Anxiety is Worse in the Dark
Crying was the release.
I felt the beginnings of an anxiety attack during the end of my training day. My heartbeat started moving faster for no apparent reason — I had been sitting down all day at my computer. My chest was getting tighter as I sat there, the pressure underneath building up. I rubbed my chest in hopes that will help. It’s a placebo. My breaths were short and quick so I decided to try and control that through long deep breaths, even holding my breath in between and slowing releasing air. I walked Posada — usually movement helps, but it only cut off a piece of anxiety at the top. Nothing was working.
Control your breath, control your heart, release the tightness, that’s what I knew. Except it wasn’t working.
I had texted my cousin to see if she could meet me for dinner and drinks, and luckily, the anxiety subsided while I was with her. Just sharing my struggle with her helped it disappear for awhile. A couple beers helped too. I thought all seemed okay. I thought maybe the food and conversation was what I needed, but it ended up only being a momentary relief.
I came back to an empty house, which was normal. My mom leaves that night to watch my brother’s kids during the following day. I should be okay staying the night alone. I lived alone for almost 3 years, yet the fear arose much quicker than I would ever want to give credit for, yet here I am doing just that.
I am a single, 33 year old female, and not only am I scared of being alone, I’m also scared of the dark. Not the dark itself, but what can be hidden in it. My imagination will dream up logical and frightful things of what could happen. It could be my door opening and seeing a dark figure of a man, so tonight I move my chair in front of the door. That helps with the fear, even if it seems irrational. It could be people downstairs, looking through personal belongings and money to take, working their way up to where I am, only to take advantage of me in harmful ways. I put pants on, bring my jacket near me, in case I need to bolt. Bolt where? Out the 2-story window? I hear the slightest sound and abruptly sit up in my bed, alert as I can be, waiting, listening for movement, holding my breath so that I will be able to hear what might come next. Nothing does.
Needless to say my panic attack is at a high, the worst it has been. I take a CBD gummie to try and force peace. It helps release some of that tightness, allows breath to come a little easier, but the anxiety is not done. I’m no longer tired, so I scroll through Instagram and Facebook to find something else to alleviate the pain the anxiety has brought. Something funny, lighthearted. Not much is available at 2am. I watch an episode of Veronica Mars to help get me to sleep, but again, it only gets me an hour further through the tense, sleepless night.
My mind cannot control itself in stopping from thinking of what lighted the embers of this anxiety. A conversation with a friend. The blame and hurt and accusation feels pushed onto me. It feels like it is all my fault, whatever that fault truly is. I know she is not responsible for my own anxiety. She is not the cause. The way the conversation played out is the reason for its birth. Is that it? Now doesn’t seem like the time to figure that out. As with all anxiety, other little fears come forth from an abyss and say, “Oh hey there, I’m <insert fear> and I know you haven’t thought about me for awhile but this seems like a good time to pile on top of the others since they’re here too.”
I hear a voice downstairs. It’s audible. It happened last week when my mom was gone again. But just like last week, I believe it’s that damn Amazon echo. They’re always listening. It’s still terrifying. So I decide to wake up, well, actually get out of bed. I’ve been awake since 1:42am and 5:38am seems like a good time to get coffee.
I grab coffee and come back up to my dog Posada who has moved to my spot on the bed, presumably for the warmth. I lay down and she readjusts herself in a curled up ball, her head close to mine. I start petting her, give her head a kiss, and that’s when the tears come. I don’t know if it was just the time of morning or if it was because I finally gave up on my final moments of sleep. But crying was the release. I’ve learned to just let the tears come. My chest and my back released pressure, my heartbeat came back down, and my breath returned to a more normal state after the tears subsided.
My mind starts narrating this event, which is a cue for me to write. So I listen. And here I am. Writing down two things I don’t believe I’ve ever really told people — I struggle with anxiety and panic attacks. And I’m scared of the dark.
Both struggles are difficult and hard, crippling for me when combined. They’re silent struggles, come whenever they decide and no matter how hard you try to control them, you never know if those tactics will work.
Because sometimes they do. Sometimes you do win. Other days you give in, and hope for a release.
