Anxious Person
By Erin Deborah Waks
I am not, generally, considered to be an ‘anxious person.’ I am entirely comfortable speaking in front of big crowds, enjoy trying new things on my own, love meeting new people (even in large groups, and even if I don’t know anyone else in the room) and even (dare I say it) thrive in exams, under pressure or in interviews. I’ve moved countries by myself twice.
Just last week, my cousin was surprised when I opened up about an issue with which I was grappling, saying, ‘It’s crazy to me. You just seem so sure of yourself, so confident, that it’s hard to fathom you’re struggling with something like insecurity and anxiety.’ Yes, I’m an over-thinker to the max, but am not ‘anxious’ in the obvious or recognisable sense. Whatever that may mean.
Funny, that.
Because my experience of anxiety is highly tangible, physically present and, sometimes, debilitating. I’m just a master of disguise.
Anxiety manifests in different forms for everyone. Emily Blunt’s character in The Devil Wears Prada is famed for saying, ‘I’m just one stomach flu away from my goal weight.’ Replace ‘stomach flu’ with ‘anxiety flare-up’ and you’ve got me summed up. When I feel this way, I can hardly stomach even a slice of toast - and not out of choice or a diet mentality. I lose interest in things I normally love. I suddenly need much more reassurance than usual. I don’t have my usual energy. I’m less driven to write.
When I ignore all of the emotional symptoms, it’s like my body is desperate for me to take notice. I don’t get hungry, my heart rate spikes at the most minor of instances. I can’t drink my beloved coffee, because it makes me feel so panicked. I am nauseated all the time. I’ve been getting migraines and headaches, surely related. I feel so innately uncomfortable that even sitting at my desk at work feels unbearable.
My friends hear the tip of the iceberg (‘Hey, you don’t think I have food poisoning, right?’ ‘Is it okay if we just have a night in, I’m not feeling great?’) but not what’s beneath the surface. Not the hours I spend breathing slowly just to get through a random hour. Not the ruminating thoughts. Not the constant nausea.
Right now, I have a dream apartment, a dream job, and a dream boyfriend. I wear vintage designer jeans, have built an enviable writer’s portfolio by the mere age of 23, and speak three languages fluently. I’m kind, confident in my skin and self-assured.
You can’t know, from the outside, the war in my mind. I’ve cultivated a ‘perfect’ image to quieten my mind, to manage anxiety, to keep things under control.
A lot of the time, that works. It certainly has for most of my life. But somewhere along the line, my carefully curated balance started slipping. Convincing myself that I need to be able to handle all of my own emotions became slowly harder, sitting at my desk on the verge of panic became an hourly occurrence, and I realised it was time to write.
Right now, everything looks ‘perfect.’
And yet I feel like I’m falling apart.
