Adjectives

By Erin Deborah Waks

TW: Anxiety, panic attacks, panic disorder.

Hear me out, because you’re going to hate me for just a moment.

When I was younger, I always thought people who couldn’t manage their anxieties were, in some ways, weaker. People who clearly exhibited a nervous disposition, who avoided certain things because they were worried about them, who had panic attacks or physical manifestations of anxiety, I, admittedly, assumed were pathetic - because they couldn’t hide their anxieties from the world. Anxieties that make them high-maintenance, pathetic, needy, weak, dependent, off-putting, unattractive and, most of all, too difficult to love.

You hate me, right?

The funny thing is, when I watched my friends struggle with their mental health, that’s not how I viewed them at all. I saw people, men and women, grappling with very real, very tangible, and very difficult experiences that were absolutely as tough as any physical ailment. I watched, in awe of how these gorgeous humans carried on with their lives in such pain, and never once saw them as ‘pathetic.’

And yet, when I started to lose control of my own hold on my emotions, when my guard started slipping and the perfectionism and control within me that sought to keep panic and disorder at bay, that’s exactly how I viewed myself. 

How could this be happening? How have I become so dependent, so pathetic? How long until I become so needy, so weak, that no one I love can stand to be around me? How many panicked texts before my partner realises I am too much, too high-maintenance, too off-putting, too unattractive? How many plans will I cancel, important events will I miss, texts will I not have the energy to send, before my friends think I don’t care about them?

How many days are left before I confront the reality that I am, in fact, too difficult to love?

Living with anxiety is hard enough without piling on top a whole load of shame, guilt, pressure and fear. It’s hard enough having a panic attack and needing help to calm down, without the following feeling of guilt for having put a friend through that, as though the person having to listen to me having a panic attack is the worst thing, and me, the person actually having one, should stop for their benefit. The shame of being unable to deal with everything myself. The worry that all the people who’ve told me they love me for my independence will run a mile now that I’m not quite as confident on my feet. 

Hard enough to feel the tough emotions without feeling a tidal wave of others pulling me down afterwards.

I don’t think, to be honest, that I’m very kind to myself. That’s true. At least, I know it’s true, because every time I write it a tear drops down my cheek and I feel a familiar dropping sensation in my chest. I know it’s true because I think most of the people I love will be horrified that I worry this is what they’ll think of me. I know it’s true in the moments of lucidity, of calm, when I know this is just something I’m going through now, a cycle that I know will end.

I know it’s true because I’m the only one who thinks all of these adjectives are accurate descriptions of me.