Escaping Escapes: How to Cope With Anxiety When You'd Rather Watch Bad TV

Today one of my students asked me what my biggest fear is. My first thought was, can I only choose one? I mean, there's always been so many fears. From snakes (I just don't like the idea of something moving around without limbs), to outdoor games like Tag and Dodge ball and Red Rover (I mean, don’t people know these games hurt?) to dying a slow and painful death, I have always had a shitload of fears. Here was my response to her.

“In this moment, right now, my biggest fear is failure. In public. Public failure. “

I then went on to say something that I never expected would come out of my mouth.

“I’m a perfectionist. I want to do everything perfectly…without making any mistakes. I know that’s not logical. I know that no one is perfect and that’s just part of being a growing human being but I don’t want to put anything out there to the world that isn’t as close to perfect as possible.

Wow, where did that come from? It’s amazing how, at 43, you can have these epiphanies about yourself.  And I just had one out loud…in front of a dozen 18 year olds. Yikes!

One side of me thought, should I be admitting this? I mean, I’m supposed to be somewhat of a role model for these teenagers. But the other side of me, the side who has the inability to hold back no matter whom I’m speaking to thought, well, this is authentically where I am right now. It’s what’s been taking away my sleep and my health and my ability to think clearly. It’s why it feels like there are large and mean-spirited hawks swirling inside my intestines. It’s why my temples feel like they have thick and sharp nails stuck in them. It’s why my right shoulder blade is preventing me from turning around all the way. It’s why my stomach hurts from inhaling entire bags of pumpkin spiced pumpkin seeds from Trader Joes. It’s why I'm watching entire seasons of Real Housewives New Jersey in one night. It’s why I'm trying to escape my fear with any chance I get.

I’m an anxious person. I emerged from my mother after 27 hours of labor, probably because I didn’t want to come out. It was comfortable and warm and safe in there. I was being fed and taken care of.  Which is I think what I’m trying to recreate every night after I get home from work. A womb in the corner of our worn leather couch fully stocked with food, water, and my new favorite oversized sweater that I spent way too much on from Free People. And even with my precious Zoloft, my lifesaver for 21 years, I still have to drag myself through life and cope with a brain that doesn’t stop worrying.

Let’s back up for a second. I have a job. An amazing job that I can’t believe I actually have. I run the community service department at a private school. I teach adolescents that helping others can actually help themselves. I am a cheerleader, constantly trying to shatter the idea that community service is a punishment. And it’s hard. Excruciatingly hard to excite these students, most of who would rather be playing games on their phones. And now I’m in charge of this day. This huge day. Our first ever Day of Service. A day when students can learn about important issues that shouldn’t be happening in a perfect world. So this is very public and very frightening. What if it’s a disaster? What if the students hate the workshops and think back on the day as a huge waste of time? What if the presenters and guest speakers have a terrible experience? What if there’s not enough parking? What if people don’t like their food? What if a bus breaks down and students are stuck on the 10 freeway for 5 hours? What if everyone is disappointed? What if I get fired and have to live in a cave for the rest of my life because the event was a huge fucking failure? What if? What if? These “what ifs” are triggering the worst jaw clenching I’ve ever experienced.

I do talk to a therapist once a month, in case you were wondering, but she has this tendency to yawn and nod off throughout our session so I kind of feel like I’m just complaining to myself. I mean, I do that at home. I don’t need to actually drive to her office through the worst Westside traffic ever to talk in circles. 

So, I have this picture of myself and a friend sitting on my desk at home.  It’s one of those photos they take of you when you’re riding a roller coaster. And, although I look absolutely ridiculous and completely unattractive, I can see in that moment that I was free. I was genuinely happy. I didn’t give a fuck about anything. And maybe that’s what I need right now. A good old-fashioned trip to Magic Mountain.  On a day when very few people are there and those assholes with Fast Passes won’t get in my way. Because that look on my face is pure joy. And I desperately need to scream and laugh my ass off for just one day.  I desperately need that look. That may be the best therapy ever.  A roller coaster will never fall asleep on you.