It’s waiting for me when I wake up. Like a school bully, lurking in the corridor, ready to pounce. I can sense it before I even open my eyes, its tight fists tying up my stomach in knots and heavy boots pressing down on my chest.
It’s been a while since it last paid me a visit. I was at home, in bed, next to Ethan. He was sleeping soundly, but I’d never been more wide awake. California was in the grip of a heatwave, and despite a fan, the room was hot and claustrophobic. I lay naked in the darkness listening to him breathing. Trying, but failing, to find comfort in its steady rhythm. It was a year ago today. I remember, as it was the day we’d been to the hospital.
That time it beat me up pretty badly, leaving me feeling bruised and battered for weeks. I didn’t tell anyone, least of all Ethan. It was hard to describe my attacker when I didn’t know what it was. Worse, I felt ashamed I couldn’t fight it off. I blamed myself for being weak and pathetic. It was all my fault.
Some people might name this bully Anxiety or Depression. Others label it a Panic Attack. While many describe it as the famous Black Dog that you can’t chase away. But I simply call it The Fear. A nameless terror that scares the living daylights out of me. Because it’s not like feeling a bit down because you’re broke, or fed up because it’s March and still constant grey skies.
The Fear paralyses you. It grips you by the throat so you can’t breathe and makes your heart thump loud and fast in your ears. It makes you feel like you’re going to die and part of you wants to. That’s why it’s so horrible. Because after it’s finished beating you up, you beat yourself up even more. It’s your dirty little secret and I’ve kept mine for years.
I was a fresher at university when I first met The Fear. I remember being on a high, excited about leaving home for the first time, so it came as a shock to find a terrifying monster waiting for me when I arrived. Lurking in the shadows after lectures. Preparing to pounce late at night in the halls of residence.
I was too scared to tell my parents. I didn’t want to worry them or admit what was happening. Instead I tried to ignore it, and after a while it must have got bored and gone to pick on some other poor soul. I didn’t see it again until years afterwards, when it paid me a surprise visit at work and I tried to hide from it in the ladies’, crying. Now, most of the time it leaves me alone.
Until today.
I lie here for a few moments, willing it to go away. I’d hoped that by moving back to London I could leave it behind, with no forwarding address. But now it’s found me and it’s not giving up without a fight. But neither am I. Summoning my courage, I throw back my duvet. Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that you must never give in to a bully. And The Fear is the very worst kind.
I’m grateful for: