Turtlenecks Pulled Too Tight

I have anxiety. I see a therapist, and a psychiatrist, and I’m not ashamed. I’ve been taking medication for close to six months now, and I’m not sure how to accurately explain how much better I feel every single day - but I’ll try.

I didn’t realize how much of my life and my decisions was influenced by low-level anxiety that was simply hanging over me all the time.

Every night starting around six o’clock the dread would set in. I couldn’t imagine going to work the next day. I couldn’t imagine getting up in front of my class and teaching. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to balance my paperwork with my other duties.

Then, those same thoughts would start up again the instant I woke up. And I mean the instant I woke up. As soon as my eyes popped open and I rolled over to shut off my alarm clock, it began, only intensified because now I actually had to go.

Each class I taught, every conversation I had with a student brought with it more and more anxiety. The way my anxiety manifests isn’t just mental; it’s physical, as well. I can feel it in the back of my throat, tight. Not so much that it’s hard to breathe, but I’m constantly aware of each breath, like wearing a turtleneck or a scarf pulled the tiniest bit too tight. My stomach turns to lead. I get so cold but can’t warm up, even when I sit my electric heater on my desk and point it right at my chest, arms wrapped around it and head low.

This lasted all day, until 3:30. From 3:30 to 6:00, I was free. That’s approximately 2 and a half hours a day I wasn’t wracked with racing, negative thoughts, beating myself down and never letting myself back up. 2 and a half hours a day I could breathe and not feel each breath as I passed through my throat. 2 and a half hours of warmth.

I could drown myself in Netflix binging and block out the world, and say it’s because I’m introverted and interacting with people all day is exhausting. I just needed to recharge my batteries. I think, in part, that’s true, but it’s definitely not the whole truth.

Let me break in here and clarify something: I thought this was normal. I thought it was stress, and that this something everyone has to deal with. I didn’t even consider it an abnormal amount of stress because, after all, my life is pretty good. I’m financially stable, I have a steady full-time job, I have a loving family, I have wonderful friends, I’m generally healthy beyond the occasional cold - why should I complain? So, I didn’t.

Side note: I have a tendency to keep my emotions bottled up because I feel like I’m being a burden on anyone that I attempt to share them with (being a burden is one of my greatest fears). Fun little tidbit I discovered with my therapist, and I’m still working to figure out where it stems from.

Despite all of this, I never really considered getting help until my dad began openly discussing his struggles with anxiety and depression with me. They were eerily similar to the things I was feeling. He offered to call the therapist's office for me, as I also have an aversion calling people on the phone that tends to lead to me never actually following through and making the call. I got my first appointment set-up. I cannot stress how helpful it was to have someone openly and honestly discuss mental health with me. I had had conversations about it in the past, but never one like this. This was personal. It wasn’t vague, or in the abstract, it was about me and him. I honestly don’t think I would’ve gone to get help without it. Thanks, dad, if you’re reading.

The day of my first appointment, my anxiety kicked into the highest of high gears. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to cancel something quite as much as I wanted to cancel this. When I got there, the receptionist was incredibly kind, and the waiting room was mostly empty. Yet, at the tender age of 24, I made my mom sit with me because I was so nervous I actually felt nauseous (A rarer manifestation of the anxiety for me, but one I’ve come to know very well throughout my life).

My first meeting with my therapist, a lovely woman, was relatively painless. She asked me some questions to establish my mental health baseline and asked me to create a list of goals I wanted to achieve. My first appointment with my psychiatrist was roughly the same, except he prescribed me some meds and told me to buy a book focusing on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

When I got home from my therapy session, with a social anxiety diagnosis in tow, I cried. I cried and cried for close to an hour because it was official. I kept thinking I was broken, and now I had proof. All of the negative things I thought, and still sometimes think, about myself cycled rapidly through my head: never going to make more friends, never going to find a partner, never going to be independent. It hurt. I felt alone.

Today, six months and a 3x higher dose of anti-anxiety medication later, was a good day. I stood up in front of a class of 44 students (the most I’ve ever taught on my own), explained how read to micrometers and calipers (I have an English Education degree), and didn’t feel worried, nervous, or anxious even once. I cracked some jokes, kept their attention, and honestly I think it went better today than it ever has before, and I’ve taught the same class every three months for the last 2 and a half years.

Friends, it really does get better. At this precise moment, it’s 9:03 PM EST, and there’s no dread. Not even a little. I hope someday you can have a day like that, too.