Just Relax

Looking back, I guess it has always been a part of me. It started with this overwhelming need to be perfect. Mostly this need was channeled into sports and school. I always stressed about exams, projects, presentations. In high school I remember feeling like there was this constant weight on my shoulders. It was present throughout the entire school year. Even when I submitted a project or finished an exam, the next deadline was already looming in the back of my mind. It felt like I was holding my breath for ten months. The end of the school year always brought a huge sense of relief. I was finally able to breathe again. The weight lifted. I could actually relax. I recall always feeling as if the school year was an alternate universe and the summer months were real life. In the summer, I was free to truly experience life without that looming cloud over my head. I could see clearly. It wasn’t simply the lack of responsibility with school on hiatus; I still had summer jobs and chores. It was the freedom from deadlines, exams and the pressure to perform that I so desperately needed. This pattern continued through college and university. Friends even joked that I was two different people: School Amanda and Summer Amanda. Summer Amanda always felt like my true self. I really liked her. I didn’t recognize it back then, but it's clear to me now that this was anxiety taking hold. The pressure I felt to be perfect at school and sports was creeping into other areas of my life. I needed to be the perfect friend, the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend; essentially, the perfect person. I see now that I was trying to achieve the impossible. Which could only result in me feeling like a failure, like I wasn’t enough.

In my early adulthood, I experienced some more profound periods of anxiety. I didn’t understand what I was feeling at the time, but the episodes became increasingly more intense as the years went on. A couple of these episodes stand out very clearly in my mind.

When I was twenty-one my best friend and I got in a terrible car accident. We were on our annual road trip to the Calgary Stampede; about a ten-to-twelve-hour drive depending on traffic. We were about three hours into our journey. I was driving and somehow lost control when we hit a small amount of loose gravel on the left-hand shoulder. I over-corrected and the car flipped before launching off the side of the highway and rolling down the embankment. The car, which no longer resembled its former self, landed abruptly on the passenger side. Miraculously, the most severe of our injuries was my friend’s sprained ankle. I somehow only sustained very minor cuts and bruises. We never made it to the Stampede that year. Instead, we were taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital, before being driven back home by my (very shaken and worried) Dad. After the initial shock (and the disappointment of missing the Stampede!) wore off, I was overwhelmed by the realization that we could very well have died that day. Following this was a gripping determination to live every day to the fullest and not miss a single beat. This was when I first started to experience the tightness in my chest that would soon become a constant in my life. There was suddenly this daunting pressure to take advantage of every moment, to not miss out on any experience. It was like I had been given a second chance at life and I refused to waste it. Over time the pressure seemed to subside, but I see now that it was just lurking in the shadows. This was the start of my inability to relax.

Oddly enough, the next time anxiety came out to play was four years later when the same best friend and I were on a trip to Nashville for the infamous annual country music festival. This trip had been at the top of our bucket list for as long as we could remember. I wanted to experience it all. This felt like a “once in a lifetime” opportunity and I didn’t want to waste a single minute. For the most part, the trip was truly incredible. But I also remember this panicky feeling creeping in; at first in small waves but it became more and more constant as the trip went on. There seemed to be a faint voice in my head questioning whether we were making the absolute most of our time in Nashville. It was as if it were asking; “by doing this thing, are we missing out on something better?” This voice got progressively louder as we neared the end of our trip. That last day in Nashville was a blur. Clouded by a tightness in my chest, mild nausea and general uneasiness, I just couldn’t seem to enjoy myself. By the time we were at the airport waiting for our flight, I was a bit of a mess. Sweating, difficulty breathing, headache, dizziness; all of those fun things that I would eventually discover are the physical manifestations of anxiety. All I remember thinking at the time was “I’m not ready to leave; There’s so much more I want to do here”.

The idea of seizing every moment and living life to the fullest was stressful. It was like there was too much pressure to make every day, every minute, count. I struggled with making decisions; afraid that if I made the wrong one, I would be missing out on something better. The physical symptoms I experienced in Nashville eventually subsided when I settled back into normal life. Although, after that trip, the episodes of anxiety I experienced were now accompanied by one or more of those physical symptoms. I was still, however, unable to recognize that they were associated with anxiety. Then came the organizing.

Growing up I never understood why it bothered my mom so much when a few dirty dishes were left in the sink or when the refrigerator magnets were slightly rearranged. As I grew into adulthood and was living on my own, these things started to bother me too. I didn’t even consciously realize it was happening initially, it slowly crept up on me. Suddenly, I couldn’t sleep at night if anything was even slightly out of place. I knew this was irrational, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. Along for the ride was Organization’s annoying cousin, Routine. Unfortunately, when you’re working two jobs, going to university full time, working out four days a week and participating in an active social life, Routine is a necessary evil. We had a love hate relationship to put it mildly. Routine has been instrumental in my success but has been holding onto a piece of my soul as a down payment. At the start of every week, I would make lists, create a schedule. Almost every moment of my week would be accounted for before it even really began. I worked really hard and endured a great deal of physical discomfort to make the world believe I was adaptable, flexible...all of those buzz word characteristics everyone pretends they possess...but on the inside I was a wreck if my routine was disrupted. Missing a workout or forgoing that study hour I had planned was never an option. I’d be more likely to miss out on hours of sleep than skip one of my “scheduled” activities. Disrupting my routine or plan would bring me a wave of panic followed by a feeling of failure. I felt ill. Headache, shakiness, nausea, a giant knot in my stomach and, of course, that tightness in my chest. I would be disappointed in myself and it would take me days, sometimes a full week, to stop dwelling on it. Again, I understood that this was irrational, but it was as if I had no control over it.

The more I explore it, the more I come to realize that the need for organization may actually be the root of my anxiety, not a side effect of it. I was young when my parents divorced. My brother and I used to split our time between two homes. We would spend one week with Mom and then one week with Dad. Basically, we would be uprooted at the end of every week. At first, I enjoyed the change of scenery and I was grateful that I got to live with both of my parents. As the years went on, the constant packing and organizing began to take its toll. The busier I got, the more overwhelming it became. There was a perpetual list in my head. Having to think a week in advance to ensure that I had everything I needed at whichever home I would be living at for the week was exhausting. I was always so worried about forgetting something important, like my homework, my uniforms/equipment for the various sports I played or the specific pair of jeans I wanted to wear to the upcoming social event. Forgetting something was always such a hassle. My parents lived about a twenty-minute drive apart and I was too young to drive. Even when I did get my license, I didn’t have a vehicle available at my beckon call. Having to ask one of my parents to go out of their way to deliver the forgotten item made me feel like even more of a burden than I already did. I have some hazy memories of being at the receiving end of many “You should have been more organized” lectures. Eventually, I just stopped unpacking. I found it easier to just live out of a bag. As a result, I never really felt settled.

I wasn’t just physically moving between two worlds; there was also a mental shift that occurred at the end of every week. Each of my parents had different views, different priorities, different expectations. Every week, I had to adjust who I was in order to be the person they could understand, the one they could relate to, the one they could be proud of. I had to be the person they needed me to be. I also had to continuously filter everything I said. I was vigilant not to talk about my “other life” for fear of starting an argument or provoking a lecture about my other parent’s faults. Or, worst of all, hurting one of them. I had to keep my guard up to protect them and to protect myself.

The next time I experienced an intense period of anxiety was when my university program ended. It was time for all of us to move on. I was sad that the chapter was over, but I was looking forward to the next adventure. For the first time in my life, I was moving away. I was going to be a four-hour drive from my hometown, and I was going to be doing a ten-month internship; the final step in obtaining the career I had been working so hard for. I was also going to have my first roommate after living alone for seven years. I was excited about experiencing a new city, a new group of people, a new Routine (dammit).

During the four months leading up to the move, I was determined to make the most of the time I had left in my present life. I wanted to start a new adventure, but at the same time I wasn’t quite ready to let go of my current one. It was a strange limbo. That pressure of not wasting a single moment came flooding back. Overwhelming me to the point that it crippled me. I was so focused on planning my next activity, that I lost the ability to enjoy the present. This was my tipping point, when the anxiety really began to take over. It started with this weird pulsing in my right eye. It didn’t really hurt; it was more distracting and annoying than anything. When it wouldn’t go away, I went to an optometrist. They found nothing of concern. Then I began getting intense headaches. They got so bad that I took myself to the ER and got a CT scan. I was convinced something was terribly wrong. The CT scan showed no abnormalities, and I was sent home with a clean bill of health. But the headaches didn’t stop. By the last couple of weeks before my move, the headache was pretty much constant, and I felt lightheaded and dizzy most of the time. It felt like I was perpetually hungover, regardless of whether I had any alcohol or not. I went to a couple more doctors that summer. One had nothing to offer at all. The other told me I should get a massage and relax. That would be the first of many doctors to associate my physical ailments with high stress levels. Of course, I wasn’t ready to hear this and I would just leave feeling frustrated and unvalidated. It took me years to see that there was merit in their advice.

I adjusted to my new life without any major trauma. Internship was demanding but I did well, I made friends and stayed active. At that point, I had completed ten years of post-secondary school. When I was a student, I could always count on the relief that came with the end of the school year. It was ok to be burnt out by the end of that last semester because I knew I had the summer months to recharge. The lists would stop, the weight would be lifted. My mind would be clear and I would be free to experience real life again. I was definitely burnt out by the end of internship. I was accustomed to being burnt out after ten months of hard work and deadlines. Only this time was different. There would be no summer break, no chance to recharge. I completed my internship on Friday and started work on Monday. I was desperately waiting for a sense of relief that never came. I always cherished my summers. I realized they were important, but I don’t think I truly grasped how essential they were for my mental health. Suddenly, I was caught in a new adulthood where the lists never ended, the weight never lifted. I was perpetually worn out. I completely lost the ability to relax. I felt broken.

Ironically, the worst of the anxiety occurred when I would go home to visit friends and family. I figured going to see the people I love in familiar settings would bring me peace and comfort. Instead, it brought pressure and panic. The anxiety wasn’t just present, it was all consuming. It was like a fifty-pound weight I had to carry around with me. I had to make the most of every minute I spent back home. I had to see as many people as possible and I had to visit all the places that I missed. Every minute of my weekends back home were accounted for. I couldn’t enjoy the moment because I was worried about getting to my next scheduled moment. It felt like everything was distorted by a heavy fog and I couldn’t seem to break through it. Every time I left home to return to my new life, I always felt defeated and guilty. Guilty because I didn’t get to see that one person that I couldn’t cram into my schedule. Guilty because I lashed out at someone in a moment of complete exhaustion. Guilty because I spent more time with some people than others. Guilty because I wasn’t really present for any of it.

The old pattern of living out of a bag became present in my life again. I went back home so often that I never entirely unpacked. I began leaving things so I wouldn’t have to pack them again; first at my boyfriend’s place and then, when he eventually moved to live with me, at my mom’s. It was that same familiar feeling of being unsettled. My life seemed scattered again. I craved stability, but never quite found it.

As the years went on, my trips home remained frequent and hectic. I tried not to go back so often, but there was always an important event that I couldn’t miss. Birthdays, bridal showers, weddings, baby showers, funerals. I truly wanted to be there for all of them, but I was wearing myself out. The anxiety wasn’t subsiding and was only depleting my energy further. I was also struggling with the guilt that consumed me on the rare occasion that I did have to miss an event. There was an element of fear as well. Fear that I might drift apart from the friends that I considered family. Like life back home was continuing without me and, while I had no desire to move back, I also didn’t want to be forgotten.

Being so anxious all the time started to make me feel like a failure. It was like I was constantly chasing something that was never actually attainable. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t shake it. Why I overthought everything, why I could never just relax and enjoy the moment. I was so afraid to let it show. I thought that if people knew what was going on in my head they would think I was crazy. Or worse, they would see me as weak. I always downplayed it, even with those closest to me. It was like I had this horrible secret and I couldn’t let anyone in. It was constantly eating away at me. I can’t pinpoint exactly when, but eventually I started finding myself in a dark place. I felt completely overwhelmed and alone. In my mind, I was always letting everyone, including myself, down. I just couldn’t be what I was supposed to be; what the world expected me to be, what those who loved me deserved me to be. I began questioning everything. Every relationship I had, every decision I made, everything I said to everyone. I was terrified that my secret would come out and I would lose everything and everyone. I had this powerful urge to just run away to avoid the eventual devastation. Instead, I kept it all to myself and continued to sink.