Anxiety

Breathe. I had to breathe.

My lungs felt empty and incapable with each and every breath. It felt like there was no oxygen left for me. Panic had me immobilised. An abrupt gasp of air fled my mouth; I struggled to inhale. The air was caught in my throat, choking me, stuck like it had been ensnared by a python.

The faces of people around me warped into blurred effigies, as if I was looking into the world through a mosaic screen. Inexplicable heat surged through my body. The streaks of sweat that ran down my forehead acted as a constant reminder of my own weakness.

It felt like I was submerged. Not in the shallow waters of a lake or some pond in a park, but drowning in the most frigid, crushing depths. Enough to make me want to keel over and vomit out my insides. A rapid waterfall of thoughts cascaded out of every cavern in my mind, each fleeting impulse ricocheting to and from the nerves in my body, screaming at me to do something. I longed for the release, for the words to leave my throat and for my body to move. I yearned to throw up bile into the toilet, choking it out. To feel tears trickle down my cheeks. 

But I couldn’t move or do anything. I lost control of my own body and was benched into some obscure corner of my psyche, forced to spectate myself as a stringless marionette. So I stood. And I stared. My vision shrunk and faded like the chorus of a lullaby, steadily hushing quieter and quieter until it was barely as faint as a whisper, all the while my heart pulsed faster to the point I couldn’t tell the difference between one beat and the next. 

At that point, my consciousness blinked out.

That was my first encounter with the overwhelming dread of a panic attack. But compared to what I went through trying to recuperate, it might as well have only been a glimpse. 

After another episode, a day spent at home recovering and some back and forth contemplation, I took the initiative to tell my family everything I kept from them so far. It was difficult. Since I was opening up for the first time, I was afraid of being misunderstood or even accused of inflating my problems. Even if it was irrational, a part of me thought everything might just be my own fault.

So when they listened, without any interruptions, without disregarding anything I said, I saw a bit of hope. That sliver of trust was precious. We talked for a long time afterwards and decided it would be best to seek professional advice. 

Sitting in the midst of ivory walls, I faced a row of iridescent curtains and beside them a scarlet leather armchair. The psychiatrist slumped in it, scrutinising the piece of paper in his hand with tense creases etched into his forehead. I tried to smile, but my skin had gone stiff. I felt dense and subdued. He looked at my parents first, and then peered straight at me before declaring his diagnosis with a sigh.

“You have social anxiety disorder.”

I remember his expression as he said it. No trace of suspense or worry, or even a sense of gravity as the words escaped from his lips and disappeared with the fall wind wafting through the curtains. He appeared unusually calm—even exhausted. Not the detached coolness of an indifferent stranger or the air of levity associated with laughing it off as a bad attitude, but just simple weariness. 

It made sense. He had probably made the same assessment for loads of patients. Social anxiety was one of the most common forms of anxiety disorder after all. 

It wasn't just timidity from the beginning. Involuntarily, I would freeze up in front of others, back even when I was still in elementary school. I still remember when my teacher asked me to recite the 4-times table but I couldn’t, not because I didn't know but because I wasn't capable of speaking in front of my classmates. My school report said I showed no interest. I would get spooked and stumble all over my words when met with the prospect of a conversation, eventually earning the badge of an outcast for my habit of mumbling incoherently and forming a rift between me and my peers that I could never understand how to bridge.

Somewhere along the way, I learnt it was easier to not speak up at all. Or look anyone in the eyes. I had no desire to interact with the outside world.  I was perfectly content with it. I have only ever been an enigma everybody wanted to crack.

I didn’t think I could ever truly conquer it. The feeling of being constantly watched. The part of me that longs to feel significant is the same part of me that insists I'm irredeemably dreadful. I wanted to be seen and acknowledged as a person who was in pain and struggling to survive in my own unwarranted way. The fear of being different. The terror of everyone’s eyes cutting more wounds into my mind that wouldn’t heal, of reopening those old scars of being rejected and left out because of not conforming. I sought reassurance. 

The thought of someone seeing me vulnerable shakes me to my core. I was afraid of change. I found a way to cope with my feelings, and I was terrified of what I might find if I relinquished it. Every time I bump into someone accidentally, a panicked shiver still dances up my spine and I ruminate on the myriad ways it could’ve been avoided. I find it impossible to eat in front of someone else. The thought of them judging me for having crumbs on my face makes it unbearable. Thinking of anyone seeing me doing anything embarrassing feels unendurable. It makes me want to hide deep in an uninhabitable mountain range, far away from the prying stares of other people. 

Just like that, life used to play out like a fragrant but repetitive trance, with me always trying to conceal myself. I was baffled by the mundane yet destructive impulses that had wreaked havoc on my life. Always praying to not be noticed, yet yearning for connection at the same time. I was convinced that I was lacking something crucial within myself.

But this time, I wanted to find and acknowledge it for myself. I desperately wanted to be let out of this cage. That brief glimmer of trust I experienced when my family listened, and everything they did to try and help me, I wanted to hold onto that tiny ember of hope as much as I could and use it. So I did. Taking the first step to approach someone was terrifying. Most of the time, I could barely force a sentence or two out before being written off as strange.

Despite that, people reached out to me. They eagerly helped me tear down the walls I erected brick by brick. I saw a light then. So brilliant and warm that instead of retreating into my old shadows, I ran towards it for the first time in my life. Joy echoed through me like the glorious finishing verse of an invigorating ballad. It told me that even if I wouldn’t be understood, there was no need for me to isolate myself any more. For once, I had a chance.

Since then, I’ve learnt that people are not predators ready to ambush me at a moment’s notice the second I let my guard down. Not everything needs to be optimised. I no longer punish myself as harshly as I used to every time I screw up. I'm glad that slowly but surely, I'm getting better, and every step along that journey takes me somewhere new and teaches me more about who I am.

Co-written by Namira Aiyana Rahman