Sometimes it just comes out of the blue…or more accurately, out of the black night. And I’m awake, and anxiety floods my blood with adrenaline, and I’m exhausted before I’m fully conscious. It doesn’t happen very often anymore. The lifestyle changes I’ve made over the last few years truly do help keep the more sinister demons at bay, but, alas, my brain chemistry has been handed down and down and down—a long line of worriers came before me—and sometimes I am ambushed by overwhelming fretfulness, and it literally takes my breath away, like a thief in the interminable night.
But it always gives it back. I catch my wayward breath. The distress always passes, sometimes quickly, like an afternoon thunderstorm, other times, slowly, like a low pressure system that stalls. For years and years, I didn’t know that I had some control over my emotional weather patterns. I was terrified that I would get stuck—like my mom did—in the exhaustion of pathological anxiety, or the bleakness of malignant depression, and I’d never find my way out again.
So I would try to hide from it. Alcohol was a great escape, until it wasn’t. Anti-anxiety meds worked like a charm, until they didn’t. Even compulsive behaviors like under or over-eating, over-spending, even over-thinking, could separate me from myself long enough to give me the illusion of freedom, albeit fleeting.
But the rebound was brutal. And my evasive tactics only served to prolong and compound my anguish. The very behaviors I indulged to mitigate my anxiety were perpetuating it. Vicious circle of despair. I was in a very dark place, and for the longest time I was resentful and ashamed—I resented this legacy of mental frailty I seemed to have inherited. I was ashamed that I was not more emotionally sturdy.
But I’m not resentful any more. I am not ashamed any more. For despite all of this—actually BECAUSE of all of this it seems, I am one of the most hopeful people you will ever encounter. As writer Mark Yaconelli so eloquently states: “We do not become hopeful by talking about hope. We become hopeful by entering the darkness and waiting for the light. We become hopeful by being honest with one another about our pain and then waiting, together, for God to show us a way toward healing.”
I enter the darkness now, and wait for the light. Figuratively, and literally. Just a few days ago, I awakened before dawn, breathless and full of nameless, faceless dread. And I lay there with it—like snuggling a cactus, for a few seconds and thought, okay, now I should probably exhale. After that, inhale. Then I took a couple of pillows and placed them over my chest and torso. For some reason the weight of them was comforting, and I continued to breathe and wait. That’s all. Breathe and wait. I didn’t try to figure out what was bothering me. I didn’t take a drink or a pill or a bowl of Bluebell Butter Crunch. I lay there with my cactus and felt the pillows on my body rise and fall. And eventually drifted back to sleep for a while.
I don’t always. And that’s okay too. I’ve learned that the emotional angst I indulge when I can’t sleep is far worse than the physiological reality the next day. It was a rough night. Oh well.
I did not die. That may be the only moral of this story. The dark night eventually turned to dawn, and gave way to a sunny day. I was a little tired, but otherwise, okay.
And I didn’t get stuck there. Sometimes though, the pall of a rough night tries to follow me around the next day, and if stillness and “prayer and meditation” don’t dispel the fog enough for me to function responsibly, I might have to deliberately blast it away with activity that requires focused or creative attention. I will force myself to write, or try to learn something new on the piano. Or I will do something for somebody—even something as simple as an encouraging note or text. That’s usually the best antidote to my anxiety, especially the narcissistic variety I too often indulge. Go help somebody. It is the hardest thing to do when I’m feeling down. But it is 100% effective. I’ve got some of my Daddy in me too—I am happiest when I can “be of use.” And I don’t have to be functioning on all cylinders to write you a note to tell you how amazing you are.
You are amazing.
Now, was that so hard?
Art by Jem Sullivan
My bro. We come by it honestly.
My new book, My Vices Collide: A Celebration of Being a Little Messed Up, is still available from this website–Shop–(most economical), on Amazon.com, and from any of these gracious local retailers:
At the beach:
Geronimo’s Outpost
69 Via DeLuna Dr.
Pensacola Beach, FL 32561
(850) 435-9555
In Gulf Breeze:
Pizzazz
832 Gulf Breeze Parkway
(Publix shopping center)
Gulf Breeze, FL 32561
(850) 934-3436
In East Hill:
Angel’s Garden
1208 N. 12th Ave.
Pensacola, FL 32503
(850) 435-9555
Downtown:
Urban Objects
128 Palafox Place
Pensacola, FL 32502
(850) 912-8683
Mall area:
Miles Antique Mall
(at the front register)
5109 Bayou Blvd.
Pensacola, FL 32503
(850) 607-6560