One Anxious Writer

I was always an anxious person. I used to have anxiety attacks at school, but no one knew. I stressed over exams, over my health, over my family’s health and basically over everyone and everything. But no one except my family knew. Outside home, I lived my life normally. Whenever I felt that something could trigger my anxiety, I avoided it. My anxiety was in the form of claustrophobia. I couldn’t sit anywhere without windows. I couldn’t sit in a room with a closed door because in the back of my mind I was always anxious that the door might never open. My anxiety was so severe that sometimes I didn’t go to the bathroom in fear that I might get locked inside. I didn’t use the elevator. Ever. This was a huge constraint in my life. I missed out on interviews. I missed out on concerts. I missed out on rooftop drinks.

Second year of university I encountered new symptoms of anxiety. I remember sitting in class and feeling like I was in a dream. I wasn’t sure whether the professor was real or not. I thought I was crazy, and this made me even more anxious. Now I know that this was a symptom of anxiety called derealization. I missed lectures just to avoid the feeling. I couldn’t get myself to drive during examination periods. My mom had to drive me and reassure me that she was really waiting for me once I finish.   

Eventually, the anxiety levels went down a bit, and I continued my life normally. Yet, I still avoided everything that could trigger it. It wasn’t until the last year of university that I started therapy. My anxiety was peaking again and derealization got worse. I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust anyone. It got so bad that even unfamiliar roads triggered my anxiety. I missed out on road trips.

The anxiety levels went down a bit, and I continued my life normally. I graduated, applied to a master’s degree and eventually got a job. A teaching job which I started mid-academic year. Everything was new and unfamiliar. I tried to cope. Two months into teaching, Covid found its way to Lebanon, and all schools shifted to online teaching. Everything was recorded. Every lesson, every mispronounced word, every comment and every mistake. At the end of academic year, I started to developed a reflux cough. I would wake up so stressed that the only way my body expressed it was through coughing. I was annoyed and tired, but eventually the school year ended and I started therapy again. During summer I committed to my therapy sessions and got a bit better.

A new school year, a new Stephanie. A calmer, less anxious Stephanie. Or at least this was what I thought. One week into online teaching, I started having multiple panic attacks, crying hysterically and coughing uncontrollably. Physically and mentally, I wasn’t capable of getting out of bed, let alone working. I took an appointment with a psychiatrist, was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), and was prescribed depression and anxiety medication. I took a one-week sick leave. The doctor told me that the crying would stop after a few days, but it didn’t.  Crying sessions and 4 a.m. body paralysis were on my daily schedule. Eventually I had to get back to work. Every day, I fought to do the bare minimum. I would wake up, barely eat, take the medications and teach. During my breaks, I would prepare for the next teaching session and cry. My mom, dad, and two brothers watched me breakdown every one or two hours. They would sit with me and then pick me up. Again, and again. Most of the times after work I would sleep. My body was so tired from the constant stress and the medications. It felt like it was a never-ending cycle of depression, and there was no way out.

Until one day… I got out.

I remember my first sip of coffee after not being able to digest anything for months. It was a simple pleasure that brought me so much joy. Coffee meant that I was making progress. Breakfast meant that I was making more progress.

Things worked out one day at a time. My body was getting used to the medications, and I was starting to make progress in therapy. Each day brought a new challenge, yet I was able to also see a new opportunity. Little by little, my anxiety grew on me. I learned that my anxiety does not define me, but I also knew that it was something I needed to carry.

I started to focus more on myself and what makes me happy. I chose the right people to help me face my fears at the right place and the right time. I let go of “societal pressure” and embraced myself, my time, my comfort, my beliefs, and my peace.

I started to love my anxiety, to love myself. Love the extra pounds I gained, love myself. Love my tired skin, love myself. I am tired, but I am on the path towards healing.

I am better now. I lock the bathroom doors. I sometimes use the elevator and, I go for rooftop drinks. I am better, but I still have a long battle to face. Some days, I don’t like my body. Some days, I don’t get out of bed. Some days, I panic. Some days, I cry.  

But, at the end of the day, when I lay my head on my pillow, I sometimes smile. My anxiety broke me, but it also molded me into an empathetic, genuine person. A writer. An artist.