Crouching Tiger
It's 2a.m., and I haven't gone to bed.
Let me put this in context. I wasn't working today, so spent most of the day at home doing odd jobs. It was a fairly productive day. But towards the end of the day, I felt a familiar presence creeping in. The trick these days is never to be left alone with it.
So I sat in the living room all evening, through Housemate 1's favourite TV soap (which to my dismay I'm gradually being drawn into), then his kindly staying downstairs to finish his work because he knew I wanted company; then through Housemate 2's WW1 drama, which made me cry a lot inside, but not much on the outside, because crying isn't safe at times like this. I didn't tell her that the film was making it harder, because she might have suggested I go elsewhere, and elsewhere meant on my own. Then once they had both gone up to bed, and the odd jobs on my computer were done, I turned to my new favourite online game, something to keep the mind very slightly busy so it can't wander on its own.
The film made me feel bad because of how I related to the character. It was a true story of someone who suffered a lot through the horrors of war, something I can't imagine, can't relate to. Towards the end, she collapsed, the things she was dealing with too big to bear. Suddenly I was right there with her. I know that feeling, when everything is swirling in your brain and your body can't take it and somehow you're on the ground because your legs won't hold you anymore.
I felt bad because I don't have any ghosts. Tragedy should be the privilege of the wounded: those who've lost family, witnessed violence, experienced pain, been rejected. I don't fall into those boxes. Happy childhood, safe home, academic success, financial security, strong safety net if anything goes wrong. The demons that haunt me don't have names, don't have faces, don't have origins. They were not there, and then they were there. There were triggers, certainly, but they were only little things, nothing to warrant concern: friends moving away, new relationship, busy schedule, flight nerves. Why the drama?
Still, some days I wake up and they are there.
Sometimes it's like wearing a heavy veil. I know what's around me, what's going on, but it seems an effort to perceive it. Sometimes it's just a headache, heavy on my brain and making thought effortful. Sometimes it's a lethargy that spreads through all my muscles, and moving costs so much. Sometimes it's tension, every muscle on guard, and for the first time in my life I jump at noises. Sometimes I can't see things in front of my face, and I've learnt to ask someone else to come and show me where my keys are. Sometimes it's my memory; I ask a question twice even though I know it was answered the first time, or draw a blank trying to type an oft-used password. Sometimes it's dizziness, and my vision cuts out if I stand up too fast.
Worst of all is the panic. I don't know quite how to describe it. The best I've come up with is that it feels like whatever glutenous substance holds my brain together is suddenly dissolving, and if I can't rein it back then I go into hysterics, screaming desperately for help against something I can't describe or see or even feel.
On days when the panic is there, I tiptoe. Maybe I can get through the day without triggering it. Maybe in the sunshine with friends around me it will evaporate, or distractions will keep it in the background. On those days I drop my agenda. Whatever the plan was, it can wait. Kids' TV, lots of naps, call my parents and sit in silence while I listen to them chat, trip to Tesco to buy the only healing draughts I know, blueberries and mango juice. The next day there are things to catch up on, but I'm used to that now, and I know better than to promise that I will complete things on time.
It was dark, and packed. We'd been looking forward to this, bonfire night, the hillside covered in moving people. It doesn't help that I don't like fires. We'd talked about serious stuff earlier and it was spinning in my brain. He knows that when I'm quiet it means something's up, but he doesn't know what to do about it yet. I wasn't trying to hide, but it's so much easier to hold it in. The fireworks were loud, so bright they hurt my eyes and I held still. I didn't cry till the end, when someone asked how I was, and then she was there, surprised but competent, reminding me to breathe. I breathed. Tired now, but the night sky still beautiful.
I haven't seen a doctor. I once mentioned that I was struggling to my GP, and he told me to come back if ever it wasn't manageable, if it was interfering with other things. It hasn't been, and I have people to turn to if it gets bad. Someone's looking into counselling for me, and meanwhile I keep an eye on myself. I keep my breathing slow, I tease myself into going outside, I prime other people to make sure I'm eating by dropping hints that I might not be, and I use my friends shamelessly, meet and make small talk and never admit that I'm only there to keep my mind off other things.
It worries me sometimes to know that what I experience is only the tip of the iceberg, because it is manageable - how bad must it be before medication is required, how much worse again before the soft white cell? It's not fear for myself, rather, horror at the thought of what others must be facing.
I don't pray on days like these. It's hard as a Christian, because God promises peace, but praying is one of my triggers. There's a lot of unresolved issues. I hold Him at arm's length, no further; short sharp 'help me' prayers, and the screams of rage when today's pain is because of His way of doing things. Even on a good day, I've learnt not to pray for long, or in depth, or about myself. I sit in prayer meetings and half-listen, glad that I can be there but making no effort to join in.
For a moment today I remembered. The feeling when someone would come to me with their pain, how natural it was to offer them anything I had, how my energy and resources and time would stretch to allow for whatever the weary traveller before me needed. How God supplied abundantly, and the oddity of observing that what was costly for others came easy to me.
I don't really want to post this, because it feels incomplete. I don't talk about this much, and it's largely for the same reason. There's no simple way to explain what's going on, and not many people actually want to sit through several hours of false starts and backtracks to be left with only a confused idea that something seems to be wrong (that's why counsellors are paid). I'd rather people didn't know at all than that they don't really understand. I feel stupid enough managing to pick up an anxiety disorder from a normal happy existence without having to explain to people why I react the way I do, and I'm quite capable of acting the part of myself on a good day. It's also - no surprises here - not very helpful to keep rehashing the things that I'm struggling with, much more helpful to talk about something else. If you know something's up, it's either because a) I have a policy of telling some people because I know it's unhealthy to hide it completely, b) you started a conversation with 'how are you?' or 'how was your day?' and I guilt-tripped about lying to you, or c) you caught me completely off guard.
Let me put this in context. I wasn't working today, so spent most of the day at home doing odd jobs. It was a fairly productive day. But towards the end of the day, I felt a familiar presence creeping in. The trick these days is never to be left alone with it.
So I sat in the living room all evening, through Housemate 1's favourite TV soap (which to my dismay I'm gradually being drawn into), then his kindly staying downstairs to finish his work because he knew I wanted company; then through Housemate 2's WW1 drama, which made me cry a lot inside, but not much on the outside, because crying isn't safe at times like this. I didn't tell her that the film was making it harder, because she might have suggested I go elsewhere, and elsewhere meant on my own. Then once they had both gone up to bed, and the odd jobs on my computer were done, I turned to my new favourite online game, something to keep the mind very slightly busy so it can't wander on its own.
The film made me feel bad because of how I related to the character. It was a true story of someone who suffered a lot through the horrors of war, something I can't imagine, can't relate to. Towards the end, she collapsed, the things she was dealing with too big to bear. Suddenly I was right there with her. I know that feeling, when everything is swirling in your brain and your body can't take it and somehow you're on the ground because your legs won't hold you anymore.
I felt bad because I don't have any ghosts. Tragedy should be the privilege of the wounded: those who've lost family, witnessed violence, experienced pain, been rejected. I don't fall into those boxes. Happy childhood, safe home, academic success, financial security, strong safety net if anything goes wrong. The demons that haunt me don't have names, don't have faces, don't have origins. They were not there, and then they were there. There were triggers, certainly, but they were only little things, nothing to warrant concern: friends moving away, new relationship, busy schedule, flight nerves. Why the drama?
Still, some days I wake up and they are there.
Sometimes it's like wearing a heavy veil. I know what's around me, what's going on, but it seems an effort to perceive it. Sometimes it's just a headache, heavy on my brain and making thought effortful. Sometimes it's a lethargy that spreads through all my muscles, and moving costs so much. Sometimes it's tension, every muscle on guard, and for the first time in my life I jump at noises. Sometimes I can't see things in front of my face, and I've learnt to ask someone else to come and show me where my keys are. Sometimes it's my memory; I ask a question twice even though I know it was answered the first time, or draw a blank trying to type an oft-used password. Sometimes it's dizziness, and my vision cuts out if I stand up too fast.
Worst of all is the panic. I don't know quite how to describe it. The best I've come up with is that it feels like whatever glutenous substance holds my brain together is suddenly dissolving, and if I can't rein it back then I go into hysterics, screaming desperately for help against something I can't describe or see or even feel.
On days when the panic is there, I tiptoe. Maybe I can get through the day without triggering it. Maybe in the sunshine with friends around me it will evaporate, or distractions will keep it in the background. On those days I drop my agenda. Whatever the plan was, it can wait. Kids' TV, lots of naps, call my parents and sit in silence while I listen to them chat, trip to Tesco to buy the only healing draughts I know, blueberries and mango juice. The next day there are things to catch up on, but I'm used to that now, and I know better than to promise that I will complete things on time.
It was dark, and packed. We'd been looking forward to this, bonfire night, the hillside covered in moving people. It doesn't help that I don't like fires. We'd talked about serious stuff earlier and it was spinning in my brain. He knows that when I'm quiet it means something's up, but he doesn't know what to do about it yet. I wasn't trying to hide, but it's so much easier to hold it in. The fireworks were loud, so bright they hurt my eyes and I held still. I didn't cry till the end, when someone asked how I was, and then she was there, surprised but competent, reminding me to breathe. I breathed. Tired now, but the night sky still beautiful.
I haven't seen a doctor. I once mentioned that I was struggling to my GP, and he told me to come back if ever it wasn't manageable, if it was interfering with other things. It hasn't been, and I have people to turn to if it gets bad. Someone's looking into counselling for me, and meanwhile I keep an eye on myself. I keep my breathing slow, I tease myself into going outside, I prime other people to make sure I'm eating by dropping hints that I might not be, and I use my friends shamelessly, meet and make small talk and never admit that I'm only there to keep my mind off other things.
It worries me sometimes to know that what I experience is only the tip of the iceberg, because it is manageable - how bad must it be before medication is required, how much worse again before the soft white cell? It's not fear for myself, rather, horror at the thought of what others must be facing.
I don't pray on days like these. It's hard as a Christian, because God promises peace, but praying is one of my triggers. There's a lot of unresolved issues. I hold Him at arm's length, no further; short sharp 'help me' prayers, and the screams of rage when today's pain is because of His way of doing things. Even on a good day, I've learnt not to pray for long, or in depth, or about myself. I sit in prayer meetings and half-listen, glad that I can be there but making no effort to join in.
For a moment today I remembered. The feeling when someone would come to me with their pain, how natural it was to offer them anything I had, how my energy and resources and time would stretch to allow for whatever the weary traveller before me needed. How God supplied abundantly, and the oddity of observing that what was costly for others came easy to me.
I don't really want to post this, because it feels incomplete. I don't talk about this much, and it's largely for the same reason. There's no simple way to explain what's going on, and not many people actually want to sit through several hours of false starts and backtracks to be left with only a confused idea that something seems to be wrong (that's why counsellors are paid). I'd rather people didn't know at all than that they don't really understand. I feel stupid enough managing to pick up an anxiety disorder from a normal happy existence without having to explain to people why I react the way I do, and I'm quite capable of acting the part of myself on a good day. It's also - no surprises here - not very helpful to keep rehashing the things that I'm struggling with, much more helpful to talk about something else. If you know something's up, it's either because a) I have a policy of telling some people because I know it's unhealthy to hide it completely, b) you started a conversation with 'how are you?' or 'how was your day?' and I guilt-tripped about lying to you, or c) you caught me completely off guard.
By the way: I'm okay. I've talked here about the dark places, but I have never yet experienced a day when I couldn't step a little way back and see that it wasn't forever, or see the funny side of nearly having a panic attack because I couldn't unscrew my bike light, or know that there were people around who would drop everything and run to help if really I needed it. I'd say I'm pretty blessed.
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