Anxiety

When I first started this blog I had great dreams of it becoming a little pocket of the internet where I could offer a luxurious look into life in a foreign country with some fun teaching and travel stories thrown in. 

But today I’ve decided to talk about my crippling anxiety so obviously we’re veering in a new direction! 

I’ve been having a hard time lately differentiating between trusting my gut and allowing my anxieties to overrun my life. Mostly because a lot of the things I had been most anxious about came true recently.

I remember my first panic attack very well. The second and third and fourth and fifth not so much. But the first one, I remember everything. I was 11 and sitting in my moms minivan. I was wearing jean overall shorts with tweety bird embroidered on the front pocket and a neon green scrunchie that really downplayed how ratty my hair was. 

I had won a poetry contest. We were in the parking lot of Ijams Nature Center where I was to read my award winning poem to over 100 students. It was about how water brought life but also takes on a life of its own. Starting in a small puddle evaporating into the sky, falling down into a stream flowing to an ocean. I was so proud. And so excited. 

But as we sat in the van watching the busloads of kids walking into the center my heart suddenly felt like it was wiggling loose of my body. And my mouth became so dry I could barely even open it. And anytime I tried to say anything at all my brain couldn’t pick a word to begin with. I didn’t have stage fright. I had no problem getting up in front of people to dance or act or simply speak. This panic felt deeper. Like it was coming from inside. Like it was this root corkscrewing through my entire being. 

After a few minutes of wordless gasping I was able to take a sip of Dr. Pepper from the Arby’s I had gotten for lunch and talked myself into going inside. Shakily. But I did end up walking in and reading my poem. 

It was different now, though. My brain had started concocting all these possible scenarios that I would have never dreamed of before. About the kids laughing at me. About the Nature Center making a mistake and I hadn’t really won. About them accusing me of plagiarism. 

And whatever bright light from the joy and excitement and pride I had from winning the poetry contest felt dimmed. 

Needless to say I survived and it was fine. Like it always is. 

I had so much anxiety about moving abroad. I don’t let my anxiety control my life as much anymore. I let myself feel the worry but I don’t let it hijack my entire being. Its still there but it just exists as a quiet hum in the back of my mind. Like a shoddy light fixture in your office with  a constant buzz you learn to tune out (because if you don’t learn to tune it out you’ll develop a crippling migraine so what choice do you have). 

I’ve gotten pretty okay at talking myself out of full blown panic attacks. I write or voice my concerns and once I’ve done that, it’s normally easy to see that my anxieties are irrational. Or they’re easily fixable. 

I had alot of anxiety about traveling back to New York over Christmas as well so I almost felt a certain kind of relief as I watched my plans crumble. I was so worried for so long at the possibility of COVID canceling my plans and flights. How would I react? Would I dissolve into tears? Would I black out in rage and scream and then someone would film me and I would go viral for being insane? Would I just decide not to deal with it and start a new life in whatever city I get stranded in? Probably. 

I get even more anxiety thinking about how other people will react. At the end of the day I know I can control myself but I have no control over other people. What if theres a crazy person on the flight who freaks out when its canceled and starts screaming and is mean to the gate agent and then a police officer has to come over. What if they refuse to put their mask on. What if, What if, What if. 

But the problem with alot of the anxieties that sent me into a worry spiral of possible conflicts is that they pretty much all happened. 

I had multiple flight cancellations. There was a man on one of my flights that was so heinous. He refused to put his mask on and verbally abused his wife the whole time. He called her a useless bitch, a fat cow. Their kids just watched and laughed. She brushed it all off and continued to organize all their snacks and tablets and all the other thankless jobs no one realized she was doing for them. I hate witnessing things like that. It makes me so incredibly pissed that I know people like that won’t ever face proper punishment and they feel justified in their actions. IT DRIVES ME INSANE. 

But I have to let it go. I can’t control other people. ( If I could, I would have made him apologize to his wife and then go to the bathroom and drink water from the toilets, specifically that one toilet that’s always out of order in a public bathroom). 

Anyway, I handled it all fine. As I knew I most likely would. I found the rebooking desk both times my flight was canceled. I handled the 24 hour travel days by sleeping extra when I got to my destinations. I took lots of deep breaths and listened to the hours of podcasts I had downloaded specifically for this reason. I walked away from the heinous man. I took lots of COVID self tests. It was all fine. Like it always is. 

I still have anxiety to the point of handicapping me sometimes. I still wake up some mornings with an unexplainable feeling of dread that cements me to my bed. And some days I let it win. I lie in bed all day and eat nothing but a bag of chips and watch reruns of shows I’ve seen a million times and struggle to do simple tasks even like brush my teeth or pour myself a glass of water ( it just takes such a long time standing at the faucet and I get so bored). 

I have coping skills now to pull myself out of these phases and I don’t punish myself anymore for the lack of work or effort. I hold myself to different standards and don’t take it all so seriously. 

I do have a point in sharing these feelings on what is supposed to be a travel blog. 

I used to feel like if I could just hit a certain moment or milestone then my anxiety would quiet down and I could finally start living my life.

If I could just do my Eurorail trip. If I could just book the lead in the play. If I could just move out of the South. If I get a job in the arts. If I could just get a job that pays all my bills. 

Finally, at a certain point, after I had done a few full 180s trying to figure myself out, I had to accept that maybe it wasn’t external factors causing the blind panic that still plagued me. I’d have to start looking inward- which honestly sounded like a lot of work that I wasn’t really willing to do right away. So I didn’t. Until I did. And it was really fucking hard. It dug up more shit than I’m willing to admit but I’ve climbed that mountain and I’ve come down the other side and its something I don’t have to do again. 

Without the work I’ve done in the last 6 years or so I would have viewed moving to Budapest as THE solution to my unhappiness with my current life. I do see it as the cure for my restlessness and a great way to put me on a new path. However, it’s not the ONLY thing that’s going to help me continue moving forward. And if I hadn’t been able to move here or was suddenly forced to leave, that wouldn’t send me on a spiral of what ifs and a halt in my progress. 

I was going to end this with a sappy paragraph about how happy I am that I’m here (in Budapest and on Earth)  but I feel like I’ve maybe used up all the sentimental and earnest thoughts I’ve designated for the public. So I’d like to end this post by saying I do have plans to share my experiences in Munich so please don’t give up on this blog if this wasn’t your usual read.