By James Jimenez
Since May is Mental Health Awareness Month, allow me to share a friend’s deeply personal experience with anxiety. It is my hope that through raw vulnerability and introspection, my friend’s narrative serves not only to illuminate the reality of living with anxiety, but also to emphasize that empathy and understanding are essential to survival in a world where mental health remains under the dark cloud of stigma.
I’ve concealed identities in this candid first-hand account, but no anonymity can blunt the ragged cutting edges of an anxiety attack.
Waking from a Dream
The infernal heat of the past month has been a challenge. I thought that with the arrival of May, we would be in for some relief. Sadly, despite getting some rainfall, everything in the city still bakes under the sun. Even the night brings no rest.
It’s different for everyone, I think. For me, it usually starts with me waking up from a dream. It doesn’t matter what the dream is, but I wake up from it Hollywood-style, with a strangled half-shout sometimes; more often, I just scream.
My chest feels simultaneously like it’s about to burst and as though someone were sitting on it. It’s a deeply oppressive sensation that spurs me to physical activity. I move my arms around, I stomp my feet, imagining that I am doing these things in an effort to bleed off excess energy. Energy that, if not released somehow, will explode through my ribs. At the same time, there is a strong urge to shout, to groan out loud, to force air out of my lungs, up my throat and out my mouth. Again, like with the arms and the stomping, it feels like making these sounds relieves the pressure in my chest.
I usually come awake anywhere between 1:30 and 3:30 AM. It’s the dead of night and despite this overpowering need to move and make noise, I struggle to keep it down, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house. I need to talk to someone – anyone, but at the same time, I feel deathly afraid of the human connection that requires.
I see a cat
I am overwhelmed by feelings of helplessness and despair; fear, the absence of all hope. It’s a bleak feeling. Every possible negative nuance of everything is magnified and pursued to its most horrible conclusion, all in the span of seconds.
I see a cat and the first thing I think of is that I’m allergic to cats. Then I am convinced that the cat will jump on the table and knock over the mug of water I left there; spilling water all over my open laptop and frying the circuits, rendering it useless. A useless laptop means I can’t finish what I was writing and if I don’t meet my deadline – which I am sure I will not – people are going to mad at me and hate me and want me gone.
It goes on and on like that until my mind latches on to something else. That something else usually involves relationships with the people I love. I second guess years’ worth of relationships, repeating scenes from the past and imagining the worst motives for everyone. That tender kiss on the forehead? She just couldn’t bring herself to kiss me on the lips anymore. That look? Anger. Hate. Disgust. And it goes on and on until I feel like I must be going insane.
And all the while, my heart is pounding, I’m short of breath and the walls are closing in.
Most of the time, I am able to weather these storms. I light a cigarette and pop open a can of soda. The cold bubbly liquid streaking down my throat calms me some, and the ritual of lighting a stick of cancer diverts my attention for a while. Eventually, fatigue takes over and I crawl into bed, even more exhausted. If I’m lucky, the lights go out in my mind and I’m able to slip into fitful sleep again. If I’m unlucky, a new fear takes center stage. The fear of waking up again with another panic attack, convincing me that I’m going to die alone.
It is an unreasonable fear. I know this on an intellectual level, but that hardly matters to my pulse. Even as I lay there, thankful at having survived another bout of acute anxiety, the blood throbs in my ears and off I go on another spiral of fear, loathing, anger.
I jerked awake and realized that I had fallen asleep. All around me, the sounds of a neighborhood waking up reminds me that I need to get up soon. Can’t be late for work.
We are all survivors
One way or the other, I suspect we are all survivors of experiences similar to this. Some are lucky and never need relive it; far too many, unfortunately, go through it every day. The thing of it is, no one can tell the difference. People struggling with mental health don’t exhibit signs or symptoms that make them stand out in any way. Sometimes, those we imagine to be the strongest can actually urn out to be the most broken.
That’s why many suffer needlessly, alone and in silence. But that’s alright. Understanding isn’t about statistics; it’s about empathy. We don’t need to know how many people are suffering to extend a helping hand; we really just need to know about the one.
Reaching out with compassion and support is where it begins.
