How I Overcame Anxiety

How I Overcame Anxiety

Anxiety is not an easy subject to discuss, and it is especially hard to explain to those who have not experienced it. We have all felt nervous over an interview, or a performance, or working up the courage to talk to someone you like, but diagnosed anxiety is a different creature. Mental illnesses are easily overlooked in the day-to-day. They are not as obvious as a broken arm, and sometimes it’s not noticeable at all. They can be quiet, they can persist, and they can be lonely. For how can you explain an ever-present unease, causing one to be afraid to even sit at the dinner table with their family? How do you explain that standing outside and feeling the gaping maw of space above your head is too overwhelming for you? How do you explain that idly listening to someone leaves too much time for poisonous thoughts, which forces you to excuse yourself and calm down, isolated from everyone else because you know they can’t help you? Indeed, isolation was perhaps the worst culprit for my continued anxiety in the early months of last year. When I had a panic attack on the Underground in London my first instinct was to get out. I needed to get out of that situation immediately, so I could compose myself and relax. Unfortunately, I was stuck in transit, and remained in a terrified state of mind for the next few minutes before I could leave at the next station. There was nobody there to help me in that moment.

For the next few months it got progressively worse. I stopped taking public transport almost entirely for fear of being trapped again. My sleeping pattern became erratic and I would rarely fall asleep without taking pills. I always kept a box of ibuprofen on me in case the headaches became too much, and I needed to dull them. The headaches persisted so much that I would take them regularly, that my senses could be dulled, and I could pretend I was healthy again. That habit was perhaps the most dangerous, and it wasn’t long after that that I decided this could not continue.

In my experience, mental health issues like anxiety can only be cured if the sufferer wants to be cured. At the end of the day, you are the only person who understands the specific of your illness, and only you can take the steps towards curing it. Nobody else can cure your anxiety for you. It was around three months after the incident on the tube. I was lying in bed, my heart and mind were racing as usual, and I was staring at the ceiling. It was coming up to 7pm on a Thursday night. I hated how terrified I was of everything, and how ridiculous I was being. I looked over the train tracks outside my window at a train pulling in. Suddenly, I had an idea. This had to stop. I couldn’t avoid planes, trains, and automobiles for the rest of my life, and how dare they make me so scared of them in the first place.

So, I decided. I was going to ride the Underground. It didn’t matter where, only that I was facing my fear, the source of my anxiety. The headache was constant and front-loaded, my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest, and adrenaline heightened my senses, but I wasn’t focused on any of them. ‘Fear is the mind-killer, and I am not afraid.’ I repeated this in my head for the entire trip. It drowned out the poisonous thoughts. I was playing loud, aggressive music on my phone, carrying me through on the momentum. About halfway through however, it became tiring. How can you stay angry at an inanimate object? You can’t spite a table; it’s just a table. Just so, I found my anger had no clear target, no direction. I changed the music to something gentler. The whole trip took about twenty minutes. Although I was by no means cured (and wouldn’t be healthy again for the next few months) it marked a noticeable change for me; I had taken the first step.

If you ever receive, as I did, an anxiety help book from your doctor, it will contain a plethora of activities and techniques to help you combat it. For me, it was challenging the negative thoughts and internalising that ‘fear is the mind-killer’ adage. Music, as ever, was a stalwart friend during this period, and I found comfort in the sentiments of several songs (I Believe by Christina Perri was written explicitly for sufferers of mental illness, and the lyrics provide an uplifting and optimistic message for its audience). For others, friends of mine who have suffered worse for longer, their answer is either undiscovered or the effort needed to overcome is too great. It is not easy to challenge yourself, to reject your own thoughts as falsities, because how can you? Your thoughts are who you are; if they were wrong then who is left to confide in?

Except they aren’t who you are. You are not a string of defeatist, intrusive hypotheses waiting to

be played out. You are only defined by your mental illness if you let it obstruct you. It can be difficult to convey via the written word, but you must get out of the way of yourself when you have anxiety. If you don’t then you become a shadow, as I nearly did. You stop attending social events because you know you’ll be far away from the safety of your bedroom. You stop sitting on the sofa because you get headaches. You avoid any kind of transport because what if? What if it happens again? It’s going to happen again. It’s happening again. Oh god it’s happening again.

Since then I am more or less myself again. When it does threaten to rear its head again, I’m able to separate myself from the negativity. Sometimes I have a dialogue in my head between the two, and by the time it’s finished I’m at my destination anyway. Fear wins if it remains unchallenged; and the individual is the sole agent of their own liberty from fear. Anxiety is something you cannot imagine what is like to experience, but when you have anxiety it can seem impossible to experience anything resembling normality again. You forget yourself after a while, how to be yourself. It cannot be solved overnight, and persistent challenging can be exhausting, but it must be done to stop it from taking over your life. It got easier, but I had to face my anxiety every day, until one day I didn’t have to face it at all.

#Experience #2018

Essays from the Crypt: England Football Team Biggest Disappointment Since my Son

('Essays From the Crypt' is an anthology of articles which, for one reason or another, never made it to print. Saved from the grave, they live once again! Originally written in 2016.)

Essays from the Crypt: England Football Team Biggest Disappointment Since my Son

After a poor performance in Euro 2016, the England football team has been demoted from ‘a bit shit’ to ‘actually terrible’. In a shock exit to Iceland, (population: several puffins) people are wondering how the home of the richest league in the world can produce such a poor national team.

‘Isn’t it obvious? The England team is paid so much money that they haven’t actually played football for years. Rooney doesn’t even have legs anymore. Years ago players in the English Premier League discovered that it was much easier for them to clone themselves than it was to actually play the games . Since they are legally the same person, they get paid for doing nothing at all. And it’s all my fault.’

This accusation comes from Sven Goran Eriksson, the former England manager, who has come out of the Swedish wilderness to reveal the secret experiments from his time at the helm. According to Eriksson, during the period of 2001-2006, himself and several high-ranking members of FIFA spearheaded an operation to isolate and reproduce the footballing genes of the best players of all time. Pele, Maradona, George Best, and Ronaldinho were just some of the players whose DNA was acquired for splicing. The project was later shelved as FIFA focused funding on more grounded forms of corruption, but the cloning techniques were refined to produce exact copies of players, for those who could afford it. Eriksson estimates that there could be anywhere between 200 and 500 clones currently in professional football.

Consequently the clones that have been playing in England’s international games have only had about seven months to practice before being thrust into the international spotlight. Many have barely had time to have an affair.

Whilst many are still sceptical of his confession, it’s as credible an excuse as any for why we're so shit.

#2016 #Satire #EssaysFromtheCrypt

The Penthiliad: Part 1

(For those who aren't aware, I'm pretty keen on history, Ancient Greece especially. A few years back I had a cool idea for a story: what If Artemis and Athene/Athena/Whatever competed over a guy? They're eternal maidens in mythology, and never really pair up with anyone, so I thought it'd be fun to write my own myth about that. I'd even try writing it in the Homeric style, and pretend it was the last great epic poem, a last roar from the Age of Heroes.

The idea did not get far. It was one of those 'oh yeah this'll be really cool for a few days before I run out of steam and forget about it' ideas. Still, I've decided to publish a bit of it here. Maybe I'll even write more of it in the future, who knows. Anyway, hope whoever's reading this likes epithets!)

[1] O Muse, grant me sufficient prowess of song that I may lay bare the Tragedy of Penthilus, beloved of many, and his fated demise at the hands of his immortal pursuers, jealous as they were that his affections should stray to a lesser lover!

[2] Penthilus, Son of Oinops, equal of Hermes in argument and speech, was respected and loved by the people of Ephesus, and wanted for nothing. So famous were his talents that King Thestor, descendant of Ephos, Queen of the Amazons, would often send for him when matters of state were discussed, and he would always convince opponents of his sounder judgement. For his services, Penthilus asked for nothing; he had land which to toil, a friend in every village, and enough wine to share with all. Nevertheless, King Thestor was so grateful for his sound council that he had promised his eldest daughter - herself very beautiful and beloved of her people – in marriage to him, and Penthilus was content. He became a hunting companion to the loud-roaring King, and together with his bodyguards they would outpace boars and break mighty lions afore the sun had set on the first day. The King, whose unquestionable prowess was witnessed by all, oft gifted the pelts to his companions instead, and his selflessness was rewarded with fierce loyalty. Upon their return, Penthilus would sing of their great victories; of their daring pursuits and dangerous ambushes. O, the songs of Penthilus! So sweet and loud you would sing that even the wind would pause to listen, if only for a time.

[3] Upward to Olympus his voice carried, until it reached the ears of the immortals. In these moments, none strained harder to hear than Artemis, the light-bringer, who took up the habit of sitting on the hill outside the city in the guise of a hart, to ponder the speeches that rivalled Hermes, the giant killer’s. Penthilus paid tribute to her temple before his master’s hunt, and when the King and his companions would set out, she would run alongside, out of sight but close enough to hear the panting horses, and quietly guide them to their desired prey. For this, Artemis the light-bringer would be given solemn libations, and after the King was drunk on wine the grateful Penthilus would slip away to place his pelts in her shrine and prostrate himself three times before her image, whereupon she would renew her favour for him.

[4] Others had grown jealous of his love for the light-bringer, none more so than Pallas Athene, goddess of the flashing eyes. On day, after another hunt, Penthilus was praying for the favour of Artemis, the mistress of animals, when Athena approached the hart on the hilltop, and as it transformed she began to speak:

[5] ‘O Artemis, she who soothes, again you are absent from Olympus. Your halls are empty, the oil is unlit, and the table is bare. Yet here you sit, as on so many nights, watching with kindly eyes the pious Penthilus give thanks for a glorious hunt. Were his aim as sharp as his tongue, the priests would throw out his pelts, so little room there would be left! If only he gripped his sword as well as his audience, he would not need your sly assistance to succeed in stalking his prey.’

[6] ‘O Athene, those whose eyes flash brighter than all others, you speak true. Penthilus is indeed a lesser hunter. Yet all save I would be considered lesser in the company of Thestor, the loud-roaring King, the Slayer of Serpents! Was it not he who left his crown behind as he tracked the great sea wyrm, the menace of Ephesus, across the sea to Skyros? There he found it sleeping atop the skeletons of beasts and men, and there too were the mighty bones of Theseus, that great-hearted hero of Athens, whose final resting place the creature had soiled with filth and poison. Though its bite was torturous and his wounds great, finally he slew the beast in its cave on top of ancient carcasses, and made a trophy of its hide. Even now, if you looked to his bedchamber, you would see it still, coiled around the bedposts like speckled ivy. Not even he, sweet sister, is fit to run with I, the mistress of the hunt, and only the nymphs follow me to the wilder places now. But Penthilus faces different battles. Beasts are cold and unthinking; like Thestor, their mortality consumes them. Their heart beats fastest when flirting with death. But Penthilus is of nobler being. His battles are fought across tables and maps, with tall Ethiopians and red-haired Thracians, with Egyptian merchants and Roman warriors, where his wits are sharper than any sword. So whilst it is true that on the hunt with loud-roaring Thestor, his arrows hit the lion second, and the spear arrives too late to the boar, he is always grateful to the gods. The King does not begrudge the son of Oinops, and neither do I: his dedications are more valuable for it. But indeed, I make no secret that Penthilus is a lesser hunter.’ So spoke Artemis, the light-bringer.

[7] Pallas Athene began again: ‘O far-shooting Artemis, hear me now! This mortal could be so much more if given proper tutelage! Have I not gifted virtue and strength to a great many mortals, many of whom would have perished unspeakable deaths without my supreme assistance, or whom would have returned as a foolish child does to its home, with bruised pride and a bloodied nose, for the father to turn them away until their honour is reclaimed? So you too have a champion, of sorts, yet you watch from a distance, remaining out of sight, but close enough to hear the panting horses, and quietly guide them to their desired prey. When mortals are smiled upon by the Gorgon-crested Athene, they prostrate themselves at my feet and thank me thricely. I watch over them for a time, guiding them openly, freeing them from deceitful powers, though their enemies are no strangers to my spurious machinations. But you, light-bringer, have done nothing for this devoted servant. You renew your favour when asked and grant no more than a few modest requests. I am saddened that you do not dedicate him to a greater purpose, for his fate is more malleable than most. Even Zeus, the guardian of the Fates, has stated this! The Thunderer has confided in me that Penthilus will be given a great task, one which will bring ruin to a great many peoples, one which his house will not endure. His gift of speech will fail him, and his tongue will be cut out before he dies at the hands of those he trusted most. His body will be denied a proper burial and torn apart by wolves, and his shade will wander eternally aside the river Styx, from whence he will watch all those he failed pass by to an untimely afterlife. Surely, daughter of Leto, you cannot desire this for your favourite? Only a god may move a mortal’s destiny. I do not desire this Fate for pitiable Penthilus. Attending a king does not befit his character. If you will not patronise him, I will guide him instead, as I have so many others, on his path, and bind his will to mine. I will be his guide, and reveal myself before the end, that he becomes intimate with awe and fear, whereupon he will finally surrender himself to my service. Penthilus will forget the Far-Shooter, in the end. You squander his potential by denying him greatness!’

[8] Artemis, the Queen of Beasts, said in reply to Pallas Athene: ‘Look! See Selene drive her chariot across the sky! The ground is bathed in moonbeams, and the midnight creatures run about us. Owls watch the fields for vermin, and mice scramble for precious grain. The guards are changing their posts in the city. See the helmets gleam in the lamplight? The soldiers in the tower complain of ruined bread. The captain hides a yawn. The world is asleep, yet they remain vigilant for the protection of others. Penthilus, as with any mortal, is blind to our godly machinations, and sleeps whilst we watch over the world. I do not wish to see my favourite ruined, for he is a pious and noble man. His offerings are always heaped high, so I have given him all the gifts he requested. I watch over his progress, and quietly guide him when needed. To fix a mortal to our will is a perilous path to take. How many of your champions drank sorrow with glory in one foul draught? For how many was the price of your patronage too high? Was Theseus grateful to Gorgon-crested Athene when, panicked after being roused from sleep, he neglected his sails to the ruin of Aegeus? Did Bellerophon, slayer of the Chimera, thank Pallas for the gift of Pegasus as he fell from Olympus, to be blinded by thorns and denied the haunts of men? Would Penthilus, too, be amongst those in Erebus indebted to the support of Athene, goddess of the flashing eyes? No, sister, I will not doom him to my service in this way. I am pleased enough that his sacrifices are heaped highest at my temple, and his visits are more frequent than any invocations he may make to you! Clearly, he has already decided to shun your sponsorship, though you may not yet realise it. I will not stand in your way, for to oppose you would be foolish. But know that he will see through your specious reasoning; he is the equal of Hermes in argument and speech. Penthilus is not so easy to influence.’

[9] Thus spoke Artemis, She who Soothes. Pallas Athene, contriver of plans and devices, returned to Olympus to find the fleet-footed giant-killer, that she could begin plotting her strategies to avoid certain ruin of the pitiful Penthilus.

#2018 #Greece #ProseandPoetry