Hey you.
This is a post I’ve been wanting to write for months but – be warned - that doesn’t mean I'm very clear on what I want to say. There may* be rambling.
(*There will be).
In general about doing things while
you’re feeling anxious - and it may be the start of some sort of manifesto I’ll
develop (#ananxiouspersondoesstuff), or it may come to nothing.
And it doesn't have satisfyingly transformative ending and, hey, who
knows, it might just depress someone. Including me.
Am I selling this to you yet?
Oh and the story itself isn’t a particularly interesting, exciting, or
dramatic one, it doesn’t really go anywhere, and some people may think I wrote
it to fish for nice people to say nice things.
Sounds great doesn’t it? You’ll have to read it to be the judge.
So what is it about?
It’s a poke around the idea of ‘conquering’ your anxieties, a
narrative we often hear in relation to mental health, which is great in theory (I mean, who wouldn’t want to get over all
their fears and worries and live a fulfilling life?) - yet in practice, in
daily minute-by-minute life,it’s not always so straightforward.
Last month I wrote a post about how anxiety can feel like having a
funfair goldfish in a plastic bag unexpectedly handed to you, which makes the
rest of your day just that bit harder to deal with (if you missed it, catch up here). In that post I mentioned that something over the summer
had caused me to start thinking more deeply about anxiety and, hello! … this
is that something.
After it happened, or maybe even while it was still happening, I
realised there were two distinct ways I could present the events:
- As an entirely true, but slightly selective, ‘internet’ version of event in which I wouldn’t have lied about what happened or - if I did - it would only be a lie of omission. And it would have ended with a glossy, punchy, neat Instagrammable philosophy. Or ...
- as a messy and complete version, where I do reach some sort of happy ending … but then sail straight past it to the more realistic place that lurks just over the horizon.
You know I decided on the latter, don’t you?
If I’d gone with the first version we may all come out of it with a
little sugar rush of good feeling but it wouldn’t have lasted.
So, for your reading pleasure (or not) here it is …
Content notice: this post contains detailed descriptions of an anxiety attack which may be triggering. Also, there’s swearing because … well, because apparently that’s what comes out of me when I write naturally. (Imagine the disappointment I must be to my Catholic school English teachers).
A story of An Anxious Person Doing Stuff (including a guided tour up a bell tower).
So what have you been worrying about now Kirk?
Well - thanks for asking - over the summer James and I booked to go on a
guided tour of the highest tower of Lincoln Cathedral, which, initially, wasn’t
a cause for concern. We’d been on several other roof tours there without a
problem, I’m not especially claustrophobic, or scared of heights, they’d
provided some great photo opportunities in past years and it seemed like a good
solid part of our holiday itinerary. It never occurred to me to worry about it
...
And then …
And then, when we went to book tickets in advance, they made us read a list of all the things that we
could expect during the tour (regarding the steepness of the 300+ steps, the narrowness
of the stone staircase and passageways, the heights, plus the level of fitness
and the sensible footwear required), and we had to sign to say we were OK with all
of that. Which I was.
And then …
And then we had to wait several days for the event itself to come
around.
Oh the sweet irony of our room name ...
Before the anxiety (or, if you’re familiar with the analogy: ‘Before the
funfair goldfish arrived’):
If I’d read that list ten minutes before beginning the tour I might not
have been quite so alert to the possibilities for concern; but there’s nothing
like the luxury of All. That. Time. To. Think. to really set anxiety in
motion, is there?
“It’s probably the same list they’ve shown us all the other times” said
James sensibly. “And nothing ever happened then.” he went on, trying to
reassure me.
And maybe it was, maybe every other time I’d just skim read those potentially troubling phrases, dismissed them, signed it and gone straight on the tour without a second thought. But ahh … this time, time was the enemy.
Seeds of anxiety + time + plus the manure dumped from an
over-thinking brain = quite the strong, and anxious, seedling growing in my
chest.
Or, to use the goldfish analogy: at this
point someone was surrounded by the smell of diesel-powered generators and
boiling hot-dogs, wasting all their spare change on trying to hook a duck and
win a fish. No one had yet thrust a goldfish at me ... but the moment was
growing ever closer.
On the day itself, sitting waiting for the guides to arrive, my
breathing had already begun to speed up, I began to feel slightly dizzy, a bit
nauseous, and maybe like my digestive system might play me up.
I want to repeat here that there doesn’t need to be a specific cause for the anxiety: I was
NOT sitting there thinking I was going to get trapped in the narrow corridors,
or fall from the height. Rather, like a scaly little fish, in liquid, in a thin
bulging plastic bag, anxiety is often far more slippery than that. I was just
anxious. Not of or about anything in particular. I just was.
And then ... the tour began.
During the anxiety/goldfish:
So, there we were, a group of around 15, heading straight up the first
set of stone stairs where several things conspired together to make me
uncomfortable:
- It was warm: it was July,
in a narrow staircase packed with bodies exerting themselves, travelling
upwards, just like the heat.
- It was narrow: like … ‘not much wider
than some people's’ shoulders’ narrow, which I could probably have coped
with, except …
- It was a spiral: the tightly coiling twist
meant that the steps tapered away into nothing at the centre so, while you
could easily set down your left foot, the right foot had to be careful it
actually made contact with a flat surface or you’d slip. And all that spiralling
became dizzy-making. The women in my family are not blessed with the
strongest of necks and looking up to grab the hand rope (there was no
rail) and look down to check where my feet were going, tightened my neck
muscles making me dizzier still.
- It was steep and speedy: the guides were setting such a fast pace (it would’ve put even the most overly achieving personal trainer to shame) there was literally no time to stop to catch your breath.
- There ain’t no easy way out: At times I couldn’t keep up and tried to slow down, but the guide at the bottom was setting the pace for the people behind me leaving no way to drop back and let people overtake. The staircase was only wide enough for one person, so there was absolutely no way down without making the entire party back up all the way down too. And who wants to be that person??? (Oh, hi there Social Anxiety, fancy meeting you here, have you come along to take photos of the view too?)
None of this on its own would be insurmountable – but all of it slung
together?
And … did I mention it was warm? And like a work-out? And relentless.
And verrry … verrrry … swirrrrrllllllyyyyyy spinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyy?
James was ahead of me, I often glimpsed the soles of his shoes dip out
of sight around the spiral while I tried to slow my pace - meanwhile, behind
me, or rather - below me - a stranger had their head at my feet. Or worse.
And - boom - there I was, wonkily storming up an ancient spiral staircase filled
strangers while trying to carry a funfair goldfish (seriously, if you still don’t
know what this means, you need to read my other post).
By the time we reached the first stopping point I was struggling. Emotionally
more than physically but hey - physically
too – let’s not leave out that particular treat; I had the whole party going on.
So, we
already know I’m a bit head-spinny, and my legs are heavy, and my lungs are
asking Why Julie? Whyyyy? But now:
- the hollow of my spine was slick with sweat;
- my forehead a curtain of droplets to be swept away by a tissue,
- and there was a tightening in my guts.
By now we were in an open space where we could pause to breathe and
recuperate, while the tour guides told us something about the automated bell
ringing system and used their laser pointers to indicate areas of architectural
interest. But my body was demanding more of my attention and - you know how in
Tom and Jerry, when the humans talk and all you hear is that ‘Wah wah wah’ sound? Well, that. So, ignoring the tour altogether I began stripping off. Off came my
jacket, rolled up my sleeves and, let me tell you, if there’d been a dignified
way to whip off the leggings from under my skirt …
While trying to juggle these immediate physical needs (get cool,
breathe) with the overarching emotional goal of calming the fuck down, there
was a constant battle rumbling in my mind: how much of this discomfort is due
to the anxiety and how much to the sheer exertion? It was probably a filthy mix
of both but – if I focused on the idea it was most likely just the exercise I
could prevent the anxiety from escalating. Far better to attribute the wobbly legs
to all those bloody steps, than to some inexplicable fear.
And then …
Despite all the attempts at rationalisation I started planning my exit
strategy. What would I say? When would I say it? So yes, hi, yes, so … yes, lovely brickwork up there, and h, those ancient beams, but I can’t do this any longer, I can’t go further
up, I can’t go at that pace. Something might come out of me, who knows from
where. Don’t make me, you’re not the boss of me, let me out, let me ooooooouuuuuutttttt!”.
Or words to that effect.
But, on second thoughts … FFS it’s
supposed to be a nice day out, you wanted to do this, it’s a normal thing, it
shouldn’t be this overblown. You’ll spoil the day for James. You’re a hundred
or more steps up, in a room with some sort of machinery (if I’d been listening properly
I’d have known more) and there’s no way they’ll leave you to wait here until
they all come back down. No. You’ll have
to be escorted out. All the way. You’ll look feeble. A failure. A criminal!
And I
reckon it was this – the idea of the social embarrassment – that made me decide
to stay the course in the end. Not the positive self
talk, not the focusing, not the 1reathing but the horror of something worse
than feeling like this i.e: feeling like this while other people spectate.
So I kept calm and carried on!
OK, OK, OK, no … that was just a little joke! Let me re-phrase that: I carried on. We can say that much if
nothing else.
After the initial anxiety began to subside:
In short, we climbed further up; we squeezed through a corridor that was almost too narrow for me; I sat opposite the bell as it bonged. 12 times. (Alas, it’s a level of
distraction not yet readily available on the NHS as a treatment.)
where we looked out for miles across the countryside;
And saw the resident peregrine falcons swooping and sweeping below us.
I was fine with the height, and thoroughly welcomed the cooling blustery breeze.
And then ... then we went down the way we came, only this time non-stop, with more open space in front of my face (if you think that going up my face was close to the steep stone steps rising directly in front) and also without my bum in anyone’s face. Always a bonus.
Back on terra firma I felt like someone made of rubber trying to
maintain their balance on a bouncy castle.
I felt like an astronaut meeting
gravity once again. I felt heavy, yet breakable. Slow yet skittish.
I needed lunch; a good
cup of tea; a hand to hold. I also needed to write about what just happened (it’s
how I deal with stuff) and before I was even out of the Cathedral I had the
idea to turn the experience into a blog post. And the first, most obvious,
thought I had was that it would probably take the shape of a story detailing
how I, beat the anxiety to get through the day, a kind of heart-warming triumph
over adversity type click-bait.
And then …
And then nothing about that plan sat right with me.
If I had written the “Here’s how I overcame my anxiety to enjoy a day
out” post it would have been kind of true – but also kind of bullshit.
The truth is yes, I did it despite being anxious, but I didn’t want to
turn it into some half-truth that glossed over the ‘real’ parts of a
real-life story. Because, when it comes down to it, apart from the bit on the
roof, and seeing the birds in their element, it was unpleasant, and I wish it had been easier.
How’s that for some inspirational lifestyle blog content?
But it’s the truth.
So why are you telling us all this Kirk? What exactly is it you’re
trying to say?
Well, if you remember at the beginning (hours ago, I know, I just can’t
write short posts – sorry about that.) I did warn you that there was no truly happy ending here. So I hope you’re not too disappointed with the weary conclusion that – even if you manage to ‘feel the fear and do
it anyway’ it doesn’t mean it will feel good.
But what would it achieve for me to end the story at the point where I
look brave and wise and like I have all the answers without telling how it left
me feeling?
Yes, I stayed until the end of the tour despite wanting to leave but I
got through it because it ended. We moved locations, sitting down to hear the bell
ring helped me focus on something else, the breeze on the roof top was
life-giving and sweat-drying.
I didn’t ‘overcome’
it because I achieved some peak mindfulness (although Lord knows that was mixed
in there somewhere) or because some catchy life-hack rewired my neurons in 10
minutes, or because I recalled the enlightened words from some gold-foiled
motivational slogan.
I got through it because it didn’t get worse, not because I suddenly
found “5 fresh ways to battle an anxiety attack”.
I got through it because, despite my body trying to convince me
otherwise, I didn’t pass out, die or, worse still, do an explosive shit in the
face of a total stranger.
And – rather than feeling elated, powerful, a changed woman … I just
felt hollowed out and like ‘Oh, really? This
crap? Again’.
I’m not saying I’m not pleased I stuck around but I can’t say what I did
made me feel strong or brave …
- Because when your mind and body are in turmoil trying to decide if you can cope with a perfectly normal situation - it doesn’t feel brave. At all. And that’s OK. If we wait until we’re brave to do thing we might never do things! And we’ll miss out. And we don’t deserve to miss out.
- Because the idea of ‘brave’ whitewashes just how hard it feels to be present while your body and mind are in mutiny.
- Because - what if I’d decided that, actually, y’know what? the best thing for me in that moment would be to practice some gentle self-care? What if the kindest thing I could have done for myself was to quietly take aside one of the guides and explain I wasn’t feeling happy about the rest of the tour and could I please leave? Would that have made me the opposite of brave. Would that have made me a coward?
If I’d spun this as a motivational tale of how you can hang on in there,
get through a panic attack, and not miss out on interesting experiences – I
worry that I’d be giving the idea that it’s (a) what you should do, and (b) suggest that it's easily done.
It’s neither.
It’s all hard and dirty and foggy and baffling and individual and
changeable and challenging and draining.
I don't feel in any way valedictory about it. (Although, truth be told, I’m more
sanguine about it now months down the line – but at the time – I did not feel proud of myself for keeping my
head when all around me were quite possibly having no problem keeping theirs).
So is the moral of this story that
anxiety sucks, and you shouldn’t even try to get through it because you’ll
still feel like limp turd afterwards?
Firstly – ew, ‘limp turd’? Nice visual there dude. And secondly: no but
also yes – a little bit. And no, of course not. And kind of.
Glad we’ve got that clear.
Mostly I wanted to share the story here partly because I thought the line "do an explosive shit in the face of a total stranger" was too funny to waste, but more so to say that:
- if you too have felt like a quivering wreck for no good reason, if you too have been visited by the unexpected funfair goldfish, and if you too felt like why, for the love of Netflix, you can’t just function like everyone else … then … hey … me too.
I wanted to talk about it because often it’s the ‘after’ stories you
read; the stories of how people came out the other side … and, as inspiring and
optimistic as they might be … it’s not always realistic to think that there’s a
‘Other Side’ to come out of.
Life’s messy and circular, it throws unexpected goldfish
at you when you thought the funfair had left town for good years ago. Life doubles
back, and drops you down wormholes, and you’ll be dragged backward and forwards
in your ‘journey’ more times than Marty McFly …
Rather than share a clean and tidy ‘after’ story, I wanted to share a messy
‘during’ one, not to depress anyone, but to say something along the lines of:
- You know what? You can have anxiety and still do stuff, it might not always be fun, you might struggle, you might almost fall apart in public, you might sometimes feel like you might die, but – honestly- you rarely do, and don’t let that put you of doing something you want to do, it can’t be just the bold and oblivious who get to see and things and and, and, and ….
And I’ve got so much more I
want to say on this topic – the 1000 words I’ve cut out of this post for a
start. But I’ve said far too much for one post already, and those other words
can go towards my manifesto for all those anxious people doing stuff! (which, at the rate I'm spewing out this stuff could easily turn into a book!)
I’m going to be using #ananxiouspersondoesstuff on Instagram if I have
another stressy tale to tell (chances are …) and you’re welcome to join in with it and
tag me or get in touch via any of my online homes:
AND / OR:
- Please add your anxious voice to the wobbly chorus if any of my messy life moments here struck a chord. Have your say in the comments.
Let's speak loudly and elbow our way into the world, and not let the confidently oblivious types have all the fun.
And let's be kind to those we see struggling ... including ourselves.
Julie
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