Panic disorder win: sorta?
My brain is stupid. Not me. It.
. I know this. Aware of it. So I did something absolutely terrifying and kinda stupid this year for the purpose of it being terrifying.
Obviously my brain was incredibly upset with me. What did I do? I moved away from home, quit my job I had been at for 2 years (and was really good at it), and moved to Spain. It was not graceful. It was about the opposite of whatever Eat, Pray, Love BS was. Anxiety can add “grit” to an already anxiety-inducing situation.
I will say this. I did this primarily in the moment out of spite for my brain. Not a great reason when you realize it and are currently about 3 panic attacks into one day, laying on the floor of your new apartment on the phone with my parents (I’m over 25 fyi) debating if I should go to the hospital even though they don’t really speak English. It was a slightly insane decision where I was sick of my anxiety ruling my entire fucking life lol.
My biggest anxiety: being out of control, not knowing, and being away from my family. So… clears throat. I exposed myself to all of that in a hundred and seven-degree heat in a completely different language.
The first three months (not beautiful lol) fucking sucked. I wish I could say I completely nailed it. I have done a lot of therapy throughout my life. Medicated for generalized anxiety, panic disorder, and ADHD. I had a cute little bag with my meds, rubber bands to snap on my wrist, and even a choice card for things to do when I was anxious. However, I was freaking out and ended up throwing or losing (ADHD lol) everything in the stupid bag except for the meds.
It seemed my anxiety liked waking up midday and I would freak or panic
. Or if I was bored, or hungry, or too happy? Three months of this. Therapy online. Xanax. Middle-of-the-night phone calls. You name it. Sticking my head in ice. Massages I couldn’t afford. Drinking (lol). People asking if they needed to come and see me. Me declining because the thought of them leaving was worse than them not being here now.
And slowly but surely, I adjusted. Dare I say enjoyed and eventually loved it (although spiraling right now because they have canceled the visa program next year). I did not find love or Spanish best friends. But I found that deep part you find when you dig long enough that sometimes exists outside of the anxiety and enjoys adventure (shocking to me as well). I don’t no what to call this thing you find after a lot of panic attacks?
For about three months I woke up and basically rubbed rubbing alcohol on a scab made out of anxiety and stinky sweat and Xanax that hurt my stomach. Ouch. Not pretty. Every day that scab came off and it hurt. Deep. Sometimes bloody. Then I would let it scab. Next day, same thing. Again and again. But like a scab, you slowly forget that it’s there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Sometime that is not now. It becomes a scar. Hard, calloused, distinct.
The people around me were, of course, travel-focused, non-anxious people who honestly to me seem strange at this point. They truly blow my mind. Especially when I would have a panic attack and then rally and go out and then tell someone I had three panic attacks that morning. People were shocked when I told them I tried to change my mind the day my flight left but forced my parents the day before to get me to the airport. Xanax and coffee lol. Come out with us they would say and I would and do it sometimes but sometimes I would be texting and sobbing on the space between my bed and wall.
So I did it. Not with grace. But with—I’m not even sure how to explain that word that I mentioned earlier that I can’t name. The same feeling you probably have. And yet I’m still anxious. I’m still that person and I continue to be. She is me. I am her. Onward to more panic attacks in cool places, and scabs on knees, and people on the metro staring as you attempt that stupid circle breathing as tears come down your face. Spiral on. But try spiraling somewhere else.