Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People have described anxiety as a fear of the unknown. These people must have never experienced the horrors of anxiety, nor known someone who has. Anxiety isn’t a synonym for fear or stress; it’s more than that. Anxiety is panic; a crippling panic that keeps you awake in the dead of night. Anxiety isn’t just a term; it’s an experience.

            I’ve always been a bit of a nervous person—a “worrier” as some might say. I would have moments where I could go into a fit of panic for a few minutes from the overload of homework or the sudden change in schedule. It was something I could handle; I could control and get back to work. Back then; anxiety was nothing but a term for being a little more high-strung than the rest of my family. Then three years ago, I lost my grandmother—“Nanny” as we called her—the woman who practically raised me.

She was a strong woman who lived the American home front life in WWII, was enlisted in the Air Force—then got kicked out because she got pregnant, got married, bore four children, lost one, lost her husband, and raised over half a dozen grandchildren. The phrase “I can’t…” wasn’t even a part of her vocabulary. She was my idol, nothing ever got to her. That is until four years ago she was diagnosed with lung cancer and suddenly her world shattered. The strong independent woman I knew was now leashed inside the house by an oxygen tank. The fire in her eyes left and she all but collapsed on the foyer steps saying, “I can’t do this.”

I remember having to stand in the front yard staring down the road waiting for the darkening sky to fill with red and white lights. It was here that I started my fall into anxiety. My stomach swirled, my head reeled, the question “why?” ran rampant through my thoughts, my heart raced, and everything at once seemed to be colliding inside me. I wasn’t unaware of what was going on or what was going to happen. I wasn’t afraid. I was in sheer panic over the choices I would have to make. As the EMTs lifted my Nanny into the ambulance, dozens of scenarios played in my mind.

Scenes of what would happen in the next few minutes looped and fragments of phrases repeated themselves. My hands shook as I collapsed, watching the red and white lights disappear into the distance. I felt like I was suffocating as I listened to the nonexistent voices in my head argue over the best choice of action. Should I just lay here and keep crying? Should I accept the inevitable and move on? Should I stay home? Should I go to the hospital too? Should I run? Should, should, should…the word didn’t even seem real any more. For once I couldn’t keep myself under control.

Control—or lack thereof—is a major contributor in anxiety. It’s not something you can just say “I won’t be anxious” and it’ll go away. I remember sitting in the room next to the Critical Care Unit at eleven in the evening with my entire extended family. Four days had passed since my Nanny had been taken away and for those days I did everything to suppress the bubbling in my chest. I had to be the stable one since everyone else was a mess. But now that everyone was collected in one small space with their faces twisted in misery, it took all my willpower to ignore the screaming in my head and start screaming myself. The screaming only got louder and incoherent voices chattered in my subconscious until my mother stepped up to me, placed her hands on my shoulders and asked, “Would you like to say something?”

I remember standing in my Nanny’s room, staring at the tubes running from her throat, her chest, her mouth, and her arm. I could hear the soft hissing of the respirator doing the work for her lungs drowning out Golden Girls on the television. I looked up at the monitor, her vitals weak and the word “unstable” flashing in red. Everything I had held inside came pouring out as I sobbed. I formed the incoherent phrases I heard in my mind. I hopelessly asked her “What do I do now?” All the possible outcomes smashed against my skull, my knees felt weak, my stomach churned like I had swallowed some sort of sludge, and I continued to blubber out all the different possibilities until it was time to go.

Possibilities, choices, the inevitable, they all contribute to anxiety. For days after I isolated myself to deal with all these choices, with all the possible outcomes, but in the end I would just cry and listen to the cacophony of inner bickering. Everything I worried about became weights on my shoulders, my family, my friends, school, social life, me. Everything became a hefty choice. All the paths were spread out and all I had to do was take a step but that first step meant I couldn’t turn back; I would have to keep going.

Anxiety isn’t “this or that,” it isn’t something you can see, and it’s definitely not pretty. Anxiety is facing tomorrow in the dark. Anxiety is your sister yelling that what’s going on in your mind isn’t real. Anxiety isn’t a term. Anxiety is an experience.

Chapter Text

Take one Ouija board, two friends, a handful of paper, and a never-ending curiosity of the paranormal. Mix that with the summer of sixth grade and the nervous waiting for seventh grade, simmer for two years then mix in a new friend and bake on high stress for three more years, sprinkle some anxiety, never let it cool, and you have just cooked up the start of the worst decision I had ever made in the eighteen years of my life. Please consume immediately. Or do not. Like the game Bioshock: Infinite explains, “We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us” (Lutece).

            It is a very delicious product you get from this recipe, a true feast for the senses, but something seems a little out of balance. Is it the visual appeal of your best friend’s purple face as she screams at you for the umpteenth time about how much of a “God-damned idiot” you are? Or maybe it is the physical sensation of your mother’s arms around you as she tries to soothe away the metaphorical noose around your neck from your latest panic attack? Maybe the wonderful aroma of sweat from the locker room as the other girls leave for dance class, and you are still struggling to get one leg through your leotard? Perhaps, the taste of flesh on your lips as you kiss her cheek good night and then vomit up all the bitter pseudo emotion? It sort of reminds you of that week-old chocolate milk your sister left out by accident. No, it is the sound: the sound of two ethereal voices laughing in your mind as they dance your helpless body around like a puppet for their enjoyment.

            Collect your ingredients. It was the worst decision I had ever made. “It’s just a Ouija board,” Hannah said, holding out some paper she had written every letter of the alphabet on “Nothing will happen.” We played with the little papers and laughed that she was right. Nothing happened at all, nothing moved; no strange voices came through, absolutely nothing. After our fun with the little slips of paper, we packed up the homemade Ouija board and tossed it in the trash.  Little did I know I had just changed my life. Mix with the summer of sixth grade and the nervousness of seventh grade.

    Let it simmer for two years where nothing happens and let me forget about the little adventure. I woke up suddenly feeling like the backseat driver of my life. Voices casually chattered in my subconscious making comments about me. They would criticize every little thing about me, laugh at my mistakes and mock my mannerism. I thought I was going crazy I thought it was all in my head. Until these voices made sure I knew they were more than my subconscious playing mind games and creating hallucinations. They knocked off the drawings on my walls and played with the pencils on my desk. As a thirteen-year-old this was probably the most terrifying thing I had ever experienced. I was dealing with something completely out of this world; poltergeists—ghosts with the ability to interact with the physical world. What made it worse was that I still had to go to school, and who knew if these things would carry over into my social life?

Turns out they did, and it was a strange feeling. I could see perfectly and speak normally; everything physically about me was normal, but I still felt like I was sitting in the backseat of my mind as two beings drove my interactions and shut me off from everyone except the one person who should have been the last girl I was talking to.

    Mix in a new friend whom I had met back in sixth grade: Leia. "Oh, who are your new friends?" She cocked her head and widened her eyes like she was looking through me, "They're dead huh? Welcome to the club, ghosts really like to hang around here." As I stared, I could not believe it. Someone else could tell two ghosts were following me? It seemed so unreal, but perhaps it was better to just stick with her since she seemed to understand.

    Bake on high stress for three years. I lost control. I could no longer sleep right as the beings in my mind controlled my every move. My mind stayed in a fog and all my friendships seemed meaningless. Nothing seemed real anymore besides the constant mocking of the spirits inside. I would wake up from night terrors and shake in horror, as my room seemed to swirl. Leia would tell me that it was normal, that I was all right and I believed her. I could not leave Leia's side as she felt like a sanctuary that seemed to understand what was going on. Anxiety attacks came at least twice a week. All of this from a stupid Ouija board I had played with years ago? It was not worth it. Consume immediately.

    I came to the conclusion at the climax of my disintegrating sanity. This was my body, and mine only. Nothing should be living my life for me. No two entities that whisper promises of happiness could hold me down any longer. No supposed friend who kept me tethered to her through emotional, mental, and physical abuse could tell me what was right or wrong. No, this was my life to take a hold of and I broke down later that day. I could not take it. For once in five years, I was making a choice. A choice to be free. The feeling of riding backseat slowly faded as the beings left my mind, leaving me to hyperventilate for a moment; hat part was over and done.

    Next was Leia, I told her flat out that I was done the next day at school. Her eyes widened and she looked about ready to cry, but I held my ground. “We can go back” she begged, “we’ll act like this never happened.” I could see the desperation behind her eyes knowing that she was losing her favorite victim. Everything was falling into place for once in my life, and even though it has taken a few months I feel something I have not it a long time.

    The sensations of freedom, and similar warm fuzzy feelings, had filled my body as I burned every letter, drawing, and toy from those five years in my yard. While the taste of disaster may be forever imprinted on my tongue, it serves a purpose. It is a reminder that even if that five-year recipe left the worst tasting product, it was still a part of me. Something that has shaped me into who I am. In the end all the disaster had created the "me" I love.