Hot Poonanny

I walked into my mother room and it was dark. The mirrors on her sliding closet doors showed my blackened silhouette against the yellow brightness of the hallway. Though the dark scared me, I never felt unsafe in Mother’s room. Nothing evil could touch me there; it was against the rules. And yet while looking at my reflection, I began to sense I wasn’t alone in this room. Fear started enclosing me slowly like the warmth of a freshly bitten pepper nipping at your tongue. But this sensation lacked all warmth. It was cold.  This coldness filled up my body from the core out. I could feel its fingertips grazing my heart and stomach. It was slow and chilling, and brought me a sense of dread. I felt like my entire being was enveloped in black, like the black my silhouette casted against the mirror. I had to leave the room. I had to escape this feeling of frantic doom trying to push its way out of my body. I didn’t at the time realize I was having an anxiety attack. This feeling was so horrible to me, I ran to my mother and we prayed together so I could calm down. Afterwards I returned to the room, feeling suspenseful and achy. The fear didn’t return, and so it was soon forgotten.

Fast-forward to the summer at my dad’s house in California. These were annual court-ordered visits that I had done since I was 6 months. They became harder to go to once my father remarried. My father never knew what really went on between the ladies in the house; it was hard for him to see over 300 channels of TV. One day, feeling neglected by my older sister and abused by my step mom, I cried for his attention.  I cried out for Diana and Emma’s love; that they would stop acting like I didn’t exist. I even cried “I miss my mom!” When I finally got a response, I was told “Then go home”. I became hollow, vacant. But the empty cavity in my body quickly filled up with that cold sensation I felt when I was younger. It molded at my heart and knotted my stomach. It took away my trust and replaced it with paranoia. For a week I couldn’t eat and decided to distract myself with 300 channels of TV. When the anxiety was done shaping my attitude, it left a skinny, sickly girl, with sores in her stomach, baggy pants at her waist, and the idea that “Once I leave this place, I will be okay again.”

My new companion didn’t leave. It wasn’t finished renovating its new home. I needed to be thinner. I needed to be more homebound. I needed to give up the activities I loved because my new reality was that everything was out to get me. I didn’t need to learn to handle relationships with others because I’d screw up not only my life but their lives as well. I wasn’t allowed to eat food, because those knots that were made in my stomach were meant to keep food out. My companion wanted me to be weak, quiet, broken. But that wasn’t me. I hated that I became numb. That the things I loved didn’t matter anymore. I had to become emotionless to cope with this new ruler, this tyrant, this dictator of my life. I was a slave to the cold hands that now shaped me. And no matter how well I complied with its demands, it had to constantly remind me I will always own you. I didn’t know how to live anymore. I didn’t want to live anymore. Life offered me nothing but hollow chills and dry aches.

I thought Anxiety had won, and that I would live the rest of my life in depression. It filled up every crevice in my body—almost.  For some reason I still had hope. A sad little flame that was beaten down but still burning. Because of hope, I continued to do the everyday things in life. I pretended a lot. I forced laughs and smiles. I acted giddy and energetic. I hoped that I would do those things naturally again. I went to school and continued the summers in California, and the anxiety was still there.

Suddenly, I came to the conclusion that I was going to have to deal with this my whole life. I can’t escape the chemicals in my body, but I wasn’t going to let them alter me anymore. I started doing things Anxiety forbade me to do. I no longer gave it power. I stopped taking it seriously. The lies I believed in as gospel truth, I would no longer accept. Instead, I decided I’m going to live with anxiety, but I will live my life as well.

Slowly, like the warmth of a freshly bitten pepper, life got easier. The burden of fear was quietly crumbling off my back, so I stood a little straighter. Anxiety has helped shaped who I am today. Many of the choices I make now are linked to the phantom feelings of fear, but I also recognize that I am the Master Commander! Life is less about giving in, and more about taking charge.