فصل دهم

chapter-10

spirals

There’s everyday beige buzzing or background anxiety, and there are full-blown anxiety attacks. I call my anxiety attacks ‘anxious spirals’ because when they occur, they’re not so much an attack, which suggests they’re sudden and pounce upon me from out of nowhere. They’re more a gradual downward, suck-holey momentum. My anxious spirals culminate when anxiety’s beige buzz builds to a crescendo.

And you know, sometimes I actually prefer a dramatic spiral to the relentless, torture of the buzz.

At least something is happening. At least the boil is being lanced.

A NOTE ON PHYSICAL ‘PANIC ATTACKS’ VERSUS ‘ANXIETY SPIRALS’

I’ve become aware that many – nay, most – people’s extreme anxiety manifests itself physically: it can feel like having a heart attack. A lot of the time when we hear about anxiety in the press, on websites, or anecdotally, it’s this type of anxious blow-out that is being referred to. Otherwise outwardly calm people will be walking along the street, or working out at the gym, or – and this seems to be the most common locale – meandering through a shopping mall, and then, bam!, they suddenly stop being able to breathe, their heart rate goes through the roof and they clutch their chest. They tremble, feel nauseous and dizzy. Such attacks understandably garner a fair bit of medical attention.

Personally, I’ve only really had this kind of attack once, when I was in law school in the middle of an exam. Since then I’ve instead had the pleasure of what I’ve been told are referred to as ‘intellectual anxiety attacks’ (what I call anxiety spirals). These spirals are head-y. To the external observer I may look perfectly normal, but inside I’m a whirly-whirly of thoughts and nervousness. I’m not unaware of what’s going on. Quite the opposite, I’m hyper-aware.

I asked around to find out why there are two such distinct experiences. SANE Australia’s Dr Mark Cross explains that anxiety tends to play out on the body (somatically) when we haven’t yet come to understand how and why our anxiety happens. This kind of panic attack happens when our thoughts trigger the ancient fight or flight mechanisms and we succumb to the response, believing something truly fearful is happening. In intellectual anxiety attacks (one of my spirals) we do the fight or flight response while simultaneously being able to understand what it’s about. Not that this helps, because our over-awareness of how and why anxiety happens and a thorough and genuine absorption in this feeds the spiral.

I chatted to someone at a dinner party recently about the distinction between the two experiences of extreme anxiety. Anna, in her late thirties, had suffered a series of panic attacks following a bad breakup. She told me she had no idea what was going on and only learned later that it was anxiety playing out. I asked her if she’s a nervous person normally. ‘No, not at all,’ she said. Which led me to wonder if the distinction is this: the chronically anxious have anxiety spirals, the otherwise laidback have panic attacks during times of acute stress. Just an idea … 55.

Either way, I’d like to share with you how my anxious spirals go. Actually, it’s very much the last thing I’ve ever wanted to share and, until now, have avoided doing so. Only four people in my life have witnessed me going through one.

However, I reckon the telling of it nicely illustrates just how fundamentally useless external grasping is when you’re anxious. I’m hammering home a point here.

My anxious spirals are mostly triggered by uncertainty and the lack of control such uncertainty entails. You might want to break yours down. Dig back the layers. What does it come back to? See if it ain’t a fluttery, empty, unsupported belief that you just don’t know what the hell to do, or what the hell is going on, or what the hell is right. For me, this will arise if I’m let down by someone or when someone or something leaves me hanging. It might kick off when, on a particularly wobbly day when the wind is not quite right and I’ve not slept, a significant other doesn’t call when they said they would. Or it might arise from simply not being able to make a decision, like what to do with my Sunday.

Such triggers can leave me wobbling at the edge of the abyss of possibility where the limitlessness and uncertainty, if I don’t nip them early enough, overwhelm me.

Yes, I know such examples are ludicrously innocuous. And, yes, it all does make me think of the starving kids in Africa. But that’s yet another one of those cruel ironies with anxiety: — cruel irony 6

The more banal the supposed trigger, the guiltier and more self-indulgent and pathetic we feel, thus adding to the anxious spiral.

What do I do now? What’s the right emotional or rational response? Where’s the certainty? What do I grasp?

When it hits at night in the throes of insomnia, it’s the peri­lous ‘Will I or won’t I get to sleep?’ factor that can send me spiralling. Will I be able to function tomorrow on no sleep? Will I have the energy to keep my team in the office confident in me? What will I do if it’s 4am and I’ve still not drifted off? There’s no certainty. No control. You can’t force or micro-manage sleep. Attempts to do so only push sleep further into the abyss.

Out there, wobbling at the edge of not-knowingness, I reach for external fixes that I can cling to, to stop myself from falling in, so I can get control of the situation and damn well sort this mess out.

As the uncertainty and limitlessness builds, I grasp to contingencies and intricate Plan Bs, Cs and Ds. ‘Okay, so if they don’t call by 11am, then I’ll call Friend X and Friend Y and see if they can meet me for breakfast instead. And I’ll call Friend Z to ask what they think I should do.’ Then more thoughts come flooding in. But what if all this is a sign I’m meant to have breakfast on my own? What if this is my lesson right now and I’m ignoring it?

Soon I’m in a spiral of competing and complex strategies and fixes, freefalling. Some days I can slow things down, piece apart the thoughts and break the cycle. But on others the force is too much and down I go into the abyss.

I often ask for advice in these situations. More and more of it. When I met New York Times bestseller and TED.com sensation Brené Brown (we’ll get to this fun encounter later), she said to me, ‘Asking for advice is a red flag.’ She works to green versus red flags. A red flag tells her that she’s heading in the wrong direction, that’s she in the wrong mindset and needs to stop and get a grip. I work to black and white versus colour. If something appears in my mind’s eye in black and white, it signals I’m being too rigid. I think anxious people tend to do this because when we’re in anxiety it’s very hard to access our intuition. For years I’d be told to ‘trust your gut’ and ‘go with what you feel’. But when you’re in anxiety – particularly in an anxious spiral – you’re all head. Blood rushes from your internals, powering the thoughts, disconnecting you from your gut.

In a hotel room, 30,000 words into writing the first draft of this book, I had an anxious spiral. You know, to keep me in the real-time, authentic grit and grime of it all. The Life Natural guy (the Tinder date who fishes) and I were in Hawaii. We were both travelling in different parts of the world and decided to meet up for an adventure. It was early days in the relationship and we were going to have to share a bed for the first time. Until this moment, I’d been able to avoid this fairly fundamental step in the courtship process. It’s all highly awkward, especially talking about it here. Despite years of work to destigmatise my fear of not falling asleep, I still rigidly control my sleeping arrangements with a white-knuckled grip. I feel I have to, to ensure I sleep, to ensure my auto­immune disease doesn’t flare, to ensure I can function and run a business and write books and handle other humans and be a passable girlfriend. I wear earplugs, an eye mask and even tape my lips shut with surgical tape (a very cheap tip from my dentist to stop teeth-grinding). In hotels, I check for rattling windows and humming fuse boxes and bar fridges. I turn them off at the power point at night. Ditto LED alarm clocks next to the bed. Checking out the next day entails a detailed reconnection job.

I have to shower before bed every single night. This is entirely non-negotiable. Like, 100 per cent. Since as long as I remember (at least since I was a small child) I’ve not gone without a shower before bed, not once. When I camp I have to carry in extra bathing water. My friends and brothers know this and factor it in to the backpack allocating. I’ve previously bathed in rivers with ice floating in them, in the snow in the Andes, in a dank, slime-filled swimming pool in Mexico.

On a hiking trip in Kakadu once, I bathed in a gorge while my friends Ragni and Kerry shone their head torches on the freshwater crocodiles on the opposite bank, watching their little red eyes for any movement.

The mere presence of another human lying next to me, their heart beating, their pheromones emanating, will keep me on high alert for seven hours. All of which is tricky to explain to someone early in a relationship. I’m ashamed to say I tend to work very hard to avoid having to address it.

But here we were, in Hawaii, late at night, with one double bed and two of us, and nowhere to dart to at midnight with a kiss to the cheek. And everything was up in the air.

My head desperately tried to solve the situation as a storm raged outside, rattling the plantation shutters. I juggled 387,462 possibilities in my head. I hadn’t slept for several days. What if I can’t be a nice girlfriend tomorrow? What if my inflammation flares and I have to retreat to a dark room for the day and ruin plans? I rang downstairs to see if there was another room I could move into. It was $700. Is a night’s sleep worth $700? What’s the right answer? I tried to weigh pros and cons, back and forth. I grasped at the Life Natural. I pecked at him for answers, reassurances, watertight guarantees. This was all new to him. He baulked at my first rejection of his ‘she’ll be right, there’s nothing to worry about’ efforts. He was not certain enough for this spiral he was witnessing and left me to stay with a friend.

I grasped at my stomach, clawing. I often clutch at my stomach when I’m in a spiral, digging my fingernails in and scraping away. (I ran a knife across my middle once, hoping the graphic splitting of flesh would render things more real and stop the thoughts. It’s all I want – the thoughts to stop. But it only served to add more thoughts to the situation. What will I tell others about this scar down the track? Where does this fit into the polemic on self-harming women?) I continued to freefall.

This metaphor works when I’ve used it to explain things: I’m Coyote who’s chased Roadrunner over the cliff edge and I’m frantically treading thin air, trying to grasp at something solid to hang on to. But there’s nothing there. Just the abyss. And the more I grasp outwards, the more frantic I get. And down I go.

I also grasp at out-clauses. Here in Hawaii I clock the balcony, four flights up, several times. It’s an option. When I’m alone in an anxious spiral, it’s easier to find a way to slow down the spiral. But when there’s the added fuel of another person’s needs and confused face and defensive pushback (or even just the beating of their heart), the panic often worsens. I guess my base self (which is what I’ve descended to) perceives them as a threat. And my fight or flight mechanism goes into deranged hyper-drive. I’m so stuck, there are no more options I can grasp on to, that the only out is to … get out. To flee.

To. Stop. The. Thoughts.

Nothing else matters. In such moments I will often run. I’ve run 10 kilometres down a mountain in the dark with no shoes and no bra during my first anxious spiral in the presence of my first boyfriend George. I ran through Florence at 2am another time, with no idea where I was heading. Where and why was simply not something I cared about in those desperate moments. I just had to get out.

Loved ones try to understand it through their unspiralling lens. They can easily conclude that such ‘episodes’ are either an attack on them (when their efforts to calm you have failed) or a cry for attention (also an attack on them – they mustn’t be giving you enough attention). But it’s not. I promise it’s not.

After Hawaii, I had several more episodes like this with the Life Natural. I tried to jump from a car on a highway. I tried to jump out of a window in an Airbnb in France during a trip that appeared outwardly so Instagram-perfect. We’d been arguing in such a way that there was no endpoint and we were bringing out the worst in each other. We were holding mirrors up to each other’s fears, mostly of abandonment if we’re to get all Marianne Williamson about it. We’d descended too far, wanting the other to come to the rescue. And I could no longer navigate it and get us back onto dry ground. There were too many thoughts. I had to stop the thoughts. I had to flee.

Each time, it left the Life Natural entirely bewildered and angry and demanding an explanation. The shame and regret I felt afterwards, and today, is indescribable. In part because the only answer I had then, and now with you, is that I don’t know. It’s all a big, bloody ‘I don’t know’. I don’t know myself in those moments. I don’t know why I can’t stop the spiral. I’m smart enough to know better. But. It’s almost like a short-circuit occurs. Something very primal switches into gear. Everything tells me I. Must. Stop. The. Thoughts. And only something dramatic and powerful will do it.

Matt Haig shares in Reasons to Stay Alive what goes on for the anxious when they attempt suicide. ‘They could not care less about the luxury of happiness. They just want to feel an absence of pain. To escape a mind on fire, where thoughts blaze … to be empty.’ The only way he could escape his burning thoughts was to stop living.

A MEDIUM-TO-LONG NOTE ON HOW OTHER PEOPLE ARE REALLY HARD WHEN WE’RE SUPER ANXIOUS

I think it’s worth acknowledging the Paradox of Other People (POOP?). Other people present another bundle of needs and thoughts and considerations to add to the goat rodeo going on in our heads. And they can get in the way of our control-freaky attempts to contain our anxiety when it starts to spiral, causing all kinds of cruel ironies for all involved. It’s worth mentioning that, back in Hawaii, shortly after the Life Natural left, I splashed my face with water, pulled on jeans and went downstairs to the piano bar. I sat with a glass of red wine, wrote things out on a paper napkin, and chatted about love to the bar manager. Without the intense pressure of, and responsibility for, ‘the other’, without someone else’s confusion screaming at me when I just need someone to sit with me calmly, I could come in close and do what I know works to cope. All of which made no sense to the Life Natural when I explained later.

Here’s a few more POOPS:

— cruel irony 7

The anxious tend to seek solitude, yet we simultaneously crave connection.

When I’m anxious every part of me wants to extract myself from other humans. I don’t show up to things. I move to remote areas, away from everyone I know. I pack up and leave states, continents, relationships. I want to save them from the drama that is ‘me’.

But the irony is, few things fuel my anxiety like being left alone with the buzz. If a friend cancels because she can’t get a babysitter, I take this as social rejection. To me it’s a sign that I’m a cosmic pain in the ass and that everyone is fed up with me and I don’t fit and nothing makes sense. The very gist of why I jitter is the need to know I belong, that I fit.

— cruel irony 8

We need easy-going people, but they can be our undoing.

We love easy-going folk. They can ride with our stuff. And they can be great teachers in the art of releasing a white-knuckled grip on life. But they can also tend to flake, and not realise what a big deal their flakiness is for someone for whom uncertainty can be their undoing. They can also defer too heavily to control-freaky anxious types. ‘I don’t mind, you decide,’ they say. Which is lovely and easy-going, but also very challenging when you’re organising dinner for five such easy-going types and you’re wobbly and, oh goodness, it all starts to tumble.

— cruel irony 9

We cope with strangers better thanour own mates when we’re anxious.

I think this is because around loved ones we feel so bloody responsible and guilty and hyper-aware of our inconsistencies and neurotic needs. It’s exhausting being that apologetic. In contrast, being polite and attentive with the old lady at the bus stop is like a job we must attend to. We busy ourselves with it. And this can distract us.

— cruel irony 10

We may come across as extroverted, but we have social anxiety.

I can stand on a stage talking to thousands of people. I can do live TV without having a conniption. Again, it’s partly that I cope better with strangers. Plus, it’s a job I have to attend to. I rise to the challenge. Like a chef I put on an apron, removing it once the shift is over. But if it’s an everyday human experience that you’re ‘meant’ to enjoy, like a party, Lord help me.

I liked this from blogger Glennon Doyle Melton who has to be physically alone to cope with her anxiety, even though she connects emotionally with her readers constantly: Now, please understand that it is important for me to appreciate humanity and all those lovely humans who make up humanity from a comfortable distance. Because, close up, they all tend to make me quite nervous and often, annoyed … I am tired and socially anxious, so going to parties and showers and things such as this where I might actually be forced to sit next to and talk to humanity is really out of the question. So, I learn about love and humanity through books.

— cruel irony 11

We can talk coherently and rationally about our anxiety, even joke about it, yet we freak out on a regular basis.

This is a cruel irony that affects our loved ones heavily. This explanation might explain the apparent contradiction. Anxious thoughts, apparently, have more pull in the brain than knowledge thoughts, so sensible facts and data go out the window when we’re panicking.

— cruel irony 12

We seem doggedly set in our ways, but we have no idea what we want.

Our stubborn adherence to things (habits, rules, controlling triggers) is not based on a righteous sense that we are doing the right thing. Golly, no. We’re flimsily coping, albeit with a white-knuckled grip. As I share in a later chapter, our anxiety leaves us totally unable to decide between competing preferences. If you’re an anxious person’s loved one, feel free to be firm telling your anxious mate what you want when they’re in a spiral. They’ll respect your preferences and respond well to the certainty. It’s sweet relief. (And if you’re an anxious person, accept this truth and go with a loved one’s preference when they present it. That’s the deal.) — cruel irony 13

We look strong and controlling. But we actually need others’ help more than most.

My control-freaky behaviour creates the impression that I have everything sorted and, frankly, scares most people from wanting to approach me to offer assistance, even when I’ve gone AWOL or am standing in front of them, screaming out for help. The psychiatrist I was seeing recently, while writing this book, pointed out to me that I even micro-manage how I receive help from loved ones. Which makes loved ones feel kind of redundant. And, yet, it’s right at these precise moments I so desperately want someone to step in and convincingly take care of the planet for a bit. It’s just that I can’t correct my neurotic ways in time.

— cruel irony 14

We’re always thinking about everyone (and everything), but we’re so damn selfish.

I truly hate this about my anxiety. It can make me so terribly self-absorbed. I forget birthdays or don’t have the energy or creativity to buy a present. And, yet, I wish I could explain that in my anxious moments I actually care more about the welfare of others than myself. Plane phobics are most concerned about their kids. Obsessive-compulsives are often scared that if, for example, they don’t wash their hands, a loved one will die.

Oh, it’s all just so hard for everyone, isn’t it!

56.

Another thing: I should say that sometimes the 387,462 competing, frantic thoughts tug at me from all directions until the net result inside my head is zero movement. I don’t run or try to fight the thoughts with physical pain. Nope, I go numb. I suddenly go very still and stare into space and, if I stay still like this, there are, finally, no thoughts. It’s now recognised that ‘freezing’ like this is another common coping mechanism in the face of intense anxiety (psychologists now refer to the ‘fight, flight or freeze response’). We defer to it when there’s no hope, like an animal that plays dead when it can’t run any further, hoping its predator won’t notice it.

I know other people who dissociate – they almost leave their bodies and, as one person I’ve met who experiences this way of coping describes it, see life through plate glass.

57.

And another thing: When I’m in an anxious spiral I’m often keen to stay in it. I resist calming down. Stopping the runaway train seems too hard. And sometimes I wonder if I almost relish the drama of it, which is an idea that’s truly irksome.

It’s because doing the anxiety – and this is really weird – makes me feel safe. It keeps me in my frenetic doingness, which is just so damn familiar. I’m good at doing. Most anxious people are, right? Anxiety is a strobing party of doingness. I convince myself my doingness actually achieves something. When I’m anxious I’ll often fan it by drinking more coffee than usual and sending out emails that complicate existing plans. I’m like those blokes who go out on Saturday nights looking for a fight … what, to have something to fight for? When in an anxious spiral, this reluctance to give in to calm can be heightened. If we stop our doingness, who’s going to bloody well take care of this mess?

A smallish study on teens a few years back found that anxious brains were hyper-connected, which means that both sides of the brain ‘communicated’ a bit too much. This led to over-­rumination, whereby a kid constantly thinks about a problem without actively attempting to find a solution, as though the rumination hits a pause on our having to dive into a commitment.

Dr David Horgan, a psychiatrist and director of the Australian Suicide Prevention Foundation, says that the brain is basically a problem-­solving machine – it looks for what is wrong, and then tries to think of ways to fix it. Unfortunately for anxious folk, the problems are not in the present moment – they’re projected in the future – so we can’t physi­cally solve them.

Rumination, then, feels like we’re doing something, at least. Anything is better than the nothingness of not knowing … and, I guess, ultimately, of having to sit quietly with ourselves. The doing, doing, distracts us from the dread. It keeps us from sinking into the custard. Jodi Picoult says it pointedly: ‘Anxiety’s like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you very far.’ True, that.

Loved ones might try to pull me back from the brink, but if their attempts are in any way hesitant, or ill-conceived, or cautiously presented to me (which they often are, understandably), I’ll resist. Their hesitation in the face of my frantic thrust outwards only reinforces my need to stay in control. If I don’t worry and fix and do, what then? Who will take care of things?

Besides – and I think this is key – in my funny little spiralling head, the anxiety ain’t the problem, it’s the solution. It’s keeping this crazy ship afloat, people. Please don’t take it away from me (us)!

58.

So what is a poor loved one to do when faced with all this? When we’re in primordial flight? When we aren’t coping with other people? When we’re being as complex as all get-up? When we wobble our way into a spiral or panic attack? Ohhhh, what a good, hard question.

Consider this the bit in the book that you flag and surreptitiously leave open for a loved one to read … but only once you fully acknowledge that your anxiety is not their problem. We have to be our own Miss Janes!

First, if I can extend this to anyone living in an anxious person’s orbit, take charge when we’re not good. I share this interaction with my mate Rick who knew I was not good recently. And that I get Weekend Panic when I’m not good. It’s perfect. It helped. And was not particularly onerous or demanding on him, I don’t think.

Rick (7:40am Saturday morning): Hey Love. Fancy dinner out and maybe a movie? Are you happy for me to plan the whole thing and you turn up?

Me: Yep!!! I’m going to use the above email as an example for how to make an exhausted control freak’s day!

Rick (11:40am, the earliest time possible to come back to me with confirmation, once cinema and restaurants open for bookings): Ok movie and restaurant booked. Meet us at traffic lights at 6pm prompt!!!

Another simple thing you can do, dear-loved-one-of-­someone-with-anxiety, is to just be there, patiently, when we wobble. Just stay. And be entirely certain and solid about doing so, even in the very convincing face of pushback and the frantic wobbliness from us. Your patience and calmness will exist in such stark contrast to our funk that we’ll start to feel silly and return to Earth. Our anxiety does pass.

Website TheMighty.com regularly posts things its anxious readers wished they could tell their friends and family when they’re spiralling. The comments, from around the world, kind of echo this simple wish for you to simply … stay and be stable for us. Reading them might also see you feel less alone in your challenges with us.

Don’t give up on me when I isolate myself. — Jen

Give me some space, but don’t forget me. — Vickie

Get me to a quiet room where I can just be alone for a moment. My panic attacks normally happen because there’s too much noise or too many people. So getting away is the best. — Amber Help me to let time pass and let the panic attack run its course. Possibly, assist me in getting to a ‘safe’ spot. — Kevin During a panic attack, ask if it’s OK if you come close. Getting in [my] face can make the attack worse. Sometimes holding my hand helps, sometimes it’s a trigger. — Ashly Keep yourself calm. I will eventually feed off your calmness and I’ll be able to calm down. — Marissa

I need you to reach out to me, even when I’m so anxious I’ve stopped leaving the house. I need to know someone still cares and wants to see me. — Hayley I understand you don’t get it, but your efforts mean the world to me. — Avery

59.

I, of course, ache for this kind of compassionate and resolved ‘I’ve got this one, babe’ sturdiness from loved ones, even when (especially when!) I isolate myself, go numb, flee, run bra-less, push people away and all the other very ugly things that generally bewilder the handful of people who’ve seen me in a spiral.

But I do think it is too much to ask another human to fully understand the complexities of what happens when we go down. We anxious folk are fierce in our self-protection. We don’t want our ‘fix’ to be taken away. And we’re very seductive in the art of pushing people away. I know I test others, to see if they can handle me. I think that’s it. Or perhaps I’m just testing for sturdiness. Please just make the decision! Please be the sturdy thing I can grasp as I spiral! Please just tell me in no uncertain terms that we’re going for a walk around the block. And then we’re going to cook nachos for dinner – definitely nachos because you feel like nachos (PLEASE don’t ask me what I feel like!!!)! All of which can be very confusing and demanding and testing for others.

And so I think we have to help them out. It’s a responsibility.

My mate Lizzy can sometimes spiral into what she calls her ‘emotional cave’. It used to freak her husband, Johnny, out and he’d run from the house, until she found a way to help out. ‘I told him when I go to the cave, it’s not about him. I’m upset, I’m not upset with him. And then I said, “I give you permission to come and get me from the cave”.’ And this is the important bit that she added: ‘And I promise I will respond cooperatively when you do.’ I reckon just the act of helping loved ones with our panic also sees the anxiety lift. It sees us draw on our inner strength, which we do have in bucketfuls by virtue of the fact we have to manage a bloody beige buzz all day. It sees us become our own Miss Jane.

60.

The Life Natural rang me very early in our relationship. I was mid-spiral. It was a Saturday. I got all clusterfucky and confused and pushed him away. But he firmly told me he thought we should go fishing. ‘I want to go fishing, I think we should go fishing,’ he said. He gave me an address. ‘Can you get there in thirty? I’ll be there with everything ready to go.’ I said yes. And my anxiety lifted even before I put down the phone. Pfft.

He was there at the appointed time with a tinny and baseball caps. We ate bacon and egg rolls from the takeaway chicken shop. With a slice of cheese on top. Melted to perfection. So wrong and so right. ‘This is the best bacon and egg roll I’ve ever tasted,’ I sobbed. We caught two tiny fish that we threw back in.

My anxiety spiral lifted because a whole heap of firmness happened. A decision was made. There were sturdy details. He was sturdy in his desire to go fishing … he wasn’t relying on me for a preference. Sturdy-anything helps. It says to me that someone, something has this one, babe. I feel held and this is enough for me to slow down the spiral myself.

But I’m going to be super honest here. The reason he was able to help me was because I took responsibility for helping him. To backtrack, I’d gone into a spiral because he was three hours late in ringing me to make plans for the day (hey, he’s laidback!). Which was just a trigger. But the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening and if I should call (and all the other uncertain early relationship stuff that goes on), and the Weekend Panic and my anxiety about being anxious saw me go down, down, down. But I didn’t say this at first. I just said I was in a panic. I was, simply, vulnerable. I didn’t plant the cause on him. I just flagged I was hurting. And when he waded in and pulled me out, I made sure I responded cooperatively with a ‘yes’. Later I was able to explain why I’d got worked up and to flag that uncertainty and lateness and flakiness is a trigger.

Sadly, it’s rare that I’ve been able to hone in on what I need so well and steer things so responsibly. I try to remember this particularly daggy day in the tinny often.

61.

I followed a thread on an anxiety site one day that discussed the impact of us anxious folk’s control-freakishness on partners. I emerged with this bit of advice to all the bewildered but caring partners out there: Don’t confuse our need to control our environment with a need to control you.

Another bit for loved ones to read. Again, you might like to flag it.

When we fuss and fret about getting crinkles out of the bed, and ask you to double check that you turned off the taps when you get up to go to the loo in the night, and ask you to stick to plans and call when you say you will, we’re trying to control everything that we think might go wrong and that could trigger a spiral and ruin our time together. We’re truly not aiming to control you.

And to all the partners out there, I get that it totally doesn’t look this way to you. It’s a massive stretch, I know. But I humbly invite you to perhaps try to see our intentions through this lens because maybe it will make you feel better about the very tough but noble situation you’re no doubt in.

62.

You know how I’ve shared the virtues of meditation? Well, I’ll now admit it doesn’t work in an anxiety spiral or panic. Our rat-baggy descents are fast, the adrenaline is spiked. Way too fast and spiky for anything requiring focused discipline and Zen-like centeredness. And to expect otherwise applies too much pressure. Once again, it’s a bridge too far, leaving you wanting to stab someone’s yogi cushion repeatedly with a fork.

Really, the only aim is to just come in a bit closer. In such frantic, spiralling moments, I find it’s best to come in closer via the body. The body is solid enough, but not too ‘out there’. It’s close enough. I find my cells take over from there.

2_bit.psd

GET TOUCHED

BY A SHOE ATTENDANT

I once had a wobbly moment on a Saturday in a pedestrian shopping mall. It was the Saturday-ness and mall-ness and general pedestrian-ness. I know that getting touched by a stranger works. It immediately brings my attention back to my body, which brings me in closer. It doesn’t quite bring me to the wooden bench in my heart space where one can really peace out. But, frankly, when you’re in a wobbly moment, meditation is often a leap too far. Baby steps, my friends.

I see a running shoe store. I dart in and ask the attendant to fit me for shoes. I tell him I don’t know my shoe size. I do this for the express purpose of having him measure my feet with one of those metal foot-measuring devices. This of course entails him fussing awkwardly – but purposefully – with my feet with all the enthusiasm characteristic of every running nut I know. He does the talking, which is nice. He tells me about how he’s studying engineering and runs with his girlfriend on Thursday evenings then eats pizza after. The touch brings me back in. I didn’t buy shoes, but I did sign up to their runner’s club, which pleased the running nut no end.

PS: I think, too, that the off-beatness of doing something like this helps. No pressure, but don’t hesitate either if you find yourself needing to step very slightly to the left to break a spiral. A little bit of crazy might freshen things up.

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GET A THAI MASSAGE

According to a study published in the International Journal of Neuroscience, massage therapy decreased cortisol levels in the study participants by as much as 31 per cent and increased serotonin and dopamine levels by the same amount. Scalp massages, says the study, are particularly beneficial. They send blood circulation to the brain and reduce the muscle tension in the back of the head and neck.

I also know this: Thai is best. It’s firm. It’s certain. It’s low commitment. With a Thai massage at a cheap joint, it’s straight down to the business of bringing you in a touch closer. No tinkle music, no white robes and slippers. There’s no pretence of it being special or fancy. Special and fancy just gets me anxious about feeling that I have to actually enjoy the experience.

I find the cheaper and grimmer the better. My regular is in the strip on Kings Cross, Sydney’s red-light district, where I can hear junkies outside arguing over cigarette butts. There are threadbare Daffy Duck beach towels on the table and they play Hooked on Classics on repeat on the cassette player. Grim and lo-fi like this is a closer match to my predicament. It’s not too huge a leap. I can, reluctantly, begrudgingly come closer.

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Here are some more tricks as found on the internet all of which are about coming in closer via the body so as to nip an anxiety spiral in its spirally track. Some are a little left of normal, refreshingly: I take a big fluffy make-up brush and stroke my hand or my face with it. I keep a small size one in my purse for emergencies. It helps a lot if I’m out.

The act of taking my hair down and then braiding it always soothes me. So does someone else braiding or brushing my hair. [Oh, yes, me too! ] Wiggling! When I feel anxiety in my chest [and] it’s really bad, I’ll put on a song and literally dance it out. I pretend that I’m physically pulling the anxiety out of my chest, pull it or shake it out of my fingertips and slam it on the ground. This method has gotten me out of a lot of panic attacks.

I rock back and forth in my rocking chair. Eventually I calm down and the rocking goes down to almost nothing.

One of the forums I did with Black Dog also revealed a few other techniques:

Counting steps helps me. Long strides are best! — ‘Book’

I read things forwards and backwards. — Gayle

When I’m feeling anxious and really not confident I just imagine that other people don’t even care, which helps! — Joannah I wear earplugs, to cocoon myself. — Kylie

A FINAL NOTE ON SOMATIC PANIC ATTACKS AND A GOOD WAY TO DEAL WITH THEM

If you tend to have the kind of panic attack that leaves you breathless, sweating and with heart palpitations, then see what you think of this. I found it really interesting and am able to apply it to my own experience of anxiety attacks. It’s basically a process where you very clinically view your attack for what it is. It goes like this: When the perception of a threat or danger travels to the amygdala, the fight or flight response is automatically triggered. This just happens. For us anxious folk the switch is particularly sensitive, of course.

But, you see, our poor old amygdala can’t tell the difference between real and perceived threats. So, regardless of whether the threat is real (a tiger coming at us) or created by toggling thoughts or worry about tomorrow’s team meeting, our bodies go through the same response.

Our pupils dilate to allow in more light and improve vision so we can work out our exit strategy (judging how far away the threat is and the safest direction to run). Thus, we get blurred vision close up.

Breathing turns rapid and high in the chest, ostensibly to give the body oxygen to fight or flee. Thus we get tight in the chest.

But if we don’t fight or flee, the oxygen builds up. Thus, we get dizzy.

Then our heart beats faster to shove the oxygen round the body. Thus, we feel like we might have heart failure.

Now we sweat to prevent the body overheating. Blood pressure increases. And our muscles tense.

And our veins constrict to divert more blood to the major muscle groups. Thus, our hands and feet can feel suddenly cold.

By now our digestive system has shut down so that nutrients and oxygen are diverted to the limbs and muscles. Thus, dry mouth, fluttery gut, nausea and diarrhoea.

Okay. Pause.

Now take a moment to read back over those physical symptoms – the dizziness, shortness of breath, the tense muscles etc. That’s a panic attack right there.

But instead of viewing these symptoms as quite an understandable biological response that occurs in our brains, we anxious kids can tend to interpret them as evidence that there is in fact something dire and catastrophic and entirely threatening going on. In this light it could be said that panic attacks are a misinterpretation of symptoms. We mistake anxious-like symptoms for actual anxiety, which sees us get anxious about being anxious. Which can blow out into a separate syndrome called anxiety sensitivity, or AS, where sufferers become anxious about certain sensations associated with the experience of anxiety. It might be fear of vomiting or fear of shaking, or fear of having a panic attack in public. Oh, goodness!

I find it oddly comforting to know that sometimes my anxiety can be a case of misinterpreted physical reactions. It might for you, too, especially if you tend to experience panic attacks like this, rather than anxious spirals. It dissipates the overwhelm, I think. And everything starts to back off a little.

Over time, I’ve come to find this phenomenon kind of cute, too. Like watching that red-faced kid at the sports carnival. We can have compassion and softness.

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ASK YOURSELF,

‘WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?’ (AGAIN)

I like this trick. It’s a bit different to Eckhart Tolle’s one and possibly easier to deploy as you wobble on the edge of a spiral or panic.

The Happiness Project’s Gretchen Rubin shared the trick with me over the phone during one of our chats. I think she refers to it on her blog or in one of her books, too.

She tells me about the time she got worked up about going to see her family in Kansas City for a week. She knew she’d have to work during the vacation and this made her kind of antsy. The tension mounted as the week approached. But on the plane there she did this: She asked herself, ‘What’s the problem?’ She dug through a few layers. The problem wasn’t that she had to work while on holidays. In fact she liked doing a bit of work before joining her family for the fun. The problem was that there was nowhere quiet for her to work. She dug deeper. At her parents’ house there was no desk in her room. When she landed she went straight to Target and bought a $25 card table.

Planes are great places to force you down deep into taking a good hard look at yourself.

But, yes, the trick here, which I actively employ with a New Yorker lawyer–type deliberateness quite regularly now, is to stop and ask, ‘What’s the problem? Am I just experiencing the physical symptoms of anxiety? Am I?’