I remember when I was first hospitalized, my favourite high school teacher came to visit me. She came several times over the months that I was in there, but I remember that first visit specifically.
She hadn’t seen me in years. Not decades, but it had been a solid two years. And two years before, I was graduating high school, and looking towards a bright future. I was heading off to university for the first time, and I had enough scholarships to cover my expenses for first year for sure, with the possibility of a good number renewing the next year, so long as I kept my grades up. I had a 96% average (stupid physical education just kept bringing me down!), and was looking towards a science degree in veterinary medicine. I was the class valedictorian. I had a plethora of extra curricular activities. The skies were nothing but bright for me.
Except for that dark cloud… the one that no one ever noticed. The one that had been there for so long that it was simply a part of my normal, when in reality it was anything but.
When she turned the corner into my room and laid eyes on me for the first time, I remember the shock. I remember the look of dismay and fear in her eyes. The look that was initially there, but quickly covered up by professionalism and compassion.
She wasn’t expecting to see a human skeleton. She wasn’t expecting to see a shell. She wasn’t expecting to see a broken person, whose future had once been so bright, now just scrambling to hold it together and stay alive long enough to put together all the pieces.
I remember talking to her. I was too sick to retain a lot of memories at that point. There are large chunks of my life that I to this day don’t remember… I can pinpoint a moment, usually an ingrained memory of this time period that is only recognizable by the emotion I was feeling at the time: terror.
I remember that I went to my Grandma’s right before I was hospitalized, but I don’t remember being there. It’s a black chunk of space. It’s like I can remember up to a certain point, and then it’s as if someone just used a ____________ and wiped the slate clean. The only thing I remember is the terror that struck me when I stared at the menu selection of split pea soup. I remember I was there because I remember reading split pea soup on the dinner menu at the retirement home. And I remember the terror I felt because she didn’t have wifi for me to calorie count. That’s it.
I remember staying at my aunt and uncle’s just before that because I was too scared to be home. I have photo evidence I was there from a selfie I took, although I don’t remember taking the selfie at all. But I do remember the breakfast before they drove me to Grandma’s. I remember 5 cheerios, a peach, and a handful of almonds. I can picture the plate perfectly in my mind, and the terror I felt while staring at it. Just as perfectly as I can remember myself scraping the whole thing into the trash can and covering it up with tissues (save 3 cheerios. I ate three cheerios), when no one was looking.
So I don’t remember everything. But I remember the terror on her face when she saw me. And the shock. And I know that I told her everything. I know I told her how difficult it had been, all the crap I faced growing up, the late nights staying up till 4 in the morning when I had to get up again at 7. The fact that school was my sanctuary because I dreaded going home at the end of the day at 3:30. The fact that the only thing that got me through some nights was some intense prayer, and the reality that I got to escape again for 7 hours the next morning.
I don’t remember telling her, but I know I did. Because I remember her response:
“I had no idea. You always seemed to have it all together. You had everything figured out. You were so together and collected. I had no idea all the stuff you were dealing with. I had no idea you eventually weren’t even living at home for the last couple years of high school. I guess it proves, you can’t judge a book by its cover… I just can’t believe that underneath the exterior, the inside was so torn up.”
The amount of times I’ve heard it: I had no idea. You never told me. You had everything so together.
It’s the face I deal with every day. It’s the untold story that lies beneath. It’s that dark cloud that seems invisible to everyone else. That dark cloud that only I can see, but is so normal that I forget, it’s not supposed to be there.
Functional Anxiety… or rather High-Functioning Anxiety.
I read an article that explains it all so much better than I ever could, but regardless I’m going to try. I do however, urge you all to give the article a read, because it is SO enlightening, and so relatable to so many people, if you struggle with any kind of mental illness.
I’ve had so many conversations, in which when I finally let down the wall a little bit, it’s perceived as a relapse. It’s perceived as a greater amount of struggling, or like the therapy and recovery process is not going well. It’s perceived as not working. The reality is, perhaps it IS working, because I’m finally getting too tired to hold the wall up. My shell is cracking, and I’m allowing myself to trust you enough to let you in.
It’s like in Harry Potter ( 🤓🙌🙌), when unless you’ve witnessed death, you can’t see the threstrals. Well, up until now you haven’t seen my head, so you can’t see my cloud. But if I remove the veil, you can see just how dark of a place it is.
What is functional anxiety?
It’s a mask. It’s an illness that is so pervasive and sneaky. It’s a shroud of diligence that keeps you alive and moving in your life, treading water, not sinking but not swimming. In limbo… but limbo appears normal.
What does it look like?
It’s in my movements. You see it as productivity and energy, a strong sense of drive and priority. You see it as high standards, and dedication to getting jobs done to the T.
What you don’t notice is those subtle movements that give it all away. The shifting of my feet as I stand. The wiggling of a foot as I’m sitting down. The plethora of scars that litter my legs from picking at nicks and scabs. The amount of times my hands wander up to my hair, and how often I have to wash it because the constant swiping makes it oily.
It looks like me holing myself up in my room when working on coursework and staying up until all hours of the night to study or get a project done. It’s reading and rereading every page, every note, and trying to commit it all to memory. It looks like studiousness. In reality I remember nothing, because all I can see in those moments of trying to learn it all, is my inevitable failure.
You can see it in my words… in my frequency of using “…” to end a thought. Unwilling to commit to a period (“.”) because of the finality of it, the inability to change your mind. Because, what if that thought was wrong? The amount of times I say, “I don’t know.” The amount of times I commit to something with, “maybe”. My initial excitement over something spontaneous, the invigoration in my whole body and soul, shrouded by a flash of panic in my eyes when something out of the ordinary changes my plans.
It looks like me standing in front of a coffee shop or ice cream parlour menu for inordinate amounts of time, because for these two things that I enjoy so much it isn’t a simple decision. My brain is confusing choosing an ice cream with buying a car. The commitment is unequal, but it must be just as perfect. Every decision I makes dictates my fate, not my moment.
It looks like busyness. Always doing something. Refusing to rest. It looks like a lot of yawns, covered up by diet coke, from a 4 or 5 hour sleep. It looks like a bike ride, or four. Racing, running.
What does it feel like?
Filling my life with breaths of fresh air as my feet or my wheels pound the pavement, and feeling the rejuvenation that each blast of air circulating through my body brings. Racing, running, flying, always moving because it feels that by moving I can outrun my thoughts. I can leave them behind me in the dust.
It feels like a progressively worsening throb right between my eyebrows. Like shackles and chains holding me down, pinning my arms and legs to the place I’m in, both mentally and physically. It’s the claws of a lion digging into my shoulders and neck, slicing further and further into my muscles and nerves while I try vigorously to free myself. Constant rotation of my head, rolling of my shoulders, massaging them with one arm, or both.
It’s a sinking rock suddenly falling into my stomach, and subsequent trembling of my arms and hands when something changes the plans. When I’m put on the spot. When I’m surprised.
What does it sound like?
A sudden shift, a dramatic outburst. A cloying frustration with a simple question. A nasty sneer, with an occasional swear word. As if I’m arguing, but with an unknown person. A calm conversation that suddenly becomes heated. As if you’re interrupting a conversation, but I’m not talking to anyone you can see.
You are interrupting me. You’re interrupting the train of thought in my cloud.
It sounds like nothing. The world is quiet. I am quiet. I am silent and non communicative. You hear nothing.
You are nothing. You are worthless. You are pathetic. You are lazy. You are a pig. You are a terrible friend. You’re a terrible girlfriend. You’re selfish. You don’t deserve to be loved. You are unloveable. You are going to mess it all up. You’re going to fail. You’re a mistake. You’re a waste of space. You’re a waste of time. Why did you say that? Why did you do that? You’re so stupid! They’re going to hate you. What if they hate you? He’s going to leave. Why should he stay? Why would he want to? You’re boring. You’re ugly. You’re fat. You should be ashamed. You should feel guilty. What if it hurts them? You’re going to get anxious… and then you’re going to quit. You let everyone down. No one loves you. No one likes you. You bore everyone. You ruin everything. You deserve to be alone. No one wants you around. They’re just saying that. They feel sorry for you. You’re too needy! You’re immature. You’re useless.
It’s a run to the mailbox. It’s two trips to the basement instead of one. It’s a way to channel your thoughts and energy and try to burn them out. To wear yourself out so much that you don’t have the energy to think. To wear yourself out so much that the cloud will turn foggy and the thoughts will be quiet. They’ll turn to a mush instead of such distinct statements about yourself and your worth. It’s a constant attempt to be better and do better to try and prove them wrong, but their volume never lessens, and their requirements just get higher.
It’s running the line between being productive and procrastinating. The unimportant things get done because they don’t matter, and it doesn’t matter if they’re done wrong. The important things don’t get done because you can’t risk doing them wrong or making a mistake. It’s one extreme or another.
It’s waking up in the middle of the night with your thoughts racing, your chest constricting, and if you’re going through something particularly stressful, feeling your heart racing and wondering if you’re having a heart attack (but it’s just a panic attack).
It’s never admitting to being overwhelmed because it’s a sign of weakness. It’s never allowing them to see you sweat because it ruins the exterior appearance of control and dedication. It’s not being able to communicate what is wrong for fear of judgement, and for fear of proving the judgements of yourself to be true. It’s not being able to admit to how you’re feeling because you don’t want them to see you crack. And if you voice your feelings out loud, and own them, they become so all consuming and real that you can’t cope with them.
It’s avoiding discussions and arguments because you don’t want to be put on the spot. You want to have all the answers, and maybe, just maybe, you won’t have one. You don’t want to seem foolish. You don’t want to appear uneducated. You don’t want them to see you fumble.
It’s either telling yourself, “You’re a complete mess!” or to “Suck it up, whiny baby!”
It’s constantly invalidating your struggles by telling yourself to, “Get off your high horse! So many people have it worse off!”
It’s being in a crowd of people but not feeling connected to anyone. Feeling like everyone would be happier if you weren’t at the party, or at the event, or that they only asked you to come because they felt obligated to. It’s not answering a text message because you don’t know what to say, and you don’t want to appear boring, because you don’t want to lose one of the few people that you feel like you have on your side. And then feeling like you’re a terrible person for not replying.
And it’s when things that are insignificant everyday occurrences to many, are the world’s biggest victories to you:
1: Drinking a latte, and allowing yourself to enjoy it.
2: Saying that you’re frustrated.
3: Taking a break from exercise when you’re sick.
4: Taking on a new responsibility at work, even if it’s just to carry rags to the back room. It doesn’t matter how small.
5: Only biking for 10 minutes instead of 20.
6: Sitting down for your lunch instead of standing in your kitchen.
7: Laughing instead of crying.
8: Talking instead of isolating.
9: Admitting you made a mistake.
10: Moving on after making a mistake.
11: Eating an ice cream cone instead of a peach.
12: Going out with someone new.
13: Talking to someone on your lunch break.
14: Admitting when you want to eat out, not waiting for someone else to want to.
15: Showing up for something, regardless of how much you’re shaking at the time, or how much terror you’re feeling.
16: Watching a movie. And actually WATCHING it, not just going through the motions while your head is elsewhere.
17: Deciding your remote control is more friendly than your tennis shoes. Or that your tennis shoes are more friendly than your remote control. It depends on the day.
18: Only skimming the pages instead of reading them.
19: Going out on a Friday night instead of studying all weekend.
20: Allowing yourself to cry on another’s shoulder.
And it’s functioning. It’s appearing okay, to have it all together. To be at peace on the outside when the tornado rages within. It’s not productive. It’s not powering through. It’s not MANAGING your struggles. It’s not even coping.
It’s surviving. It’s not living.
It’s not being happy.
It’s not being content.
It’s not being at peace.
It’s grasping at moments, at split seconds when the tornado dies down, when the winds aren’t quite as gale-like, and then realizing you can hear the birds chirping. And taking that moment, that second to exhale. And to smile.
Because you, unlike those around you, realize:
You’re not at a safe harbour. You’re just in the eye of the storm.