Funerals, Fear, and Folk Songs: Anxiety and the Modern Mom
There are no pews in St. James Catholic Church. Budgetary constraints, I assume. Father What's His Name compensates with extra rounds of standing and sitting. Or at least that's what it felt like on an oddly warm, rainy Friday morning in January. For the entirety of the service, I focused alternately on the parquet flooring, the frayed edge of a stranger's suit jacket in front of me, and the side of my ex's face a few inches away.
If nothing else, my ex and I get holidays, birthdays, and death right. (Added points for our mutual love of carbohydrate binging.) His grandmother had passed. They held a Catholic service, long by the clock, made even longer by my persistent discomfort. The problem wasn't the funeral. Although death isn't a safe subject with me, I don't have trouble with funerals per se. It's not the sullen atmosphere or even the lifeless body in front of me.
Anxiety pays no mind to circumstance or atmosphere. I've had bouts of it—from the "something's wrong but I don't know what" variety to full-blown panic attacks—in all sorts of places: in my car en route to a big move, in the lobby of the Empire State Building, in a coffee shop, at my cousin's wedding (in which I was a bridesmaid, to boot). My personal hell began to heat up in high school and found its full fury during my sophomore year of college, when I was formally diagnosed.
In the nearly 20 years since the word "anxiety" became familiar to me, I've often wondered if I'd be better off not knowing. As it is, my anxiety, which is largely focused on my health and safety, gives way to more anxiety as I imagine the havoc all this constant stress wreaks on my body. Stress can kill you, they say. Having children has upped the ante. The sleep deprivation I experienced with both of my boys, along with wondering what will happen to them if I die of whatever disease I'm sure I have on any given day, has had me walking a tightrope for the past six years. Don't look down. Yet I always do.
St. James is small and an architectural oddity as far Catholic churches go. There is no sanctuary or nave, just one big rectangular room with wooden upholstered chairs arranged in four sections facing a simple altar. Although the high ceilings and asymmetrical design elements are aesthetically appealing, on that oddly warm funeral morning I knew better than to look upward or around lest the dizziness set in. I spent that long hour telling myself silent affirmations: You're fine. Breathe. You don't need to get up. It'll be over soon. I can't pinpoint what triggers my anxiety every time, but there's one surefire situation: when I'm expected to remain in a contained area for a long period of time, when leaving is either impossible or would make a spectacle of me. So funerals, weddings, seminars, church services, elevators, interviews, airplanes—all possible culprits.
Among the many difficulties I've brought upon myself in my lifetime, anxiety is not one them. For that I'm grateful, because it exempts me from being harder on myself than I already am. I'm also grateful that I don't have social anxiety. Conversation is one of my favorite things in life, whether it's with a friend or a stranger. Some people with anxiety find comfort in patterns. I do not. I find big changes exhilarating (perhaps too much?), although I might get anxious if the process involves containment, like when I moved to Memphis. I was 29 years old and making the big move with my precious pit bull-lab mix, Kaiser, riding shotgun. About halfway into the 12-hour drive, I felt that familiar sensation of impending doom. Minutes later I hightailed it off the interstate somewhere in Kentucky and sat in the parking lot outside Piggly Wiggly, listening to my mom on the other end of my flip phone recite scripture and talk me off the ledge. After we hung up, I bought Advil that I never took and a cinnamon roll, which I shared in the parking lot with my canine life partner.
During the first year of being a resident of Memphis' hip Cooper-Young neighborhood, panic attacks were a regular occurrence. The first one was at Otherlands, a hippified coffeehouse a few blocks from my sweet, updated guesthouse. I was sitting alone when I spotted my new, shiny first friend in town, Elle. She was a dirty blonde, short and stout, with a sway back that gave way to an unmistakable way of walking. In a moment of abject exasperation, I threw pride to the wind and asked her to sit with me because I was having a panic attack. She knew just what to do. It wasn't long before I learned that Elle had anxiety too, the social kind. So our afflictions complemented each other, and for a few good, strong years we helped each other along. We lost touch after I left town, and I struggle to this day between resenting her for what happened in the end and appreciating her for what she was while she was. Of anxiety's few sure things, here is one: You can get by with a little help from your friends. (I suggest having a good dog and a never-failing mom too.)
There have been times in my life that my mind hasn't been my worst enemy, like when I lived in South Beach in my early 20s. Now in my 40s, I'm tempted to say it was simply the glory of youth, but I know better, because a year later panic and worry would hit me hard. Maybe it was living at the beach—and that beach town in particular. Who could be bothered by irrational fears when there's never-ending sunshine, red-hot salsa dancing on sidewalks, colorful Art Deco architecture, fried plantains done right, and the ocean, which needs no adjectives because it just is. I remember not having anxiety back then, but I don't remember how it felt. I wish I could, in hopes I could lasso that carefree mind of the past and drag it into the present.
Do not read listicles about anxiety online, like "What It's Really Like to Live With Anxiety" or "10 Things People With Anxiety Want You to Know." They're terrible, all of them. If I don't answer my phone, it's not because of my anxiety. It's because my iPhone has selective ringing, or maybe I'm hiding in the bathroom so my kids can't ask for chocolate one thousand more times. If I'm grumpy, it's not because of my anxiety. It's because I have hormones. If I look fine, it's not because I don't have anxiety, it's because I do. Wait, what? Scroll past. Anxiety encompasses a set of disorders that can't be neatly summed up. If you need to know what anxiety's like, it's because you care about someone who suffers with it. So ask them instead. The answer won't make sense, but the act of showing you care will.
I made it through my ex's grandma's funeral without losing my cool, at least not visibly. We proceeded from St. James Catholic Church to the gymnasium next door, where I ate fried chicken, pasta marinara, and crusty Italian bread without a care in the world, unless you count the carbs (I did). Another one to add to my anxiety gratitude list: If I don't tell you I have anxiety, you'll likely never know. I go through life appearing mostly normal, except those mornings at kindergarten dropoff when I haven't had time to conceal my dark circles.
In 1943, singer-songwriter Woodie Guthrie famously painted his guitar with these words: This machine kills fascists. That's how I feel about writing. It's an escape route for those negative thoughts that gather like clots in my mind, blocking the way. My life's work is to keep that route clear, as much as is humanly possible without medication. Writing is my machine.
This blog kills anxiety.
If nothing else, my ex and I get holidays, birthdays, and death right. (Added points for our mutual love of carbohydrate binging.) His grandmother had passed. They held a Catholic service, long by the clock, made even longer by my persistent discomfort. The problem wasn't the funeral. Although death isn't a safe subject with me, I don't have trouble with funerals per se. It's not the sullen atmosphere or even the lifeless body in front of me.
Anxiety pays no mind to circumstance or atmosphere. I've had bouts of it—from the "something's wrong but I don't know what" variety to full-blown panic attacks—in all sorts of places: in my car en route to a big move, in the lobby of the Empire State Building, in a coffee shop, at my cousin's wedding (in which I was a bridesmaid, to boot). My personal hell began to heat up in high school and found its full fury during my sophomore year of college, when I was formally diagnosed.
In the nearly 20 years since the word "anxiety" became familiar to me, I've often wondered if I'd be better off not knowing. As it is, my anxiety, which is largely focused on my health and safety, gives way to more anxiety as I imagine the havoc all this constant stress wreaks on my body. Stress can kill you, they say. Having children has upped the ante. The sleep deprivation I experienced with both of my boys, along with wondering what will happen to them if I die of whatever disease I'm sure I have on any given day, has had me walking a tightrope for the past six years. Don't look down. Yet I always do.
St. James is small and an architectural oddity as far Catholic churches go. There is no sanctuary or nave, just one big rectangular room with wooden upholstered chairs arranged in four sections facing a simple altar. Although the high ceilings and asymmetrical design elements are aesthetically appealing, on that oddly warm funeral morning I knew better than to look upward or around lest the dizziness set in. I spent that long hour telling myself silent affirmations: You're fine. Breathe. You don't need to get up. It'll be over soon. I can't pinpoint what triggers my anxiety every time, but there's one surefire situation: when I'm expected to remain in a contained area for a long period of time, when leaving is either impossible or would make a spectacle of me. So funerals, weddings, seminars, church services, elevators, interviews, airplanes—all possible culprits.
Among the many difficulties I've brought upon myself in my lifetime, anxiety is not one them. For that I'm grateful, because it exempts me from being harder on myself than I already am. I'm also grateful that I don't have social anxiety. Conversation is one of my favorite things in life, whether it's with a friend or a stranger. Some people with anxiety find comfort in patterns. I do not. I find big changes exhilarating (perhaps too much?), although I might get anxious if the process involves containment, like when I moved to Memphis. I was 29 years old and making the big move with my precious pit bull-lab mix, Kaiser, riding shotgun. About halfway into the 12-hour drive, I felt that familiar sensation of impending doom. Minutes later I hightailed it off the interstate somewhere in Kentucky and sat in the parking lot outside Piggly Wiggly, listening to my mom on the other end of my flip phone recite scripture and talk me off the ledge. After we hung up, I bought Advil that I never took and a cinnamon roll, which I shared in the parking lot with my canine life partner.
During the first year of being a resident of Memphis' hip Cooper-Young neighborhood, panic attacks were a regular occurrence. The first one was at Otherlands, a hippified coffeehouse a few blocks from my sweet, updated guesthouse. I was sitting alone when I spotted my new, shiny first friend in town, Elle. She was a dirty blonde, short and stout, with a sway back that gave way to an unmistakable way of walking. In a moment of abject exasperation, I threw pride to the wind and asked her to sit with me because I was having a panic attack. She knew just what to do. It wasn't long before I learned that Elle had anxiety too, the social kind. So our afflictions complemented each other, and for a few good, strong years we helped each other along. We lost touch after I left town, and I struggle to this day between resenting her for what happened in the end and appreciating her for what she was while she was. Of anxiety's few sure things, here is one: You can get by with a little help from your friends. (I suggest having a good dog and a never-failing mom too.)
There have been times in my life that my mind hasn't been my worst enemy, like when I lived in South Beach in my early 20s. Now in my 40s, I'm tempted to say it was simply the glory of youth, but I know better, because a year later panic and worry would hit me hard. Maybe it was living at the beach—and that beach town in particular. Who could be bothered by irrational fears when there's never-ending sunshine, red-hot salsa dancing on sidewalks, colorful Art Deco architecture, fried plantains done right, and the ocean, which needs no adjectives because it just is. I remember not having anxiety back then, but I don't remember how it felt. I wish I could, in hopes I could lasso that carefree mind of the past and drag it into the present.
Do not read listicles about anxiety online, like "What It's Really Like to Live With Anxiety" or "10 Things People With Anxiety Want You to Know." They're terrible, all of them. If I don't answer my phone, it's not because of my anxiety. It's because my iPhone has selective ringing, or maybe I'm hiding in the bathroom so my kids can't ask for chocolate one thousand more times. If I'm grumpy, it's not because of my anxiety. It's because I have hormones. If I look fine, it's not because I don't have anxiety, it's because I do. Wait, what? Scroll past. Anxiety encompasses a set of disorders that can't be neatly summed up. If you need to know what anxiety's like, it's because you care about someone who suffers with it. So ask them instead. The answer won't make sense, but the act of showing you care will.
I made it through my ex's grandma's funeral without losing my cool, at least not visibly. We proceeded from St. James Catholic Church to the gymnasium next door, where I ate fried chicken, pasta marinara, and crusty Italian bread without a care in the world, unless you count the carbs (I did). Another one to add to my anxiety gratitude list: If I don't tell you I have anxiety, you'll likely never know. I go through life appearing mostly normal, except those mornings at kindergarten dropoff when I haven't had time to conceal my dark circles.
In 1943, singer-songwriter Woodie Guthrie famously painted his guitar with these words: This machine kills fascists. That's how I feel about writing. It's an escape route for those negative thoughts that gather like clots in my mind, blocking the way. My life's work is to keep that route clear, as much as is humanly possible without medication. Writing is my machine.
This blog kills anxiety.
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