The Truth About My Mental Health: Anxiety, Obsessive Traits, and a Panic Attack in an Airbnb

The truth is this: i have anxiety. i have panic attacks.

**But… that does not mean I am broken**.

Disclaimer: This post talks about mental illness, anxiety, and panic attacks. If you are triggered by this type of content, please feel free to skip this blog post.

I have anxiety disorder. It began when I was a child, but I wasn’t aware of my diagnosis until I was around twenty-four. It wasn’t until I was about twenty-five that I accepted my diagnosis, and two years after that, at twenty-seven and while living in California, I went to therapy.

It was long overdue.

I mentioned in my previous blog post that I had an anxiety attack while sitting in my Airbnb in Seattle and that I’d eventually elaborate on that experience, because it was a pivotal moment in my life. Considering I had quite the anxiety day this past Saturday, I figured I’d dive right on in and share about Seattle, along with what went down on Saturday, and what helped lift my anxiety.

The panic attack I had in a Seattle Airbnb

It was September 2018, and my ex-boyfriend and I were visiting Seattle to celebrate the wedding of two of our friends. It was our last full day in town, and we were planning to explore the area before heading to the airport later that evening. We woke up relatively early, had coffee and lounged for awhile discussing our plans, and then I hopped into the shower to get ready for the day.

While I was in the shower, my ex decided he’d go for a quick run, but he didn’t tell me. When I walked out of the bathroom and realized he wasn’t there, I felt confused. I wondered if he stepped out to pick up some breakfast or surprise me with coffee, because he did that from time to time. So, I texted him.

Hey. Where’d you go?

A few minutes passed, and I hadn’t heard from him. I continued getting ready for the day and started drying my hair. Every couple minutes, I’d check my phone to see if he had written back. No response.

Is everything okay? Where are you?

Minutes passed after I sent the second text, and I still hadn’t heard back, so I began to freak out a little. Jumping to conclusions and automatically assuming someone is dead is irrational, yes, but not for a person with anxiety. For a person with anxiety, or at least for me, it’s perfectly normal to assume everyone you have ever loved is dead when they don’t answer your phone call or respond to your text within minutes.

I could feel myself getting slightly worked up. Each minute that passed felt like an hour. It didn’t help that I was alone in an unfamiliar place.

When I heard the door open, I ran out of the bathroom and found my ex standing in the doorway covered in sweat and pulling his headphones out of his ears. He looked at me and flicked his eyebrows up and down, which, to him, was a way of saying hello, I learned over the years.

“Where’d you go?” I asked. “Out on a run?”
“Yep.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were in the shower.”

The next several minutes consisted of me explaining why it would have been nice to know where he went and him explaining that he wasn’t gone that long and didn’t see why it was a big deal. Before long, we were in a full-on argument about this situation, which made me panic even more, because, despite my emotions feeling valid to me, I was aware that, to others, they can seem extreme. And a lot of the times with my ex, they did seem quite extreme.

On top of having anxiety, I also have a tendency to feel guilt for nearly everything that happens in my life, particularly when it comes to confrontation. So, in that moment in the Airbnb, not only was I feeling anxious, worried, and upset, but I was also feeling guilty for having to chat through my emotions. My ex was becoming increasingly more frustrated that his day had been ruined, and I placed the blame on me and felt responsible. I understood his frustration though. I understood it, but I couldn’t help it. And, sometimes, that’s mental illness for ya. Understanding, but not quite being able to change it.

So, you ride it out.

I took a seat at the kitchen table and just started sobbing. It was unreal. My ex was standing by the kitchen sink, and he was just staring at me unsure of what to do. I can still see the entire Airbnb in my mind. It had black leather furniture and exposed brick. The kitchen was painted red. I remember seeing footsteps of people walking by the kitchen window, because we were in a basement-style apartment, and I remember thinking how weird it was to be living underground. Because of this, there wasn’t much natural light. It was a little warm. Humid. It started raining outside.

I was trying to explain the war that was going on in my brain to him, but I had trouble getting the words out, because I wasn’t quite sure what was happening in there either. Any time I’d cry in front of my ex, I’d feel self-conscious because of the way he’d look at me. His eyes would widen, and his face would go white. He absolutely could not handle it. He lacked grace and empathy, I think, and I don’t necessarily fault him for it. He wasn’t raised discussing feelings, so he had never really learned how to recognize them.

On the other hand, as adults, it’s our job to recognize areas in our life that need work and do our best to improve, not just for ourselves, but for those within our circle. So, while I understand why he was unable to connect emotionally, I don’t accept it. But I tried.

When my anxiety becomes too overwhelming, I fidget. I began biting my nails when I was a child, but quickly kicked that habit due to a fear of contracting parasites from germs that were under my nails (I watched a lot of Mystery Diagnosis as a child). I then began to pick at the skin around my fingers, and I still do it to this day. Though it’s gotten exponentially better due to obtaining more appropriate coping mechanisms for me, it still comes out from time to time during moments of high stress. Anytime my ex would see me pick, he’d tap my hand or push it aside, which was something I asked him to do.

This day in Seattle surpassed anxious finger-picking. It wasn’t enough. Within minutes of our confrontation, my panic had climbed so high, I wasn’t sure how or if I’d come down. The feeling you get in your stomach when you’re climbing the rollercoaster, I felt that. Then it tipped over to the feeling you get right before you fall, and it stayed there for too long. I felt so out of control of my body that I didn’t realize I was pulling at my hair and pinching the skin at the base of my neck until he stepped in to swat at my hand. But, it’d shoot back up, and the pulling and pinching would continue. I couldn’t even feel it until later. This went on for awhile. He looked terrified. I felt terrified.

I don’t remember how I calmed down that day, or when the panic attack ended, but all I remember is feeling tired. I could have slept for a year after that day. We walked around Seattle and had breakfast at Pike Place Market, and pretended like nothing happened. Here is a picture from that day. He insisted on taking this picture. Said I’d need it for my blog. He was right.

We caught our flight back to California later that day and didn’t really talk about what happened. Three months later, we broke up.

Since my relationship ended and I moved back home to New Orleans, my anxiety has been under control. On occasion, I’ll find myself spinning out, but I’m usually back on track pretty quickly.

This past weekend, however, was rough. As soon as my eyes opened on Saturday morning, I knew I would struggle that day. Anxiety, for me, is like a pair of glasses. Sometimes, on a good day, you can see clearly, and other times, no matter how hard you clean the lenses, they’re dirty and streaky and hard to see through.

A couple of hours after waking up, I couldn’t seem to shake the anxious feelings. They just got worse and worse. My brain was on overdrive, and I felt like a hamster running on a wheel.

My friend Liz texted me to see what time I wanted to record (we had plans to record our first podcast episode that day), and I immediately began to cry, because my brain was telling me it was too much. I knew I had a choice here — I could either lie and tell her I was excited and ready, or I could be honest and let her know that I was spiraling.

Liz is gracious. She is also no stranger to mental health. She told me to take the space I needed that day, and that we could record another day. Immediately, feelings of guilt washed over me as I considered bailing. I knew that with one quick text, I’d have an out, and I could hide away on that beautiful Saturday and spend it under the covers in my bed watching The Hills: New Beginnings (Justin Bobby, you’re killin’ me!).

And I almost did it.

Something within me told me to get dressed and get in the car. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps it was my gut telling me I was about to miss out. So I did. I got dressed, and I got into the car.

And it physically hurt every inch of me.

From fixing my hair, to putting on a bit of makeup, to picking out an outfit, my body ached through it all, and my mind hurt even more. But, I did it. I walked down the stairs, and I grabbed my keys, and I left my house.

I wore the brightest shirt in my closet, and I wore my favorite shoes.

And I drove to the studio.

Liz told me that we could record that day under one condition — that I be open and honest about my anxiety and struggles with mental health. I didn’t like this idea at first, but then I remembered how far I’ve come with being open and honest about my mental health journey, so why stop now?

We recorded our first episode. And in the episode, we talked about anxiety. My anxiety. And I shared my story and told my truth about the day. And, slowly, but surely, I began to get my power back.

But I couldn’t have done it without her grace, and my favorite shoes, both of which got me out of the door.

The truth about my mental health is this: I have anxiety. And I have panic attacks. And I have obsessive traits, which explains the obsessive thoughts of people dying if they don’t respond to my text message, picking at the skin on my fingers, checking several times to make sure I’ve blown out the candles, even if I’ve never lit them. You get it.

But that does not mean I am broken.

It just means I have a little more to carry around than most people, and, luckily, I’m strong as hell.

And so are you.

Strength comes from experience. Strength comes from low moments. Strength comes from sitting across from someone and wanting so badly for them to see you and feel what you’re going through, and strength comes from finally meeting someone who does. It comes from grace that’s both received and given, and it comes from remembering that none of this is your fault.

Since opening up about my anxiety, and potential obsessive characteristics, I’ve felt more accepted than ever, because there’s also strength in numbers, and when you’re open about who you are, you’ll meet people who are just like you.

You’re not alone. Even when you feel like it. There’s light out there, even when it’s dark in there. For every one person who looks at you sideways, there are ten people waiting to hug you and say, “I get it.”

So, take the space you need today.

If that means curling up in your bed, then fine. But if it means pulling out a hot pink shirt, lacing up your Converse, and stepping outside to face the world, even better.

Either way, you’ll feel your power come back. The best part is that it never even left you in the first place.

(And I would know, because I check to make sure it’s there seventeen times a day because obsessive.)