42 posts tagged xojane
When I was 21, I lived in the Home Counties with my mother, my step-father, and my slightly disappointing liberal arts qualification.
I enjoyed a busy social life and rarely spent a night at home, boasting an armada of toothbrushes in friends’ bathrooms right across the Thames Valley.
Though I didn’t have a steady job or any idea what to do with my life (my career plan of being discovered as a pre-pubescent literary wunderkind hadn’t panned out), I was in a bunch of self-conscious indie bands, and I did have really excellent Shakira-meets-David-Coverdale hair, so I figured I was happy.
One day, while I was out shopping with my mother, the shopping mall began vibrating imperceptibly around me. The halogen lights grew too bright and jarring, and everyone seemed to be staring at me. I’d felt a little sick in the car earlier, but had chalked that up to a recent bout of flu. Now, light-headed and self-conscious, I stumbled into Boots. Then the world started to spin and throb and my stomach swooped and pitched and cramped up.
My knees gave way in the maternity aisle. “Don’t let me shit myself,” I thought, then: “don’t let that be my last thought.” Then I passed out. When I came to, I hadn’t shat myself, but I was covered in breast pumps.
Ladies and gentlemen, my first panic attack.
The attacks came thick and fast after that, in any enclosed space outside my home – on the train to my boyfriend’s house; on the bus to my bar job. The world would pulse and warp, and a tremendous dam of nausea would build up inside me until I’d either faint, or be trapped inside a terrible vertiginous inertia.
When I came to – or couldn’t take it anymore – I’d phone whoever I was trying to see, lie unrepentantly, then hurry home to chain-smoke and drink sugary tea until I stopped shaking. And each time, the shakes would take longer to leave me.
In the same week, I was summarily fired from my bar job (probably a relief to anyone I’ve served a watery, headless pint), and diagnosed with severe panic disorder and agoraphobia.
“Those upsetting episodes you’re experiencing are panic attacks,” the doctor told me. “Your agoraphobia comes from fearing the attacks themselves, and avoiding the public places in which you might have them.”
I was prescribed SSRI antidepressants, but binned them almost immediately because they increased my anxiety. Weekly sessions with a psychologist didn’t help much, either. I’d generally faint on the way there and, when she asked where I learned to cope with difficult situations by withdrawing from them, I wouldn’t know what to tell her.
I’d think of my loving family; my public school education; the fact that I’d lived all over the world – and wouldn’t know what to say. That I might have been led here by my childhood (upheaval, bullying, and my father’s death) didn’t even cross my mind.
As far as I was concerned, this entire situation – the panic attacks, the therapy, the derailing of my life – was the trauma. It all felt completely external to me. It was like being repeatedly hit by a truck while the truck driver asked, “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
What really did help was:
1. Educating myself about panic attacks
They’re caused by adrenaline, not a suffocating all-encompassing evil! The human body generally can’t sustain one for over 30 minutes! If learn Jedi relaxation and breathing techniques for many months you do, stop them in their tracks you sometimes can.
2. Gradual exposure therapy
Leaving a situation while you’re still panicking can create a subconscious feedback of fear, and compound agoraphobia. Whereas staying in a situation until your fear level drops can start to turn the tide.
So, I had to go to the bus stop near my house, mark my panic level on a sheet numbered 1 - 9, then stay there. I did this every day until my panic level dropped below 7. Then I had to get on a bus, and do the same thing. Then go two bus stops. Then three, etc., until I had re-conquered the world.
And you know what? I did it.
It took me two years of standing around like a fucking lemon at bus stops, in shopping malls and on trains while the world thrummed around me and I tried not to throw up on it. Sometimes I fainted. Often, people stared. But I did it.
In that time my relationship ended, a lot of friendships fell away, I scraped by on incapacity benefit, and I lost two stone (12kg) because the act of facing my fears on a daily basis made me too constantly anxious to eat (irony).
Also, I learned the second movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata; hand-coded HTML; and that I really hate crime fiction. I wrote a humorous novel about pirates and, like a boss, accidentally deleted a humorous novel about pirates.
But I did it. I re-conquered the world in two years. As soon as I was able to commit to being somewhere three times a week without fainting, I got a part-time job at my local theatre. And I loved it.
Soon after that, though, my mother had a heart attack and needed my care for six months. Thankfully she made a full recovery, at which point I immediately relapsed. However, recovery wasn’t so awful the second time round – I started freelance writing rather than going back on incapacity benefit. I got a beautiful Welsh Springer Spaniel, took up running, and learned the third movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
In total it took me four years to recover from agoraphobia. I’m in my thirties now, and enough time has passed for me to see that – however I thought I was when I was 21 – I was really very far from okay. I was just so good at lying to myself that I didn’t realise how intolerable things had become. And, in spiriting me away from my old life and making me fight for a better one, agoraphobia actually did me a favour.
But it was horrible to endure. I’d never heard of agoraphobia before I had it, and the one thing I could have used during recovery was a success story. So now I’m thinking about writing a book about my experiences.
In the meantime I live and work in London, and travel far and wide without incident. I still have a tendency to withdraw from difficult situations, but I’m better at spotting when I do, and finding more honest ways to cope. Plus, although I have the occasional panic attack, I haven’t fainted in years.
My hair is still a bit David Coverdale, though.
Here’s a secret: I don’t know what self-confidence is.
I’ve just about figured out that self-esteem doesn’t involve bowing ostentatiously to your reflection and purring “I ESTEEEEEEM you,” like a cartoon grand vizier, and that self-love isn’t about stalking yourself on Facebook.
Basically I fudge through life trying to not sweat the small stuff, and practice good emotional accounting. Frequently I fail.
And it seems so unfair that self-confidence, which you need to do almost ANYTHING – pancake flipping; romantic shenanigans; most things involving PowerPoint – is elusive, and yet someone just has to throw a heavy-lidded glance at your intended, or be better than you at something, and within milliseconds jealousy is effortlessly curdling your insides.
I get it. Look, I’m basically a female Danny Devito lookalike. Daily I castigate myself for not being some whip-smart, finger-snapping hybrid of Salma Hayek and Caitlin Moran, and I’m only about two feet tall. Believe me, I’m jealous of EVERYONE.
But it’s because I’m so practiced that I’ve developed coping strategies* for jealousy, especially:
Rivalry; your partner having fun with people who aren’t you; that weird morbid curiosity about your partner’s exes – where it’s like they’re cheating on you IN THE PAST, before they even met you, INSIDE YOUR HEAD.
That quick and competent colleague with really great taste in trousers who makes you feel like a bag of thumbs. A friend achieving one of YOUR dreams while all your congratulations turn to ashes in your mouth.
AMORPHOUS, ALL-ENCOMPASSING WHY-AM-I-THE-ONLY-PERSON-HERE-WITH-FOOD-DOWN-HER-FRONT-OH-GOD-IT’S-USELESS-I-MIGHT-AS-WELL-DIE JEALOUSY
Probably the hardest jealousy to describe, or suffer, and generally occurs when a more specific type of jealousy has gone unchecked. Or just because it’s Tuesday. For instance, I immediately become murderously jealous in Japanese restaurants if I am with someone who can use chopsticks without looking as though they’re pruning a hedge which is running away from them.
This is what I try to do*:
1: Identify it
Why does the size 6 woman on the next treadmill cause tiny infarctions of self-loathing in my heart? Why does someone’s published book make me want to shred my own intestines? Why does the mention of a boyfriend’s ex momentarily send me spiralling like James Stewart in Vertigo? Because I’m not a size 6; I haven’t published a book; and apparently I’m so insecure that I’m intimidated by someone from the past who WORE CLOGS and LIKED KULA SHAKER.
2. Isolate it
Now you’ve recognised what’s behind your jealousy, stop indulging it. Or it’ll bloat out and distort reality, and in three days someone will find you in a heap on the floor, wailing “but SHE has EYEBROWS”.
[Edit: I realise now that ‘just try not being jealous, yeah?’ isn’t particularly useful advice. However, what I try to do (once I’ve narrowed down what the jealousy is about) is focus on something positive about myself, or do something physical or something I enjoy. This helps my brain tick over the next part…]/
3. Learn from it
Perhaps you don’t want to be a size 6, or write a novel about an opossum called Jason. But you might want to be THAT SORT OF PERSON. You might not want to revive 1990s psychadelia, but if you feel something about your relationship doesn’t measure up to some perceived past ideal, look it straight in the eye.
Your jealousy is a message from yourself: “I WANT THIS”. So prioritise making it – or a version of it – happen. At the risk of quoting Rachel Weisz, YOU’RE WORTH IT.
4. Attack it with a BAZOOKA
Jealousy has served its purpose, so jettison it from your psyche. After all, it is a BITCH. Remember that time it made you feel bad about your innie bellybutton at school and you cried for a whole evening? KILL IT WITH FIRE.
5. Drink gin, dance around the house in your pants
Jealousy is reductive, destructive, and makes you feel hideous and nothingy. But today you BEAT IT, so celebrate! And, in case at any point you find yourself losing the faith, here is a picture of me riding a UNICORN and carrying a BAZOOKA:
Tattoo it to your HEART.
*This is by no means a comprehensive guide to beating jealousy – I am not a psychologist, a proctologist, a psychiatrist, podiatrist, life coach or megabus. I am just an Earth human and I’m just sharing what I do. What do you do?
**Jealousy, not lipstick/collar suspicion. I am not Joey Greco from Cheaters (unfortunately).
Unless I take care of them, my feet are part-barnacle and part-monkey paw, and can never be uncovered or laid in a pedicurist’s lap.
In which I floridly complain about the “upsetting architectural features” of my feet, and tell xoJanedotcom how to turn one’s knobbly hooves into dozing puppies using Vaseline, plastic bags and bad language.
Hey, man. Have you sexy-health-checked your squeeze today? You could saving a life (this was a typo, but I like it so much that I’m leaving it in).
Join me as I flip back through my Mental Scrapbook of Deceased Friendships. It’s not creepy or weird at all! It’s got tea-stained decals on, look!
I hold down a full-time middle-management editorial job, a freelance writing career I mainly conduct during loo breaks and, for the last few months, I’ve been looking after my seriously ill mother. Something had to give.
Yep. By me, for xoJane UK.
Eight ways to style out a cold this Christmas - by me, for xoJane. I’m SORRY.
In any enclosed space outside my home – the train to my boyfriend’s house; the bus to my bar job - the world would pulse and warp, and a tremendous dam of nausea would build up inside me until I’d either faint, or be trapped inside a terrible vertiginous inertia.
I write about the four years I spent as a housebound agoraphobic with severe panic disorder in my early twenties - and subsequent recovery - for xoJane.
Plus I manage to crowbar in references to Whitesnake, Yoda, and shitting yourself. Hooray!
My VLCD has come to an end, so this is my final xoJane EXTREME DIETRY entry. I’ve basically lost the equivalent of two Maine Coons, but I’ve found my courage. Or something.
Look, it’s about a diet.
Panic in the streets of Robyn. Panic in the streets of Robynham…