Back in 1999 I was sitting on the beach in Miami with my then-girlfriend. It was our first time away together, and only the second international trip I’d taken as an adult. We’d flown in to JFK from Manchester and spent about a week in Manhattan before taking a red-eye south. I had no cash at the time so I’d hit up a loan shark to cover the trip and impress my girl.
Well, it was six years before I discovered game. Still, rookie move. Don’t try this at home.
So there I am, sitting on the beautiful white sand of that beach, with this gorgeous (or so I thought at the time) brunette sitting next to me. You’d imagine I’d be having the time of my life, right?
Well, I wasn’t. There was this clenching, painful feeling in my stomach like a fist clenching and unclenching. Far in the distance, near when the sky kissed the sea, I could see a white yacht. Indistinct figures were visible on it.
I wish I was one of those people, I thought to myself.
And then I saw a guy in a pair of ripped chinos, with the kind of rough sunburn you get from working all day, every day in the sun. He was picking up old cans and bottles from the sand. I wish I was him, I thought. That guy doesn’t look like he has the sort of problems I have. His life is easy. Why can’t I just become him? Come on God—a one-0ff glitch in the rules of the universe wouldn’t make much difference would it?
I wanted to be anyone but myself. Why? Because I was worried about something that I might have failed to do back in my shitty job in Manchester.
Did I put that order on the system had become maybe I didn’t put that order on the system had become I forgot to put that fucking order on the system had become they know I didn’t put that order on the system and I’m going to get fired as soon as I get back.
Who knew—at that moment—the reality of whether I’d actually put the order on the system or not? Certainly not me. And the funny thing is that somewhere deep down I thought that in all probability I had put it on. Or at least that if I hadn’t it would have been sorted out by someone else with no harm done.
Fucked Up
But my brain works in a fucked-up way. It catastrophizes things. Whatever is going on I imagine the worst possible consequences (with no reference to anything that’s actually happening). And then—and this is the killer—even when the rational side of me knows that the likelihood is that things will be ok, my head—the tyrant—won’t allow me to relax in case I ‘tempt fate’.
That’s when the shortness of breath starts. I don’t know why meditation people tell you to focus on your breathing. When I get anxious suddenly my breathing is all I can think about. And the more I think about it, the more jagged and faltering it becomes. Then I have to gasp for breath, because I feel like I’m about to suffocate.
And now my heart beat is like someone thumping on the inside of my chest, and I am slick with sweat, and I have to keep swallowing because I’ll get drowned in saliva otherwise. And there are prickles down the back of my spine like pins and needles. And my hair follicles are itching like I’m some cartoon character whose hair is standing on end.
Let that sink in for a moment. My hair is actually standing on end on a beach in Miami under golden sun with my girl in a tiny bikini next to me on the sand because I’m worried I may possibly have fucked something up at a job I hate anyway.
This is anxiety. It will rob you of the greatest moments of your life if you let it.
It crippled me for a great many years, and I’m still prone to it now. I have found some ways to cope, though. Running is great–amazing, actually. Gym work too. Heavy lifting. Meditation (fuck listening to the breathing, though) and attending 12 step meetings helps me a lot. Also writing, too. Oh yeah, and having a daily routine.
I’ll share more about how I deal with anxiety another time, but I’m interested to hear your experiences. Is this something that’s troubled you? If so, how you dealt with it? Leave a comment below. You might just help someone else out.
(Photo: Study after Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X by Francis Bacon, taken at Tate Britain, London).
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The best advice I ever had was “don’t worry about things you cannot control”. And the second best was to trash my “to-do” list(s).
Yes, totally agree. There’s no point in worrying about things outside our control – it’s just that advice is so difficult to take in the moment. But, that’s what I strive for. Cheers for the comment, Troy