I'm at a show with my friends. I'm dancing. It's hot. I'm sweating. I'm singing along. I painted my lips dark purple, smeared slate grey shadow on my eyes and put on my best boots before this show. I memorized every song by this band to impress a boy. My clammy hands are gripping the cold bottle of water I grabbed on the way in. It's turning warm. My feet tap the ground, over and over, two step, two step, holding hands with my loved ones, dancing, holding, singing, feeling, breathing heavy.
Then it hits me. Hard, like I've been hit by a train. All of a sudden I'm immobilized, frozen, shaking, can't catch my breath. I duck under a friend's arm and weasel my 5'2" frame out of the crowd. It's easy, ducking under tall bearded guys holding tall cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, swerving past pretty girls with bad bangs in denim jackets, tripping over my feet.
In my head I'm escaping a jungle, in my head I'm running from a potential danger. I find a cool stoop outside the venue, sit down on it, my tights pressed against the chilly stone, I reach for my phone to check my messages, I taste the Philadelphia rain. It's quiet. It's dark and cool. Im finally alone. I'm having a panic attack.
A bouncer comes up and touches my pallid, sweaty shoulder.
"You okay, little lady?"
"Yes. I just... It's hot in there. I felt nauseous. I... think I must have eaten something bad." I lie. He gives me a sympathetic look. He hands me his beer. I don't know why. He walks away. I dump it out. I don't take drinks from strangers in strange cities.
I open up the pack of Spirit Yellows I was holding on to for my friend in my purse and I light one and inhale. I start thinking about why I lied to that random guy. I feel stupid.
When I was a much younger girl, I did the same. In elementary school, if I cried from panic and wanted my mom to come pick me up, they wouldn't let me call her. But if I cried and said I hurt my foot, or my tummy hurt, or I tripped and fell, the nurse would give me a band aid and let me call my mom. I was conditioned to think that if I needed help for a problem, it had to be a "real" problem, i.e. not a problem that was "in my head." It had to be a Physical Need that I needed met in order for the Grown-Ups to help me.
In my twenties, I've been better about vocalizing my anxiety as actual anxiety. Sure, sometimes my anxiety manifests itself in physical ways. I'll get nauseous. I'll shake. I'll get a headache. My heart will feel like it isn't working right, even though it is. But those physical side effects are NOT my illness. My illness is in my mind. And that does not mean that it's not valid. That doesn't mean that it's not real. That doesn't mean that I don't deserve medical treatment, medicine, therapy, care and self care. I deserve those things. Everyone with a mental illness deserves those things. I'm working SO hard to become more comfortable just saying "I'm anxious." "I'm having a panic attack." "I'm having an anxiety attack. I have to step outside." Instead of "I'm sick to my stomach, do you mind if I meet you after the party?" I'll say "this party is not giving me a good vibe and I'm anxious because of it. I'll see you later, yeah?"
YOUR MENTAL HEALTH IS A VALID EXCUSE TO LEAVE THE PARTY. MISS A CLASS OR PRACTICE. BAIL ON A DATE. TALK TO YOUR DOCTOR. STAY IN BED. TAKE A HOT BATH. Whatever you need to do to heal. Just like when I have a cold, I feed myself soup and tea and medicine and stay in bed until I feel better. When I have a panic flare up, I rest, practice coping mechanisms, talk to loved ones, breathe deeply, do what I need to do UNTIL I FEEL BETTER.
We shouldn't have to keep our mental health and needs a secret or pretend to have a "real problem" just because we want to make sure we get actual treatment and help. We deserve better.
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