Just in case . . .

There was a time when airplanes, elevators and crowded places caused my anxiety to flare. I opted out of air travel, took the stairs, and steered clear of claustrophobic spaces. If I avoided these situations, I was mostly fine. But then anxiety upped the ante. Impending doom arrived at first light, lingered all day, and increased its intensity with the coming of night. I hated the darkness. Shortness of breath, dizziness, and a multitude of real and imagined ailments kept me stuck in an anxious loop. I talked to few people about my mental health, fearful of appearing weak or unwell. I finally spoke to my doctor. But he was old and old school. When I asked for help, he shrugged his shoulders and said it was all in my head.

Sometime later, a full-blown panic attack landed me in Urgent Care. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time an episode led to a new doctor and a new approach. He was different, he listened, thoughtfully nodding his head as I recounted symptoms. I was certain it was never anxiety, it had to be a failing heart, a brain tumor, cancer, or rare disease. Of course, I was wrong. My voice cracked, and when I finally stopped talking, he asked, “Do you fear me?” 

I gave a weak laugh and said, “I fear crying in front of you.” 

And then I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t catch my breath. Gently, he took the index and middle fingers of my left hand and placed them on the pulse point on my right wrist. He asked me to find its rhythm and count. My breathing slowed, and I relaxed. He recommended a therapist. And for a brief time, I took meds. 

Anxiety is complex and it’s different for everyone. My therapist helped me identify past and present behavior patterns that exacerbated my worry. Meditation and Yoga became a part of my routine. I learned to quiet my mind, to find calm even in chaos. It wasn’t magic. Change was hard. It took weeks and months of intentional practice. Gradually excessive worry lessened, I was able to manage my anxiety, and I stopped taking meds.

Yet, for a year or two, I carried a single Xanax. When I got on a flight, or entered a crowded venue, my hand would disappear into my purse, fishing around for that amber plastic bottle. Reading its label gave me relief. I never took it, I only needed to know it was there. Then one day, cleaning out my purse, I came across the small container, its label scratched and worn from months of bouncing among my keyring and loose change. I couldn’t remember the last time I had reached for it. I shook the dusty, crumbling pill into my hand and I realized I didn’t need it anymore. Everything I needed was within me. 

I come from a long line of worriers, and the worry gene continues to be passed along. We’re not all the same. We deal with anxiety in a variety of ways, and sometimes not at all. It used to be that talking about my anxiety or hearing about someone else’s triggered my own. That’s no longer the case. I listen and try not to give advice or pass judgement, something I find incredibly difficult. But, my intentions are good, I only want peaceful minds for the people I care about. 

So when someone dear to me was recently challenged with severe anxiety, I thought my experience could be useful. I reacted to every need and responded to every call. I thought I was helping, but as the situation worsened, I could see I was not. I took a step back and evaluated my role. I’m not a therapist, or a doctor, AND I’m not responsible for fixing everyone or every situation. That kind of thinking had been a contributing factor to my own anxiety. The best I could offer was quiet and calm, a safe place to land. Without ever discussing it, we fell into a plan. I would keep my phone turned on through the night, “just in case.” He only needed to know I was there. Whenever I receive his text, “Is your phone turned on?” I reply, “Always.” 

No more frantic calls, or calls at all, just a simple text. Last night I realized, I am the Xanax at the bottom of the purse. There, just in case I am needed. I can’t think of a better place to be. 

Xoc