There is something profoundly upsetting about not being able to control one’s body. The lack of command that accompanies anxiety turns what is traditionally considered a mental battle, into a physical one as well. It’s often thought of as a condition that flourishes in the presence of strangers, but that’s like limiting the destruction of a hurricane to the water. I have held conversations with my mother and father, two individuals who I love and think the world of, all while feeling my brain and body rebel against me. I’ve spoken to close friends and family members and fought to conceal cottonmouth and violent muscle tremors. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember.
As a child, I didn’t really register what was happening to me. The complexities of such an equally physical and psychological disorder were lost on me. I often chalked it up to shyness. I knew I was an introvert and preferred keeping to myself, and coming from a family full of magnetic personalities that regularly charmed total strangers, this difference was made even more apparent. My grandfather could captivate the lady at the gas pump, regaling her with tales from his rural southern upbringing. My aunt exerted a certain conversational energy that left those in her presence feeling celestial. Even my two sisters, one older and one younger, usually had a distinct ease and social grace that seemed to evade me. Consequently, I spent years trying to suppress and work through my anxiety without educating myself or seeking help from others. I would try to navigate situations as best I could, voice cracking, mouth dry, and mind racing. The worst part is that it wasn’t until the physical symptoms set in that I even grasp what’s happening.
I’ll be mid-conversation when all of a sudden I realize that my legs won’t stop moving, or I can’t seem to catch my breath. My body’s response to an anxiety-producing situation is what alerts my mind to the fact that I’m under stress. Once my brain catches on, the physical evidence increases, thereby creating a self-sustaining loop that continually feeds into itself. After one of these episodes I’m completely drained, and because of this, I need time to recover before putting myself in another situation that might trigger another one of these incidents. As such, I’ve had several instances where I had to give reason for cancelled plans, or a disinterest in activities with friends. Ergo, “The Conversation” was born.
It often stems from someone noticing that I’ve withdrawn into myself and don’t text back, don’t answer the phone, etc. And then I have to explain that because I expend so much energy maintaining an incredibly high-functioning public persona, I often lack the mental reserves to divvy out that sort of emotional labor into relationships on a more personal basis. The conversation can be summarized as, “Sorry I’m not texting you back, I’m working hard on not looking completely insane all the time.” I try to avoid having this dialogue for as long as possible, because I’ve never been one to use my mental illness as an excuse. I don’t like explaining that my anxiety routinely manifests itself in both physical and mental exhaustion. While sadism probably isn’t encouraged, I generally try to power through whatever situation is vexing me, anxiety and all. And as much as I try to be open about what I’m dealing with, there are still people groups that I haven’t broached the topic with.
Mental health issues in the black community are hardly thought of as issues at all. Because the overwhelming majority of us have roots that are tied to religious upbringings, we’re quick to try to pray away any psychological ails. (As if God would never be involved in the creation of Zoloft or Lexapro.) I’ve had close friends be very transparent about their struggles with anxiety and depression, only to be met with prayer circles, or have the topic swept under the rug altogether. “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). I believe that God is capable of changing anything that He wants, and I believe that I was destined to live a life of abundance, unhindered by any obstacle presented to me. But I also believe that this requires seeking help, and mindfulness and awareness of where I am mentally and physically, so that I don’t burn up trying to keep it all together.
So how does one learn to manage anxiety? If we’re being honest, I’m probably not the best person to answer that question. I’m quick to brush off my illness with flippant comments and dark humor. Partly because I find that it allows me to lighten what is normally a very serious condition, but also because I want to bring an air of normalcy to mental health issues. The stigma surrounding disorders like anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, etc., is part of what makes the burden so much heavier for those who are dealing them. I’ve found solace in speaking with my other mentally ill friends as a means of creating a network of people who can truly empathize with one another.
For me, anxiety is not a constant, it comes and goes as it pleases. There have been nights where I’ve charmed seas of nameless strangers and danced with people I’ve never met in my life. And there have been days where I find it hard to leave my house because the weight of a single social interaction has been too heavy to bear. But I’m getting better. I’m more observant of my behavior, I monitor how I’m feeling on a deeper level. Asking for space as needed is no longer a shameful act, nor is researching coping mechanisms. Weeks have gone by without me having an attack. Although I never expect to be totally cured, I have every intention of doing everything I can to not let this affliction rule my life. I’m dedicated to still speaking loudly, even if my voice shakes.