At the Heart of My Anxiety: A Fear of Breathing
Good day, fellow humans.
Are there any of you out there with a lived experience of “anxiety”? Today, I gained some insight into the nature of my little anxiety friend. It feels important to share it with you.
In case you don’t have time to read the full post, here are the main takeaways:
My experience of anxiety is a sharp pain in my heart. It becomes disruptive when it lingers for an extended period of time without explanation.
Since I first experienced this pain when I was 17 years old, it has become inextricably linked with my breath. I have noticed that a new breath brings a new wave of the pain. Because I am a human and fear pain, I have learned to be afraid of breathing in times when I am “anxious.” It is almost impossible to ease the pain with usual wellness practices, because as long as I breathe, I feel the fear of breathing.
I have found that the only reliable way of easing the pain once it has begun to linger is to give it space and attention, feel it fully, and cry. It has to get worse before it can get better.
Over the past few days, I have been feeling a consistent pain in my heart. Sometimes, I refer to this pain as anxiety. More recently, I have learned to say “my nervous system is really active right now.” For the sake of this post, I will call the pain in my heart what it is: pain.
The pain in my heart is a familiar feeling to me at this point in my life - it has been showing up on and off since I was 17 years old. I am now 28. The reasons for the pain’s appearance are different every time and sometimes difficult to identify. It becomes disruptive when it lingers and begins to consume my attention. What I have found matters most in these instances of lingering pain is not pinpointing the initial trigger, but giving space to the feeling and helping it flow to its natural end.
The intensity of the pain ebbs and flows with my breath. It seems I feel it most when I am just about to exhale or just about to inhale, as though I am afraid of what each exhale and inhale might bring. I have noticed that the feeling often grows when I consider spending time with other people, before I check my phone for unanswered messages, when I am about to decide how to spend a large chunk of my time…. more generally, the pain surges whenever I encounter anything I am afraid “I won’t be able to handle.” I have also noticed that the pain is very reactive, for example, it becomes suddenly sharp whenever I hear a loud noise. A hug or a joyful distraction can ease the pain for a moment, but it generally comes back as soon as I return my attention to it. I have noticed that sometimes the pain actually intensifies when I distract myself. This is one of the reasons why I no longer read books or much of anything. One of the most important observations I have made is that the pain reliably and indefinitely eases when I make space in my day to FEEL it, understand it as an expression of fear and sadness, and have a good cry.
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Today is Saturday, a beautiful early Spring day. Saturdays are my running days. When I am feeling pain in my heart, I like to strike a balance between “being easy on myself” and also “pushing myself” to do the things I know support my wellness. Though I initially experienced some resistance to the idea, taking a step outside reminded me that running down to the river would in fact be a perfect way to be easy on myself while supporting my wellness. Knowing my mom was just about to go for a run in Verona, Ontario, helped to boost my motivation as well. It brought me joy to think that we would be running together.
As I was running, I noticed thoughts moving quickly by. Normally, I would attempt to bring my attention away from the thoughts by noticing the world around me, but today I found comfort in observing what thoughts were in there. “Aha! These are the thoughts that have been tied to my anxiety,” I thought to myself. “It feels good to give them some space to flow.” So I let them flow.
I had left home knowing I needed to have a good cry. I am very grateful for all the experiences that I have taught me this: “When the pain gets intense, you need to cry.” Please remember this, dear reader. It’s the only way through, the only way to give your tender heart a break.
I arrived at the point along the Humber River where I normally take a break to pray and connect with the Water. I took the little bundle of prayer tobacco wrapped in toilet paper out of my back pocket and held it up to my heart. Many thoughts were still whirring past. I was planning how I would respond to messages I had received from a couple of fierce women in my life, noticing that responding to them was something I truly wanted to do. My mind moved to the topic of slowing down. COVID-19 has forced many of us to slow down. I thought of how difficult it can be to make big changes in our lives and that, without COVID, most of us would not have slowed down in the ways that we’ve been forced to. What a blessing to Mother Earth COVID has been. The question that remained in my mind was: “How will we support people in maintaining this slower pace of life when COVID is no longer a threat?”
Noticing that I had let myself linger long enough on that topic, I brought my attention back to the Water and my need for a good cry. Through the process of running, the pain in my heart had subsided, but it was still there and I knew it would be helpful to take some time to be with it. Still holding the bundle of tobacco near my heart, I began to speak. I vaguely remember telling the River that I needed to cry. I remember closing my eyes and feeling into the pain. Recognizing that the pain in my heart was related to fear, I prompted myself to complete the sentence: “I am afraid of…”
“I am afraid of meeting others’ disapproval, and finding out that they are secretly thinking ill of me.” I began to cry. I live with four other people, so the fear of doing something “wrong” in my own home is real. “OK, this is definitely a contributing worry. What other fears are there?” I continued along this line of thinking to help myself dig deeper.
“I am afraid of interacting with other people. I am afraid of committing my time to others.” More tears.
“I am afraid of this pain in my heart.” Oh, yes. That was something true too.
“I am afraid to breathe.” I began to sob. “I am afraid to breathe!” I walked to the edge of the Water and squatted down low to be closer to her. “I am afraid to breathe.” Yes, with every inhale and exhale, the feeling grows, subsides, grows, subsides. Relief never lasts long. I am remembering now as I am writing this that I often don’t breathe as deeply when I am feeling this pain in my heart. The pain becomes “too much” when I breathe deeply, so I have developed a habit of taking shallow breaths. I imagine avoiding deep breaths does nothing to encourage a sense of being safe in my own body.
Before turning away from the Water, I expressed my love, respect and gratitude to her. I thanked her for being one of the only the places where I feel safe in Toronto.
***
I am crying now as I write this, realizing again that I am afraid to breathe and remembering why I felt called to write this experience down for others to read. I want you to know that if you are afraid to breathe, you are not alone. I also want you to know that there is hope. If you can take a moment to be with the pain in your heart, give voice to the fear or sadness that is connected to it, and cry, the pain in your beautiful heart will ease, it will. This has been my experience over and over again.
In acknowledging the words from my mind that are attached to the pain in my heart, I am finding myself moving away from the sense that “something is wrong with me.” Just as the tears are streaming down my face, compassion is washing over me. I am remembering I am human, and as a human, I fear pain, I resist pain, I hate pain and I want it to go away. So when breathing becomes attached to pain, I fear breathing. And again, the sadness rises. The sadness is compassion and love for my little heart that works so hard to keep me safe. I don’t want it to feel this pain, just as I don’t want anyone around me to feel pain so intense, so tenacious. And so I cry some more, connected to this Mama Bear inside of me, at once feeling and holding the pain. “I am ok. What I am experiencing is a normal part of being fully alive.”
Normally, by this point in my process, I would notice that the pain has completely subsided. Not this time. It is still there. This hurt has deep roots. I am remembering the first time I ever felt the pain. I was in high school and thinking about an upcoming student council meeting that I would be facilitating. With an in-breath, I felt “nervousness” rise inside me. Not liking this feeling, I focused on calming my breathing and found myself returning to a place of stillness. But, when the “nervousness” rose again a few days later, I wasn’t able to return to stillness. With each breath, the feelings became more intense. The pain in my heart has been linked to breathing ever since. It may take me another 10 years before I unlearn this connection. “Still, I am ok. I have tools for this. I will remember that my body is a safe place.”
For now, I will cry into the pain and hold myself in love and compassion. This is a good start. I would love to accompany others on this journey. Please reach out if you need a breathing, crying companion.
Lots of love,
Steph
***
THANKS!
photograph by Katia Chistyakova
To Katia Chistyakova for the beautiful photograph used as the thumbnail image for this post.