Navigating my way through anxiety.

JESS.

I stretch my toes to the ground, keeping an eye on James as he sleeps. It is almost 3AM.

The past two anxiety attacks felt like learning to swim by drowning. I took notes each time. Tonight, I move my legs as I feel the tide — its pull on my body familiar now.

Cues/Clues:

First, my heartbeat.
Like someone flicking twice at lint.
Then, a shake at the top of a breath.
So subtle. I have plenty of room to return to my thoughts.
…
My heartbeat gets bigger and bigger. Closer to my bones.
Like someone who can’t snap, snapping.
I attempt deep breathing, I keep losing air.
Oh. My thoughts lose focus.
The swelling in my chest takes shape.
It breaks from my body as tears.

It’s the crying that gives it away. I’m unaware until, hours later, I lay awake clutching a pillow, sobbing, and I need to get up and tend myself.

Moves:
Finding a glass of water, my journal, and a low source of light. Force myself to take in oxygen so deep my ribs crack, and exhale so deep that I mimic a cough. At the bottom of that “cough” I cry so hard I need fistfuls of tissues.

Getting the energy out of my body. It keeps rebuilding and rebuilding, so I keep clearing space. Keep grounded by observing instead of spiraling. Keep physically anchored by writing on paper.

Today I intervened early, and grabbed my computer instead. I focused entirely on language. On structure and order. I feel good, but my chest still flutters and holds a lot of air.

I’m more compassionate about these now.

After my first one, which crested on a car ride home, I felt so much embarrassment and guilt and frustration. The recent news, especially about COVID, the government, the fear, finally permeated and I broke. After the second passed last night (also at 2am), I am understanding these to be like storms.

The neighbor upstairs stomps around too. We must be storming together.