Panophobia Chapter 3: What Anxiety Feels Like
Hey guys! I know I haven't posted in an unforgivably long time, so for those of you who actually follow this blog, I am very sorry. There's been a lot of personal stuff going on in the last year and I really haven't had the mental or even physical resolve to sit down and write about my innermost feelings: largely because I have no idea what I am feeling. With the exception of fear. I have been more anxious this year than almost any other year in my life, and maybe one day I'll be comfortable with talking about it on the internet with a bunch of faceless strangers, but today is not that day. So instead, I want to talk about how my anxiety has made me feel this past year.
I was trying to think of a way to explain my anxiety the other day and I have come to the staunch conclusion that there is no ONE way to describe it. I have to jumble my analogies, or "get all my ducks on the same page".
See, it's funny because I mixed metaphors, and- *ahem* You know what, let's just forget it.
Here's what my regular, everyday anxiety feels like:
That moment when you miss a step going down the stairs, but for eternity.
That moment when you're watching a horror movie, and you know a jump scare is coming, but it still hasn't happened.
That moment when you've been watching serial killer documentaries and that walk to your car in the dark feels a lot longer than it should.
That moment when you've being ringing a family member for a long time and they haven't answered, and no-one else has heard from them in a while.
That moment when, as a parent, you turn around to find your child has vanished from view and your heart drops to your shoes. *but they were just on the other side*
And this is what a panic attack feels like:
That moment when you miss a step going down the stairs, but those stairs are in a creepy house in the moors, and no-one but you was supposed to be in the house, but you can hear footsteps behind you and your phone is still in the car, which has a flat, and you know there is no escape from the crushing loneliness of death in this terrible situation that you could have avoided if only you hadn't taken that left turn.
That moment when someone close to you has been in hospital and you've been worried for a while but then when you finally become hopeful that they might recover, you step through the doors only to find a nurse looking at you with pity in her eyes and she doesn't even need to say the words because you already know, and that half second before she says anything makes your heart leap into your throat, because there's still a dying ember of hope fighting to survive.
That moment when you're all alone in the dark, and the dark is so black that it starts to feel like a wall, surrounding you, bearing down on you, with no hope for escape.
It feels like being all alone, completely lost and afraid in the world, with no way to turn and no-one to talk to, and it feels like it's never going to end. It's like a form of tunnel vision, blurring everything more than a foot from your person, making the world spin further and further away the harder you reach for it. It's like a swirling vortex of loneliness and worry.
It's like a rollercoaster ride with an important piece of track missing, but the coaster isn't slowing down.
It's like a heart attack, or a migraine.
It's a weird, painful, upsetting experience, and if you've ever had even one, I want you to know that you're not alone - there's someone else out there, even if you've never met, who knows how you feel.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
I was trying to think of a way to explain my anxiety the other day and I have come to the staunch conclusion that there is no ONE way to describe it. I have to jumble my analogies, or "get all my ducks on the same page".
See, it's funny because I mixed metaphors, and- *ahem* You know what, let's just forget it.
Here's what my regular, everyday anxiety feels like:
That moment when you miss a step going down the stairs, but for eternity.
That moment when you're watching a horror movie, and you know a jump scare is coming, but it still hasn't happened.
That moment when you've been watching serial killer documentaries and that walk to your car in the dark feels a lot longer than it should.
That moment when you've being ringing a family member for a long time and they haven't answered, and no-one else has heard from them in a while.
That moment when, as a parent, you turn around to find your child has vanished from view and your heart drops to your shoes. *but they were just on the other side*
And this is what a panic attack feels like:
That moment when you miss a step going down the stairs, but those stairs are in a creepy house in the moors, and no-one but you was supposed to be in the house, but you can hear footsteps behind you and your phone is still in the car, which has a flat, and you know there is no escape from the crushing loneliness of death in this terrible situation that you could have avoided if only you hadn't taken that left turn.
That moment when someone close to you has been in hospital and you've been worried for a while but then when you finally become hopeful that they might recover, you step through the doors only to find a nurse looking at you with pity in her eyes and she doesn't even need to say the words because you already know, and that half second before she says anything makes your heart leap into your throat, because there's still a dying ember of hope fighting to survive.
That moment when you're all alone in the dark, and the dark is so black that it starts to feel like a wall, surrounding you, bearing down on you, with no hope for escape.
It feels like being all alone, completely lost and afraid in the world, with no way to turn and no-one to talk to, and it feels like it's never going to end. It's like a form of tunnel vision, blurring everything more than a foot from your person, making the world spin further and further away the harder you reach for it. It's like a swirling vortex of loneliness and worry.
It's like a rollercoaster ride with an important piece of track missing, but the coaster isn't slowing down.
It's like a heart attack, or a migraine.
It's a weird, painful, upsetting experience, and if you've ever had even one, I want you to know that you're not alone - there's someone else out there, even if you've never met, who knows how you feel.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
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