The pool began to feel comfortable again. Though the day was overcast, the heat hung in the air like a kitchen with the oven open. It was heavy, the humidity was. The first drop came. Right to the corner of a book that already beared crinkled pages from years of codependency. The second drop came, and the third came quicker. The air changed in an instant. As the rain began to pour, the cold soaked straight to the bone. Dad always said it's warmer in the water than it is in the rain, so I went in without hesitation. Straight to the bottom, but in sweet time. An immense pressure came to rest in my chest as my feet touched the cold cement and followed as I paddled back to the surface of the water. Cold air, cold rain, back into the water. Underwater by accident, without intent. The sky got darker the second time I went under, and by the third time I reached for the surface, there was no air left in my chest. The light on the side of the pool shone and I reached for it just in time for the lights to go out with a strike of lightning. The steps out of the pool still haven't been renovated, leaving broken cement for us to swim with and no way to get out of the pool except dragging ourselves over the side of the pool, feigning chest-deep waters. The pressure on my chest while ascending is almost worth the second I have above water, but the swallowing of old pool water on the way back down just to have to muster the courage to jump again is painfully cyclical, fearing no escape, but just a second of release. Eventually, I make it to the pool chair. Eventually, my book is in my hands again. Eventually, my fear of the pool has returned.
Water has been referenced time and time again as an adjective when it comes to writing about anxiety and depression, but while trying to express this visual I realized that depression has no clear verbiage. It is different for everyone, it comes to people in different ways, and it has yet to be adequately described. Suffering is too flippant. Miserable, crippling, and devastating seem too drastic. Unfortunately, there seems to be no way to narrate it in order for non-carriers, we'll say, to understand just how overwhelming a lack of stable mental health can be.
I've known I've had anxiety essentially my entire life, with no defiant descriptors to prove such a thought to me. It was only through my own digging that I came to understand why I felt like I had static in my chest all the time. That was in high school. No public anxiety attack was enough for anyone to ask questions. It wasn't until the November before I turned 25 that an actual diagnosis was contemplated, 10 years after my massive realization that something was wrong. Kids that age tend to do and say whatever makes them sound culturally aware of their surroundings, and I suppose that's where my lack of conversation starters came from. Like I do with everything in my life, I assumed I was overreacting. My anxiety attack sitting outside of yearbook was overreacting. My inability to go to after school functions without making excuses to get out of them was overreacting. My incessant acts of people-pleasing was overreacting. My repeated memory of crying when a friend spent the night was overreacting. I cried and cried and cried and when my grandmother asked what was wrong, all I could muster was that I "just didn't want her to spend the night anymore."
Like most of the world, I expected COVID to be earth-shattering, to some degree. And to several families, it absolutely was. My scare didn't truly come until December when we found out my grandfather, also toting around COPD in his lungs, had contracted Coronavirus himself. I started planning, preparing, expecting the phone call at work. I called him on Monday night and wanted to talk for a minute to check on him. He rushed me off the phone and said "my phone is dying, I'll call you Wednesday when I get home." I hadn't considered another alternative. And I suppose in that aspect, the random burst of hope I had unearthed, was what helped me keep a somewhat positive and productive attitude. My grandfather, a non-mask wearer, a regular oxygen tank user, diagnosed with COPD and a smorgasbord of other health issues he refuses to tell his family about, went home after contracting COVID-19, and that's where I realized my blessings counter needed to start ticking. In speaking with him and stating "I have a bone to pick with you!" because I was never returned a phone call, he's come to understand that he is now using less oxygen post-COVID than he was pre-COVID. His inhaler isn't as frequently used, his oxygen levels physically feel like they're improving, and he has stated that he hasn't felt this good in a long time. It's hard for me to respect when something wonderful comes my way because there always feels like there has to be a catch, but this one? This one feels unconditional.
In lockdown, I began my resolution to become more personally spiritual. Not necessarily spiritual in a traditional religious type of way, against my late grandmother's wishes I'm sure, but spiritual nonetheless. My journey inward started and did well for me in the unadulterated time I was able to have with myself. I didn't have to worry about work, I didn't have to worry about finding a new job suddenly, I wasn't let go from my job, I was given the opportunity to practice what it means to keep yourself safe and happy, and that's a time that now, 8 months later, seems so far out of reach it might as well have taken place in the Milky Way itself. For once, my daily anxiety about something/everything/nothing was at bay and the only thing frustrating me was that I hadn't finished reading a specific book before my next therapy session so I could go over the notes I took. I truly felt at peace and like I was starting to figure myself out. As I went back to work I made sure to incorporate my new learnings into my daily practice, but eventually began watching as my practice once again became rubble, the walls I had built being chipped away by the very things that landed me in such an uncomfortable place initially.
Since September, my practices have slowly ceased. The physical and mental muscle I built in the spring has now turned back to nearly nothing, I focus way too much on clock time instead of psychological time (although I still tend to respond to most things with 'time is just an illusion'), and my journey inward has now stopped somewhere between novice and an absolute shell of a human being. And fearfully, I can feel it. I have a tendency to go into autopilot at the time of year where I'm most presently needed. I could feel the descent to the bottom of the pool. Sinking, sinking, kicking off, sinking, sinking, and so forth. A certain afternoon in November, my body shut down. Though I experienced a lot of COVID symptoms, I came to understand that most of what happened was stress-related, and something I hadn't really experienced before, not to that degree. One night a four-ish years ago I had a large cyst burst on my ovary and my body went into shock. Freezing then overheating in seconds, dehydrated, a bladder infection, puking up anything I put into my system, taking constant baths because heat was the only solution and I couldn't stand up to take a shower, and a day later and still in pain, I went to work to do a late-night inventory because that's the end of the bargain I promised. The scariest night of my life. One afternoon in 2019 I was on my way to work and my right side chest began to hurt so badly I thought I was having a heart attack. For those of you that don't know anatomy, especially when you panic, your heart isn't on your right side. I had my first MASSIVE panic attack on my way to work for my first long shift after Christmas and still went to work. I vividly remember resetting our gift wrap and scheduling a doctor's appointment at the same time. I missed my best friend's birthday weekend because I couldn't move without having the wind knocked out of me. Second scariest. A few weeks ago I had gone to the chiropractor and had come home not feeling well. Ran some errands, came home, and was bedridden the rest of the night. I had full-body chills, I couldn't eat or drink anything, I spiked a fever of 100.8 at its highest, had chest pains to compliment it all, and was completely exhausted. Woke up feeling hungover and went to work the next day. Added to the list and aware of the pattern.
My worth has become based on my ability to work. I understand the fault in this and intend to expand more on this in another post. What I have also come to understand is how often I involuntarily allow what I experience mentally to define who I am capable of being or what exactly I am capable of doing. What I spend my time doing should not be physically breaking down my body. Or mentally breaking down my self-esteem and emotions. What I spend my time doing should teach me lessons, but should also allow room for progress and flourishing growth. My anxiety and depression very closely co-exist with my attempt at earning a livelihood and this year is absolutely no different, and seemingly more amplified. Rightfully so. As I wrestle time and time again with what the Christmas season means to me, I'm simultaneously contributing to the capitalist side of the season, selling people things that allow their Christmas traditions to continue, but shelving my own. I've spoken about this before and the bad taste in my mouth is still there, after all these years. There are very few things I miss about being a kid, especially because my worry was so heavy for so many years, but feeling genuine glee and excitement for Christmastime is one of those irreplaceable things.
Experiencing clouded thinking at this time of year tends to change a lot about the season for a lot of people. For reasons unbeknownst to the rest of us, most of us as a society have our own wrestling with what it is that could be making this season so dreadful. Some of us still hold onto the hope we'll come out the other side in time to water the Christmas Tree.
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