I’m backsliding this weekend.
Backstepping, falling off, backsliding, riding the Struggle Bus – however you’d like to put it, I am sitting a few steps back on my journey this weekend. I can see the footprints in front of me, marking how far I was a few weeks ago, when I decided to pursue my passions and leave a steady job because I could. Last week, I submitted a piece of fiction to an online publication – my first attempt at publication, I’ll have you know. That’s probably a few steps ahead of where I’m sitting, plopped down on the road and rocking back and forth. It’s a comfort thing. Don’t worry. I’ve had three panic attacks in two days, and right now there feels like there’s a river of clamor running just under my skin. Everything feels noisy. I’ve changed my shirt three times today because everything itches. I’ve been letting the noise leech out of my skin slowly: yoga and classical music helps tremendously. I’m beginning to feel a little bit more like myself as I write this, exhausted and finally sedate.
My wonderful boyfriend picked up on it before I did, and it took him suggesting a walk for me to realize that I’d been grinding my teeth for the last half-hour while trying to read. I’ve always found physical activity the most effective treatment for my episodes, and if I’m lucky, they happen on a Sunday, so I can dedicate two hours of yoga to resetting my brain.
I’m not always sure why these episodes happen. Sometimes, I can pinpoint an obvious trigger – hunger, impending sickness, poor sleep, or stress. It’s easier to forgive myself when I can detect the cause of the panic. Isn’t that the case for all of us, though? Isn’t it easier to forgive behavior when there are mitigating circumstances?
I’m beginning to realize, though, that looking for an excuse – a mitigating circumstance, a trigger – to explain and justify my panic just encourages me to keep blaming myself. Yes, it’s important to understand our triggers, so that we can understand our reactions to them, but we don’t need to understand our triggers to forgive ourselves. When we make reasonable cause a prerequisite for forgiveness, we punish ourselves more harshly when we feel ways we don’t understand. That way of thinking makes a panic attack more acceptable in certain circumstances than in others. It validates people who ask us, “What have you got to be depressed about?”
The unfair truth is sometimes we don’t have anything to be depressed about, or afraid of, or anxious about. We just are.
It’s that knowledge – that my brain is often setting off smokebombs and flares in response to no threat – that makes me feel prickly. It makes me feel tired. More than anything, though, it makes me feel guilty. I feel guilty because I worry obsessively about showing that side of me to the outside world – letting the snarls and thorns grow on the outside and prick the people I love. I can’t count the number of times I’ve apologized to my sweet, understanding boyfriend for the way I am this weekend. Of course, it was always unnecessary and he always made sure I knew that, but I wasn’t really apologizing for his sake. I was apologizing for me, to soothe myself, to reassure myself that I was controlling whatever damage my snarls were wreaking on the world around me. I wasn’t sure what justified my episode this weekend – I’m still not entirely sure – and so it seemed to me that I didn’t deserve to be afraid. I was mad at myself for messing up the progress I thought I’d made. I couldn’t forgive myself for feeling this way and let myself ride it out.
But here’s the thing: it’s never about whether you deserve to feel sad or anxious or mad or terrified. The feelings exist because they exist. You didn’t cause them, and it’s not your fault.
I’m slowly learning to trust the people I love to tell me if I hurt them, instead of assuming that my anxiety will seep out of my skin and infect them. They are strong, and they are capable of taking care of themselves. They love me, and they realize that my mind sometimes goes too fast, like a broken carnival ride. Sometimes I have to write those things down, so that when my mind’s a maelstrom of white noise and I feel like if I open my mouth I’ll just scream, I can look and remember that I’m loved. People with mental illness aren’t stupid, but sometimes when our minds short-circuit, we need reminding.
I’m also learning that recovery isn’t a road. I’ve always liked checklists and recipes, because if you follow the directions exactly, nothing bad can happen to you. People with anxiety try to make their lives into checklists, and in true fashion, I’m guilty of doing that to the recovery process. I find myself assuming that if I do everything I’m supposed to do (medication, exercise, diet, meditation) that I’ll just keep getting better and better and someday I won’t have any problems anymore.
The truth – as always – is more complicated than that. Living with anxiety means living with it. There’s no cure for mental illness, only treatments. I’m never going to not be prone to anxiety, and some days I’ll have episodes. Some days, I’ll have episodes for no reason other than the way my brain is wired. The measure of my recovery won’t be the total absence of symptoms, but the fullness of life I’m able to achieve given the brain I have. In that respect, I’m doing fabulously. I’ve done brave things not without fear, but in spite of it. I have built relationships, full knowing that they will cause me emotional stress. I’m slowly learning to let go.
And I’m slowly – oh so slowly – learning how to forgive myself, regardless of the reason for my fear. It’s a difficult process, but a necessary one, if I’m ever going to love myself the way I need to – snarls and all.
Snarls and all.