I hate it when anxiety freezes my mind.
It’s as though my brain transforms from a functioning—sometimes even joyful—organ into a block of concrete: frozen, immobilized, locked in a hyper-defensive posture, preparing for an attack that may never come.
Sometimes the shift from normal brain to brick brain happens in an instant.
Other times it arrives slowly, which may be even worse.
Imagine feeling your body harden from the front of your head toward the back, then down the base of your spine. At first, I know exactly what’s happening. And with that recognition comes dread, because I know what’s likely coming next.
My throat tightens until speaking becomes physically difficult.
It feels as though I’m crying, except the tears never come. Instead, they seem to burn somewhere behind my eyes.
Then every nerve from my shoulders upward feels frayed, as though every sound, every touch, every thought is rubbing against an exposed wire.
It is a strange, terrifying, and profoundly lonely place to be.
Oddly enough, writing helps.
Putting words to the experience creates just enough distance that part of me can step outside the panic and observe it instead of drowning in it. I imagine that part of myself climbing onto a small raft and slowly floating away from everything else my body is feeling.
As I write these words, that’s exactly what’s happening.
Strange therapy, perhaps.
But it works.
Forgive me for sharing all of this. Sometimes I worry that I’m oversharing. Then I remind myself that the brief discomfort of reading about anxiety can’t compare to living through it.
Besides, you chose to keep reading.
So I’ll keep writing.
Maybe it helps to describe what different levels of anxiety feel like for me.
Imagine a scale from 1 to 10.
A 1 is a really good day. Calm. Relaxed. Happy.
A 6 is where I begin noticing that anxiety is affecting my judgment. I’m stressed enough that my thinking isn’t quite as clear as it should be.
About fifteen minutes ago, I was at a 7.
A 7 means, Michael, take a little extra medication. If you don’t get ahead of this, the rest of your day is going to unravel. That happens at least once a week, sometimes twice.
Usually there’s an obvious source of stress. Today, there wasn’t. That’s one of the cruelest parts of anxiety. Sometimes your body sounds the alarm but you mind can’t discern why.
Last week I wrote about what an 8 feels like.
An 8 says, Get away from everyone. You’re about to make a fool of yourself. You can’t help anyone right now. Just leave.
Thankfully, 8s aren’t an everyday occurrence, but they’re not rare either.
9s are mercifully uncommon and have almost always happened at home with my wife, Rebecca.
Those are the mornings when my body seems to declare a full-scale emergency. Along with everything else, I begin sweating so heavily that my shirt sticks to me. The waistband of my pants becomes damp. Sometimes I have to change clothes before I can leave for work.
Brick brain. Frayed nerves. Clothes clinging to my skin. Everything about it feels overwhelming.
Thankfully, I haven’t experienced a 10 in a very long time.
I don’t want to write about those.
Some places are worth leaving behind until they absolutely demand another visit.
Here’s hoping they never do.
