Disclaimer: In the following post, I’m delving into my personal experience with anxiety and my own mental health. Please be warned that if conversation surrounding anxiety and mental health is unsettling or triggering for you, you should avoid reading this post. Much love to those who are struggling. To speak with someone anonymously about what you’re experiencing, call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264).

I’ve experienced anxiety since I was small. My first memories are riddled with worry. I’ve had a chronic stomach ache my entire life. This pressing, heavy rock has made a lovely, loud home in my belly, pushing itself into my sides in moments of uncertainty. I’m always just a tad shaky and on the verge of tears. For as long as my memories go back, I’ve endured varying degrees of debilitating anxiety.

When I was in the first grade (around ‘98), we spent time in the computer lab as a class. We would play games and learn the ins and outs of budding technology. It was my first interaction with a computer and there was a lot of pressure to not break anything. Mine would inevitably freeze or go on its own little independent mission, completely unaware of my feeble attempts to steer it in the right direction.

The teacher wasn’t particularly patient with me in those moments. I remember several glares and short responses when I didn’t understand how to click or push or move like I was supposed to be doing. I remember her outfits and how, at that time, she had to have been the tallest person I’d ever seen. I remember feeling small and insignificant. Here’s one of the tricky things about anxiety: I can’t trust myself or my memories. I think she was stern and impatient, but was that just my anxiety twisting a perfectly normal, appropriate interaction with a teacher in an effort to keep me questioning and pitting myself against everyone I encounter?

I was perpetually scared of disappointing authoritative figures and my usual response to criticism was to shut down entirely. So, I did. And I cried. I cried a lot. Time in that classroom shaped my response to conflict, discomfort, and disappointment in many ways. I can still smell that room. And I feel the lump growing in my throat when I think of the still images, not computing, not doing what I was asked. I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t smart. I wasn’t capable. That’s not what six-year-old Bethany was thinking exactly, but she felt useless and alone in that room.

Eventually, my mom noticed I didn’t go anywhere near our own computer at home and asked why. I told her about my troubles at school, so she showed up to sit with me while we had computer time. I didn’t think anything of my mom joining us a few times a month and I don’t remember my peers saying anything about it either. She would guide me along and help me when I got stuck or didn’t know how to use the keyboard. I was endlessly grateful. My mom, comforting. My mom, patient. My mom, a beacon of calm understanding.

I was six years old, suffering from anxiety. Many times, that suffering was done in silence. The computer class incident was unusual because there were numerous times in my young life I felt the exact same way as I did in the lab, but didn’t vocalize those feelings to anyone. I didn’t say anything until later when I couldn’t hide those symptoms any longer.

I started having panic attacks when I was 14. Everything goes white, sounds are muted, I lose all control of my breathing, and my chest constricts. They don’t happen at random. I can usually feel them coming. Bad day, bad news, bad interaction. Sometimes all it takes is a spilled cup of coffee or unpleasant text.

Now, after experiencing them for over 12 years, I can stop them before they wash over me, if I have enough time and am in a solid headspace. I can center myself, focus on breathing, and give it all up, knowing that even if I have an attack, I’ll survive it.

That’s probably the nastiest part of my anxiety (“my anxiety,” like it’s a phone I’ve misplaced, yet again, or an old pair of Chuck Taylors I just can’t part with at the moment). The attacks are, undoubtedly, the worst, but there are endless more nuanced symptoms I’ve spent years attempting to dissect and understand.

For instance, I developed a skin condition in college that pairs well with anxiety. It’s a real Fred and Ginger situation. It’s called dermatographic urticaria (or “skin writing,” Google it if you so please). When I get anxious, I break out in hot, itchy hives all over my body. I get anxious often. I’m constantly hivey. How unsettling, how disappointing to be betrayed by my own body. My mind inspires skin rashes. My skin lets people know what’s on my mind. Will I ever have a moment of peace, during which I can spill silly secrets without my skin alerting the press?

Anxiety is much more than living in chronic fear. It’s being unable to articulate why I’m suddenly filled with rage because plans have changed by half an hour. It’s driving around a grocery store parking lot for an obscene amount of time, convincing myself everything will be fine when I get inside...or will it? It’s bumming myself out regularly because I’ve said no to a new opportunity, let my headspace get the best of me, or spent all day in bed again.

It’s skipping class because the thought of entering a classroom, eyes fixed on my body, made me throw up again. It’s begging my siblings to pay the cashier for me because I can’t interact with strangers today. I just can’t. I don’t know how to explain why I can’t, but I can’t. It’s another sleepless night spent playing the downfalls of my day on repeat.

I’m not scared of the boogeyman. I don’t fear death, pain, or nature. I’ve done a lot of fearless stuff. Traveled the world, moved to a new city by myself, performed in front of hundreds of people, and shared my experiences with the Internet (with comments enabled!!).

I got in my car and drove west for two months. I finished college. I started my own business. I’ve lived in such a way that might lead one to believe I wear bravery and resiliency like a new shade of lipstick, but if you could read the insides of my brain and heart, you just might cry with me.

It’s an odd secret to hold, and I don’t mean to keep it a secret, but I also don’t know how to announce that this little bug in my brain convinces me to stay up organizing my chest of drawers until four in the morning and keeps me attached to a pot of coffee because I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve ever had a restful night’s sleep.

Always a little achy. Always running to the bathroom. Always a touch sleep deprived. Always obsessing over something.

Some days, my anxiety looks like biting your head off because I had to explain something a second time. It looks like crying about someone honking their horn at me. It looks like procrastinating even when I’m really good at the task at hand. It looks like not responding to texts and letting friendships fade because I’m afraid of what they think of me and how my moods ruin their days. It looks like not having a reason for being so irritable and unpleasant. It looks like self medicating. It looks like manic cleaning episodes. It looks like being single forever because my changing tides are more frustrating than endearing. It looks like letting my dreams stay dreams because the pursuit is not worth the panic.

But that’s just some days. Other times, anxiety allows me to empathize with my friend who’s not feeling up to going to the movies. It’s understanding why someone snapped at me. It’s the knowing look in my brother’s eyes when he doesn’t want to make that phone call. It’s finding comfort in the pink and purple sky - the sky who gives, the sky who creates. It’s knowing that some days, getting out of bed is more than enough. It’s appreciating the good days in a different light. It’s feeling fully. It’s remembering every single personal break through I’ve had, whether standing barefoot on the California coast or choosing between brands of pita chips in the middle of HEB.

Anxiety is an isolating experience. It can make us feel completely alone in our perpetual state of worried and overwhelmed. I’m writing this, with every ounce of vulnerability I can push through my fingertips, because I need you to know you aren’t alone. When you feel overwhelmed, when you feel overlooked, when you feel less than, I’m here and I’ve felt that way too.

Some people will tell you to pray it away. As if God’s only waiting for my tiny voice to remove decades of worry from my spirit. As if the first thing I do each day isn’t to beg for a new brain.

They’ll tell you to take certain vitamins, exercise 10 times a week, and drink celery juice as often as you can stomach. To cut out screen time, invest in essential oils that smell like expired herbs and moth balls, and to cut anything that starts with the letter “g” out of your diet. To stand on your head for 30 minutes a day, to bathe in water from the Pacific Ocean, to eat straight up rose quartz and minimize blinking to a few times an hour. They mean well, but they won’t have a response when you tell them you’ve done all of those things and still have panic attacks over piles of dirty clothes.

I’m happy if any of those things work for you. I’m proud of you for prioritizing your mental health and getting help, whatever that looks like for you. I’m thankful you’re alive, even if you couldn’t get out of bed. And I’m here to empower you, to embrace you, to encourage you to give yourself a break.

Be gentle with your heavy heart and hurting head. On days that you don’t have a kind word for yourself, when the fear eats away at your nerves, remember how often you’ve felt the exact same way and came through on the other side. If you haven’t found ways to settle your soul, if the celery juice just isn’t quite cutting it, be patient with your own process.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget family members joining me on the floor, coaxing my breath to a normal pace, being as close to the edge as they could possibly be with me. Certain mental health issues try their hardest to separate us from familiarity, comfort, acceptance, and unconditional love. They trick us into believing we’re unwanted, too much, not enough. When everything goes white and you feel the bad waves coming, remember me, remember this: you’re alive right now. You’ve been alive this whole time. And sometimes life feels a lot like agony, but that doesn’t mean it’s the end. We all need you here with us. Come sit in the vast oceans of fear with me. We’ll wade them together.

I see your fight, whatever it may be, and I’m here for you, with shaky hands, a gurgling tummy, and glossy, tearful eyes. I know what it means to live without ease and I want more for both of us. For now, I’ll pour you a cup of lavender tea and we can talk about the magical sky.

Help is available.

https://www.thetrevorproject.org/get-help-now/
National Alliance on Mental Illness: 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or info@nami.org
National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255 (available in Spanish, for deaf and hard of hearing, and chat)

Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.

To my friends with sleepless nights.

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