I’m an extremely nervous person. I look mostly normal. I’m not super-thin and wide-eyed with fear and I don’t shiver constantly while keeping my eyes downcast at all times. Some people who meet me might describe me as confident, even arrogant at times. But internally, I spend a good portion of my time so wound up I would rather kill myself than leave the house. Living with a brain like mine redefines the idea of bravery in general.
In my youth, things weren’t nearly so complicated. I just assumed everyone had the same tumultuous emotions as me but were better at hiding it. I wasn’t afraid of strangers at that time because I didn’t yet care what people thought of me. I operated in ignorance and it truly was bliss. Then my body changed. Rapidly.
I was unprepared for the level of attention I would receive from developing breasts. And as we all know, that type of attention is rarely delivered in a polite way. Being confused and newly noticed, I didn’t respond in a graceful manner. I tended to push, shove and hurl insults at any boy who got within range of my ire. While my sister became epicly popular the year before me, I was junior high pariah before I got a chance to think about it.
In high school, I transferred to an all-girls environment where my chesticles didn’t stand out. Solidly establish as a meek bookworm, I rested comfortably at the bottom of the social ladder. I spent those four years observing the complicated web of signals and reactions that make up human behavior. I was fascinated how female communication relied on a person’s tone and body language. At times, the position of a woman’s eyebrow means more than the words she’s using. It also amazes me the amount of unnecessary drama that can exist between so-called friends. A united front against outsiders while consistently sniping and backstabbing each other.
I watched a distorted slice of society due to the lack of boys. On the upside, I was almost never exposed to the sexism and misogyny that exists in co-educational environments. I grew up relatively quiet and deliberately shut-off from the mainstream social flow of the mid to late nineties. These particular circumstances probably sheltered me from an early life of drugs and teen pregnancy.
My nerves didn’t really surface until the second part of my college education. I originally attempted to attend a small, prestigious four-year liberal arts college in northeastern America. It turns out that the close quarters of dorm life and the unregulated freedom of a college schedule presented the perfect recipe for the beginnings of a recluse. I behaved erratically, only leaving my room for class and a chance to get drunk. It didn’t take long for my ultra-religious roommate to request a new living assignment. I pretty much drank, screwed, and slept my way through my first semester.
However, academically I did fine. None of my professors could pick me out of a lineup, but I showed up for and passed all my exams. My favorite class was whichever one based my grade solely off the midterm and final. It was the least amount of work I ever had to do for an A. What this behavior reinforced for me was that I did better the less I interacted with the public. It also created a social vacuum where no one, not even I, could see the level of social dysfunction developing.
My debauchery was eventually revealed to my parents and so after my sophomore year they pulled me closer to home where I enrolled at the local state university. This suited me because after two years I still hadn’t pinned down a major and it had become clear to my few friends there that I was willing to squander my academic gifts on any chance to get stoned. Little did I know, this simple change in location would change the entire direction of my personal development.
My parents would check in on me to make sure I was attending class. The jaded nature of the state school professors made them much less tolerant of my habit for only showing up around test time. The fact that I could still make A’s doing that seemed to piss some of them off even more. In general, the solipsistic liberal arts bubble had been popped and I was put in the position of fulfilling adult obligations for the first time. My panic attacks started the second half of my junior year.
I couldn’t initially identify my new emotions as panic or fear. I just froze up at times. In the middle of a regular day, I just stopped moving. I would lay down after a shower and fall asleep instead of get dressed. I would spill coffee on my shirt and freeze up in front of the closet as if there were no shirts left in the world. I didn’t recognize the signs of self-sabotage. It wasn’t until one October day when I was on my way to a history class that I identified a definite problem.
It was a beautiful day with perfect weather. I was perfectly on time for class and even snagged a primo parking space in the shade. I turned off my engine and then just sat there. I stared at the steering wheel and simply couldn’t move. My arms and legs wouldn’t respond to my brain. It was as if a giant, invisible hand had gently laid weights across me and left me there. Alone. At some point I was crying though I don’t remember starting. My chest felt tight like I was at too high an altitude and couldn’t take a full breath. I didn’t know what was wrong but I knew for certain that if I got out of the car, I was going to die.
Finally recognizing that something was not right, I took the next logical step and went to see my doctor. I nervously explained the incident to a nurse taking my temperature and blood pressure, feeling increasingly awkward as my story progressed and she didn’t make any eye contact. By the end of the spiel, I think I was apologizing to her for even being there. She smiled, as nurses do, and said the doctor would be in soon. I twiddled my thumbs, still thinking it was silly to be there, silently affirming to myself that nothing was really wrong. After a few minutes, a nurse practitioner swooped into the room with a wide grin and generic greeting, “How are we doing today?” I wanted to punch her for that question.
I smiled wanly as she rolled right into her professional explanation mode. “So… the things you are describing,” she said as if I had been talking to her just a few minutes ago, “seem to be consistent with what’s called a panic attack”. I just stared at her, mouth slack and brow knitted, wondering what I was supposed to say to that. She kept on rolling, “So I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions,” waving her hands at the flock of questions spread before me, “and I want you to just answer honestly, okay?”
“Okay.” I said mechanically, even though I suddenly expected the Spanish Inquisition. A barrage of inquires ensued involving mostly my personal habits, daily thoughts, and overall outlook on life, the universe, and everything. If I didn’t already suspect that she was using a checklist, the repetitious checking motion of her hand confirmed it. I had almost lost myself in the staccato rhythm of yes/no answers when she asked, “Do you have thoughts of suicide?”
“Yes.” I said matter-of-factually.
She stopped to look at me. My trance was broken and I wondered if I said something wrong. Without looking back down at the list, she pursued the topic, “How often?”
“Two, maybe three times on average?” I guessed.
“A week?”
“A day.” I corrected, a subtle sensation of gossiping stuck me.
“Have you ever done anything to hurt yourself?” She asked with a glimmer of concern.
“No, I just think about it. You know, like you do when you’re really sad or you just don’t feel like getting out of bed that day.” Her expression made it clear that she did not know.
This was my first inkling that I might be different. That thoughts of suicide on a daily basis are not, in fact, the status quo. I left the office that day armed with some sample packs of an anti-depressant and instructions to come back in two weeks for a recheck. That day was the start of a nearly decade-long battle with anxiety and depression that received various levels of attention and treatment. Depression is a thing. That knowledge forever changed me.
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PC Dump 8/13/2013