience with anxiety. Anxiety comes in so many different forms and everyone experiences it differently. So all I can speak through is my own personal experience. However, if you read through this and find details relatable, I would recommend talking to a qualified medical professional. For the longest time, I was afraid of being diagnosed, afraid of what the label might mean. Which meant I went for a long time not getting help that would have made my life better sooner.

Also, final note I want to make before I get started: I am in no way a medical professional. Again, this is my personal experience. If you are struggling with mental health, please speak to a medical professional.

Okay, let’s get started.

BEFORE DIAGNOSIS

I think I knew something was going on with my mental health back around the end of middle school. But given that this is also the time of…well…puberty, it was also relatively easy to write off. Mood swings, depressed days, I read it all as par for the course. But I also remember seeing antidepressant ads and thinking “that sounds sort of like me.” Which, you know, chill thought for a 12-year-old.

There was a bunch of “little things” that should have signified that what I was feeling wasn’t “normal,” but somehow it didn’t click. I’m talking things like:

• I had to check the outlet behind my bed every morning because I thought it would catch fire.

• I was terrified of accidentally seeing someone else’s paper in class. To the point that I had to ask a teacher once if it was okay.

• There were short spurts of time where I would wash my hands incessantly.

And that’s just high school. When it came to college, I’d wake up each morning almost gasping for breath. My stomach filled with acid at the prospect of facing the day. I couldn’t think of anything other than how scared I was of everything. And I spent the first hour of everyday shoving down my fear. I tired to overcompensate for it by working on my assignments as early as possible, but that ended up with my head constantly spinning. Once, my body just forced me to stop. On a weekend where I had so much planned that it was overwhelming, I made myself sick with dizziness and difficulty eating anything. I knew it was because my body needed a break. Even still, I tried to keep writing my thesis in bed.

Basically, I got used to the shaking. Thought an acid-filled stomach was just how my body started days. Went into adulthood and my full-time job after college just constantly afraid that at some point, people would realize that I wasn’t good enough at whatever I was supposed to be doing.

Until, I stopped being able to ignore it anymore.

GETTING A DIAGNOSIS

My diagnosis started in small things. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I found that running resulted in distress, like I couldn’t breathe and my heart would race before I could even get a couple laps in at the track. Eventually, I got tired of my inability to workout. Thought I might have asthma. And decided to go through the process of getting tested.

My breathing test came back normal. So did my EKG. I forget the rest, only know that everything from my lungs to my heart were fine. But I was still having trouble breathing. There was a strange stabbing pain in my chest that terrified me.

And then there was the random day, at work, when I just couldn’t breathe.

The morning didn’t start well. Snowstorms aren’t exactly a foreign phenomenon in northeast Ohio, and I’ve spent a lot of time driving through them. I drove through one on the way to work that morning. It wasn’t pleasant, not really, but it also wasn’t the worst thing I’d driven through.

But after I got to work, I struggled to catch my breath. My chest ached. I pushed through the pain, kept working. I was on a major project at work and was determined to ignore this strange thing I didn’t understand. My coworkers, thankfully, cared about me. And once they realized things weren’t getting better, the program manager told me that I should go to the medical center at work, that there was no reason to prioritize the project above my heath, and even instructed one of my other coworkers to go with me to make sure I didn’t collapse on the way.

Honestly, if not for them, I don’t think the rest of this wouldn’t have happened. I am so thankful for them.

After being given a breathing treatment, the nurse practitioner ran through a questionnaire and then by the end, told me, “You realize that this is a test for anxiety. And you answered yes on almost every question.”

And finally, I had to stop hiding. Had to stop lying to myself. Had to accept the fact that my health was a wreck and that accepting weakness meant someday again finding strength.

AFTER DIAGNOSIS

I won’t walk you through the challenges of finding the right medication. Just know it’s super not fun to try a medication that doesn’t help and then be weaned off it and on to another. That’s basically a week of your life you drag yourself through. But the second medication we tried…it made a difference.

And not just a difference. It made me realize: oh, this is what life is like.

Writing this now, three years divorced from this experience, I struggle to place myself back in who I was pre-anxiety meds. I have to speak in metaphors because the specifics are lost now. But it was like a constant buzzing quieted in my head. My hands weren’t constantly shaking. I could take a full breath. I woke up without a stomach full of acid and eyes full of tears.

I found myself asking, “Why didn’t I just admit this and get help sooner?”

I won’t lie: there were things that did become harder. Okay, one thing: writing changed. My connection with writing changed. It was like I had to rewire that part of my brain to learn how this new version of me would write.

But honestly, even experiencing that challenge, I knew I wouldn’t take back the choice to start taking medication (properly prescribed) for my anxiety. And my fear that it would be out of my price range? It’s like a few dollars for several months-worth. I suffered for years because I thought it would be out of my price range. Was afraid of what it meant for my life opportunities. In reality, being diagnosed with anxiety just made me able to exist.

And now?

It’s not like my anxiety is gone. It’s different now. I still take medication everyday, and I will say the hardest part of my day is the morning right before I take my anxiety medication. Some mornings, I still feel the shadow of that pressure on my heart and my lungs as anxiety tries to wrap its sticky hand around them. I still struggle with thoughts of perfection and feeling good-enough. Some days are still just bad and anxious.

But I don’t feel like every single moment of my life is a wall I need to shove my head through.

Anxiety still plays a huge part in my life. If you’ve read the other posts, you can see all the little ways anxiety still touches every single thing I do. I have to be conscious of how much coffee I drink, because some days my tolerance is lower because of my anxiety. My thoughts still spiral toward worst case scenarios, so I’ll reach out to someone I trust to help me see the logical end point rather than the anxiety one. Some days, I just know I have to cry until there are no tears left.

So what’s the point of all of this?

I guess…it’s the same in all I write. If you read this and relate, then know you are not alone. Know that these feelings are not isolated to you. Know that there is a future past this, one that’s worth reaching.

And if you need help, please don’t be afraid to ask for it. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, this single life that you have to live is worth it.