Essays, Etc.

Engulfed in Flames, Etc. (Trigger Warning)

I will be honest; I have no idea how to start this, but I feel it needs to be written.

Maybe not for you, because many of you already know that I have anxiety and I spend much of my time worrying about things that don’t matter, like how there isn’t an even spread of meat and cheese on my taco and how that’s my fault and how, just maybe, that’s a metaphor for  how my life isn’t spread out evenly and how I spend too much time in the house instead of leaving and how I should probably get some help, because thinking about these things while trying to eat a taco in peace isn’t normal.

Most people just see a taco.

When I tell people these things, they either laugh, which is fine with me, or they tell me to calm down and stop worrying about things, which isn’t.

As I have told many people, anxiety is not something you can just “turn off.” I can’t just “stop worrying.” That’s like telling other people to stop thinking, or telling a politician to stop being a lying asshole; it just won’t happen.

Having anxiety feels as though you are constantly being engulfed in flames. You are set on fire, engulfed, and you feel as the heat and the fire rises until you can’t take it anymore, and then it is taken away. You realize that what you’re worried about is stupid, and you leave it alone. Then you think of something else, and the flames start licking at your feet again.

On any given day, my thoughts can go from how poorly my grades are right now, how that’s connected to my anxiety, why it’s ridiculous that I have anxiety, to how I should stop worrying so much so it can go away.

Fuck, now I’m being anxious about being anxious.

Did I forget to lock the door this morning?

I think I forgot to lock the door this morning when I left.

I should probably turn around.

I was wrong, it was locked.

Or was it?

Maybe I should turn around and check again.

No, it was locked.

This is ridiculous, I shouldn’t even let myself do this. It’s stupid.

Did I use the wrong key on the door?

Did I lose the key? I don’t see it. What if I can’t get in?

Oh, no, it’s here.

I forgot to check the mail today.

What if that really important letter came?

Oh, right, the mail hasn’t been delivered yet.

Once, when I was in a rather dark place and thought about killing myself, I figured I’d just run a bath and throw a toaster in with me until I electrocuted myself to death.

Then I decided against it because the toaster we have is really nice and I didn’t want to break it.

Recently, it’s been getting worse.

I can no longer check my grades, because school is a trigger for me. The other day I had to print something off for a class, and in order to do that I had to go on a page that showed my grades.

So I sat at my desk and made small talk about the books I was reading while my mom checked my grades, made sighing noises, and asked if it was the end of the grading period.

I said yes.

She said that it was fine, nothing to worry about, and I found out that the page I was supposed to print wouldn’t pull up on my laptop, and I worried even more.

I have discovered in the past that the only way for me to come to terms with things is for me to tell other people about them. It’s some weird defense system, where I think that if other people know I have to come to terms with it because I have to defend it in public, and make jokes about it.

It’s really weird and I don’t quite understand it. It may not be healthy, or normal, but it works.

For a long time I just told people in person, or, better yet, over the phone. I’d always start with “Do you want to hear a funny story?” Then, for the next fifteen to twenty minutes, I would tell various stories and mix in pitch-dark humor, whether it be the time I nearly drowned my cousin or when I saw little girls buying thongs at the mall.

Whatever the story was, I would always get at least one laugh. Whether it was a giggle, a chuckle, or a belly-laugh, I always got at least one, and that spurred me on. I found myself studying people, studying things that happened to me, thinking “I should tell someone about this later.”

It helps calm me down, as though I’m taking people by the shoulders and yelling “See? It’s not just me! This is insane and this is worth worrying over!”

Of course, it never is. No matter how funny my stories or essays are, they will never justify the fear I experience when I have to order food in a restaurant. They will just give some sort of relevancy, tell others that they’ve been through it too, and it’s alright to laugh about it.

But, of course, it became odder when I started sharing my stories with not only close friends, but strangers on the internet. This is akin to flagging someone down on the street and just yelling words, jokes, and stories at them until they laugh or put a gold star on my shirt. Then I would say “Thank you so much! It means a ton!” and wander off.

The one thing I’ve noticed since telling others these stories is that the flames have been licking softer. They’re still there, but only enough to tell me that they exist; I can feel the heat, but it’s almost a comfort at this point.

And, as my room is set aflame with worries, I write them down. I make jokes, I tell stories, I talk to people who deal with the same thing. I watch as their flames die down, too, and I laugh with them about how, this afternoon, I got terribly nervous when ordering lunch at a restaurant.

I watch as the room is engulfed in flames, and I don’t move an inch.