One of the hardest parts of my experience with anxiety is the pounding heart.
Stupidly, I’ve only just made the connection between my inability to convince myself I’m not dying, and the fact that two of my ex-boyfriends had heart attacks very young, 18 and 20.
Seems kind of obvious, doesn’t it? I have proof that I could very easily be having a heart attack; a heart attack is, through the evidence I hold, a thing that could happen to me. So I panic when my heart rate rises, completely incapable of rational thought.
I can’t make myself breathe deeply. I can’t make myself think soothing thoughts. I can’t do a thing. The very feeling of being powerless over your own body is what causes the panic, like the blind instinct to try to breathe when you’re drowning. It will kill you, but you can’t fight it.
Whatever awful disease I later find is caused by Citalopram, it is freeing me to enjoy my waning youth. For that, I praise the evil pharmaceutical conglomerates. Even more, I bless the NHS. I would pay many monies for this incredible gift, and they let me have it for just £8 a month.
All this said, I have noticed a change recently that isn’t quite so welcome. The zinging, crystalline edge that zipped through me and propelled me to fight with a searing zeal – gone. Not dead, but not a crazy man’s drive anymore. It got me places, that edge. Like insomnia is to an author, the edge was part of my power. Now I just enjoy life instead. How blessedly dull.