Terrified

August 28, 2018

I'm having these moments lately where I'm fine. I'm completely okay and everything is normal. No problems, life as usual. And then it isn't. And I'm not. I'm not okay. It's sudden and I don't expect it and I certainly can't control it. I'll be reading a book or watching a movie or working at my desk when, like a flash, my chest feels too tight. My breath feels too shallow. I'm shaking and my mind freezes. Tears start to fall and when I begin to blink them back, my mind speeds through thoughts of my tumor and how I might die. And it's miserable.

It's happening more and more. I can't always function when it occurs. I feel so helpless and I don't know what to do.

I thought I just needed to learn coping skills. Better coping skills, I mean. Maybe I'm not equipped to handle this kind of news, and the emotional weight it carries. I don't feel like I can share it with anyone I care about. My parents have their own worry and fear over this diagnosis without adding mine. Same with my siblings, my friends.

All I can think is that maybe I need help. Help from someone who could broaden my reserve of coping skills and external resources. I’m a social worker, I should know better.

It took me a while, but I eventually contacted a counselor and set up an appointment.

But as my appointment grows closer and closer I get more and more anxious. I can't quite calm down. I can't quite focus. It’s the night before the 9:00am appointment and I'm pacing in the small free space of my room. Back and forth, my mind running faster than my feet. As I frustrate myself with my nervous energy and as the 100-year-old wooden floors yell at me with their creaking, I am still endlessly avoiding the thoughts I don't want to think. But as they force their way to the surface, I turn for the last time and finally break.

I’m going to see a counselor to learn how to cope. But I'm terrified that I'm already coping. That I'm already doing everything well. I'm not engaging in destructive behavior or self-harming choices. I'm eating well, exercising regularly, journaling extensively, sleeping soundly, hydrating daily, and hanging out with friends. No matter how many times I search online, I can't find new coping techniques or different answers.

I'm going to see a counselor to cope, but I'm terrified that I'm already coping. That coping can only get me so far. And I'll still be left with the pain. Living endlessly in these moments of crippling fear and sorrow.

I don’t want to feel. I don’t even want to feel happy if that would mean I wouldn’t feel this pain.

The acknowledgment of this fear places an exhaustion over me that cannot be escaped except through rest, and as I go to sleep, I know I cannot control what the morning's answer will bring. Though exhausted, I am still terrified.

As I close my eyes, I can feel the waves of reality and pain lapping behind the wall inside my mind.

I'm standing on a beach, maybe ten feet in front of this wall I've built without realizing it. It's tall and concrete and probably three feet thick. There's sand on one side and waves on the other, and while I can hear them, I can't see the ocean. All I can see is this light gray of concrete; it stretches in both directions for miles and miles. I suppose it makes sense as I hate the beach and I hate pain.

One day, the wall is going to break and the protection it offers will dissolve into salt and sea. I don't want to be standing this close when it does. I want to run away. My instinct is to run away. I can see fissures in the wall beginning to form from the repetition of the powerful, determined waves. Now I've got a choice to make.

As the wall breaks and the waves come, I could turn on my heels, and run farther up the coast, trying to outpace the waves before they knock me out and beat me against the shore. I could try and make it up the steep and rocky shoreline. I could do it, I could run.

Or.

I can square my shoulders to the wall, watch the white caps jump across the top, and plant my feet where they are. Distribute my weight and stand, tall and firm. As the final wave hits the weakened wall and the pieces of concrete rain down with wind and waves, I won't brace for it. I won't tense as I wait for the freezing, living water to hit me. For the waves to finally crash. I won't brace for the pain. I'll be firm and still so the waves won't knock me down. It will be shocking, but I won't be tossed against the waves or battered against the shore. I'll be drenched and shaking. But I'll still be standing, and I'll be looking out into the sea, calm and quiet.

And later, when the waves begin to toss once more, I'll be able to see them coming. Then I can decide to jump the waves as they come or let them crash over me, cleansing once again.

With that, it’s time to go to sleep. I’ve got a counseling appointment in the morning.

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