Random Story Time

Random Story Time 12: Anxiety

One day, when historians write about how I ultimately fell to madness, I want them to take a look at these chronicles and say, "Wow, this girl laid out a clear timeline for us. This makes her lore so much easier to follow, thank God. Also, she was really good friends with all of these girls, how spectacular."

What an opening. Really poignant thoughts there brain.

I've been on a, "Talking to you guys about things for no reason because this blog is my personal baby, journal, and free-roadside carnival therapist all at once," vibe. Is vibe the right word to say? Eh, not really in this context. It's not a feeling deep in my bones that can be communicated, at least that's what I think of when someone says they vibe, moreso....it's a...

Reaction! A perfectly natural consequence towards the actionable influx of stimuli my brain thinks it's receiving.

I'm a tad anxious. Jittery and flighty in my seat, muscles tensely coiled, like there's something I need to be doing I'm not. Slight watery buildup in my eyes, only at the corners, matting my eyelashes, poking my pupil as two or three fall into the depths.

Desperate thrumming heartbeats, out of rhythm really if I take the time to count them, my lungs whispering, "You're not getting enough air, you need to breathe damn it! Inhale deeply!" Ha! As if they don't know perfectly well how tight my throat and chest are even with the slow, timed breathes I'm taking. Pressure burbles in my gut, stomach rumbling.

Disassociation is oncoming. My body present in the moment, yet never entirely all there. I can see and feel myself typing words, hear keyboard clacking, and narration in my voice internally as I write. Music echoes from the television, rough patches crinkle along my cheeks, nose, and forehead, smatters of sweat forming near the hairline and underarms.

I am weightless, wrapped in shackles round my neck, wrists, and feet, chains wrapped round my limbs; consistently thrust into a lake betwixt lighter waters cool and heated waters dark. Imagery lingers in my vision. Chills wrack my fingers, toes, and back though I know logistically I am nowhere near water.

I worry if I'm saying certain words too much. If you'll be bored reading and I'm being a bad writer by not diversifying my content. I've changed many statements already, fueled by manic desire to present a good story. I keep tabs on my word count, because seeing how much I've written makes it feel like I'm doing worthwhile tasks. That I am contributing to the world in the way my friends, family, and peers do.

I think that is what set it off. Seeing all my friends making strides in their career, feeling trapped inside myself and useless because I am not achieving in my career or passions. Either that or my body's finally relaxed enough to work past the general buildup of stress, lack of proper sleep, hydration, and call I made to a company to process an order I placed for a present.

The typically atypical symptoms of a good ole' panic attack. Anxiety if you prefer. If the piece feels...wonky, it's because I'm taking down my thoughts as they occur. I edit, trim, and juggle all at once.

When I get this way, it helps me most to focus on words. The substance of the reading material doesn't matter sometimes; other moments my anxiety demands the subject be engaging enough to draw my mind from what I'm feeling. I think it relates to processing order in the cortex. Given fresh information, neurons fire, relaying sensation, language comprehension, and memory down the spinal cord, muting the hectic commands to protect the body from danger.

Every neuroscience major or scientist who reads this can tell me that's not how it works if they wanna! I'm just guessing based on the knowledge I remember from psychology classes.