Sometimes it comes from a conversation, sometimes I’m lying in bed trying–and typically failing–to fall asleep, but it’s always a single thought. It creeps in gently, or appears suddenly, or comes at the end of a long stream of logical derivatives, but it always knocks the wind out of me.
Breathing is the next problem.
There’s a pain in my chest, in my lungs, as they scream for oxygen. My eyes start to water, and my heart begins to pound. Soon my face has become a mess of tears and snot, and I’m gasping for air and sobbing all at once.
It’s all too often that I’m in the throes of an anxiety attack.
Everyday life often feels like I’m walking on a cliff’s edge, or a tightrope. There’s a constant balancing act that comes with the paranoia of knowing that anything could trigger a humiliating betrayal from my own body. The fear is exhausting.
I’m terrified of people looking at me, of seeing me, but I’m also terrified of loneliness. I’m afraid of being too loud but also of fading into the background. Most of all, I’m so scared of not doing things well enough that I often leave them undone.
The entire experience is paralyzing.
A large part of me knows that this is from my background in gymnastics. The experience of being constantly corrected makes me highly receptive to criticism, but that’s not always a positive thing. A large part of me still suffers from growing up in an environment where my closest teammates are also my greatest competitors. Furthermore, I definitely internalized the phrase “only perfect practice makes perfect,” a bit too much.
Learning to move forward, to do things and meet people despite my constant underlying fears, is a challenge, but one I have to undertake daily. Most of the time, it’s worth it.
Most people are far too busy worrying about themselves to waste time judging me. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself.
As for my perfectionism, I like to occasionally do things imperfectly on purpose, and I try not to hide the things I do accidentally as much. I’m learning to let visitors eat slightly misshapen (or even burnt) cookies, and instead of rewriting smudged letters entirely I still send them in the mail. I’ve stopped throwing out old sketches and started to try and appreciate them.
Instead of doing things correctly, doing them perfectly, my goal has become consistent and finishing these things out.
That’s not to say changing my entire pattern of thought is easy, or that I can do it without help. Having supportive friends and family, therapy, and medication have all been essential to me. Learning to communicate before I’m in crisis mode is the key to ensuring that I have the necessary support system, but even then, I often fail to do so. It’s a skill I’m still working to develop.
The biggest realization I’ve had to make, the one I still struggle with, is knowing that even if people are, in fact, talking about me, that their words don’t really matter. Their opinions and gossip can change others’ perceptions of me, but not the person I truly am, or the person I’m becoming.
All things considered, I’m starting to like that person.
