by Kaitlin Murray
The sanctuary that serves as a chapel space for my small, Christian college is spacious and quiet during most of the day. The high vaulted walls are intermittently lined with abstract stained glass. The lights are warm and dim. I find a corner and sit down, crossed-legged, palms facing upward and resting on my knees. My yoga instructor says that when our palms are facing upwards, we are able to receive grace. I need grace. I start to breathe and notice that my heart is racing. Slowly, slowly, slowly, I repeat. I close my eyes and wait.
Before this practice was suggested by a book given to me by my therapist, I thought that meditation was something that was done with a blank mind. My understanding was that in order to meditate, I needed to push away thoughts and awareness. Sometimes that’s helpful, but today I am doing the opposite. Today I am going to let anxiety enter my meditative space.
The first to arrive is, as usual, Fat. Her slender frame materializes, and I invite her to sit down.
Hello, Fat. I smile wryly.
I see that you ran this morning. It won’t make a difference.
I feel better though.
It doesn’t matter. When was the last time you were actually thin? Four years ago? It’s too late. You’ve let yourself go and if you think you will ever be smaller than a size twelve then you’re fucking stupid.
I think that I like being a size twelve. I like the way my clothes look.
Well, don’t count on staying this way. You are only a few bad days away from being as fat as you were last summer.
I stay calm, allowing the pain of the last statement to encounter the deep breaths I am taking until the hurt eventually dissipates. I gaze at Fat for a little longer. She’s almost always the first to visit, but she never stays long.
Clinical psychologist Tara Brach calls this act “inviting Mara to tea.” She describes the way that Buddha, after fighting and defeating the demon god Mara, would often be visited by him. Buddha didn’t ignore Mara. Nor did he push Mara away or fight him. Instead, he poured two glasses of tea and invited Mara to sit down. By doing this, he could remain free.
Fat disappears and is replaced by my mother. She looks different here than she does in person. Her blue eyes have turned to black stone. If I reached for her hand, it wouldn’t be soft, the way it usually is. She’s bonier and much angrier. I can feel the anger seething off of her skin.
I heard that you quit Student Senate. Why would you do that? Didn’t I teach you not to quit things?
It was getting exhausting, Mom. It was too much work and with this recent bout of depression, I just couldn’t handle it. I feel so much better now that I don’t have to deal with this.
You were the class president! You were going to read at graduation! Your grandma would have been so proud. And I’ve already told all of our family…
I watch her face morph from anger to disappointment. The fear that I’ve been acutely noticing deep in my stomach is replaced by a heavy guilt in the back of my throat.
Remember when you messed up your ballet routine at your third grade recital? I was so embarrassed. None of the other girls messed up. Remember when you brought home your fiancé and he got drunk at your dad’s and then puked all over the couch? Remember when you told me, late one night, that you’d had sex with your first boyfriend? Remember how I cried all night?
My therapist’s office is decorated in warm tones and smells like the vanilla candles that she makes herself. When I sit on the couch, I can feel the tension start to escape from my shoulder blades. One day I come in, barely awake, with my spouse. My body feels dense and rubbery, like cheap bubble gum that’s been chewed for too long. I don’t want to be here.
“In our last session we talked about how hard you are on yourself.”
“I know. And I’ve told you, I don’t know how to stop. I honestly don’t know how to stop hating myself. If I did, then I would.”
“You need to start realizing that you are a person of value. You always view yourself as worse than everyone else. You need to start accepting the parts of you that are flawed because you know what? Everyone is flawed. You’re not garbage; you’re human.”
“Do you think I have a personality disorder?” I haven’t ever asked this question.
“I don’t. You have the opposite of a personality disorder. You don’t think that you’re always right, you think you’re always wrong.”
“Oh. Do you think I’m bipolar?”
“Yes.”
Bipolar Disorder is a bitch. Not just to medicate, but to deal with as well. And while it’s not unusual for something like bipolar disorder to be paired with an anxiety disorder, it is, according to my psychiatrist, a very bad combination. Bipolar Disorder catches me off guard. Bipolar Disorder waits until Fat and my mother have left, and only visits when my eyes are closed and my thoughts enter into complete darkness. Bipolar Disorder likes that.
Hi Kaitlin! Remember me? Oh, had you forgotten? Well, I suppose that Wellbutrin is doing you a solid.
Bipolar, go away.
You’d better be fucking kidding me. You’ve read the articles, right? You know that I’m not going anywhere. Bipolar Disorder can be treated, but not cured.
Fuck off.
You probably inherited this from your mother. You plan on adopting children, right? Because Bipolar Disorder is most likely hereditary. Would you wish this suffering on your own child?
Leave me the fuck alone.
Bipolar Disorder can be treated, but not cured. That means that for the rest of your life, no matter how happy or content you are, I’ll be waiting. I’ll wait until you feel airy and free and I will paint heavy lead onto every square inch of your skin. I will tie an anchor to all four of your limbs, and we will watch you sink together.
I’m getting better. I haven’t had a truly debilitating bout of depression in a year.
You think you’re getting better. But you know what? You cannot control this. This cannot be fixed. You don’t get to decide not to be depressed. And next time is going to be much worse. You know why? It’s because—
Right. Bipolar disorder can be treated, but not cured.
For most of my life, when bad feelings would start to surface, I would push them away. I think that it’s the natural human thing to do. It’s as simple and understandable as the innate desire to avoid pain and experience pleasure. Unfortunately, anxiety disorders make any alternative really difficult. Even when I manage to push the negative thoughts out of my conscious mind, the physical symptoms still remain: racing pulse, stomach pit, and sometimes nausea. It’s taken me twelve years to realize what an ineffective shield this emotional burial is. It’s why I’m giving space to anxiety.
Aside from the buzz of the students congregating in the lounge outside the sanctuary, I am sitting in almost complete silence. I check my breathing, slowing it down again, and straighten my back so that I can feel my sitting bones sink deeper into the thin carpet.
A little straighter. God, your posture is so terrible.
Hello, Perfection.
Aren’t you behind in school right now? You know, your professors are going to be really disappointed in you. Make sure that you stay on top of the due dates. I know that the philosophy paper was pushed back, but you should probably check just in case. Remember the time you forgot about a presentation you were supposed to give? You probably should have killed yourself or something. God, you are so lucky you have me. Also, check the due date for your history assignment. I know that the due date doesn’t change, but you should probably check.
I can’t check right now, Perfection. I’m meditating.
Are you sure? You know, I’m only trying to help you out. You should be a little more grateful. Also, why are you wasting time sitting here? You need to finish your homework so that you can make sure you have time to clean your house. People are coming over tonight, and if you don’t manage to vacuum, then they are going to think you are disgusting and never come over again. Honestly, if they saw what your house looked like right now, I know that they wouldn’t visit again.
I’ll have time to vacuum. And if not, my friends will understand. I am really busy right now.
Whatever. Anyway, you need to stop talking about your relationship problems with your friends. Seriously, it’s embarrassing and you look needy. Plus, they probably think that your marriage is crappy and that your husband is an asshole. God, why do you always do this?
I am happy with my relationship, Perfection.
That’s terrible! If you get happy, you get lazy. If you get lazy, you’ll never improve.
Researcher Brené Brown describes perfectionism with acute precision. She writes, “Perfectionism is a defensive move. It’s the belief that if we do things perfectly and look perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgement, and shame.” As much as it torments me now, I wasn’t always a perfectionist. In high school, I didn’t achieve very good grades. When I graduated, without honors, I felt deeply ashamed and inadequate. I vowed that college would be different. What started as the desire to learn and achieve academically has morphed into a rabid desire for external approval. Anxiety and perfectionism complement each other beautifully, because perfectionism gives anxiety something to latch on to.
Of course, nothing I do is ever enough. After several semesters of an A- or two bogging down my GPA, I finally achieved what I’d been wanting for years: a row of perfect A’s. The first thought I had when I received my grades was that there must have been some mistake. Instead of feeling happy, I felt ashamed, convinced that I only received good grades because my professors felt sorry for me.
When I gain some distance from this, I realize how self-centered my feelings of inadequacy can be. Anxiety is an inherently selfish practice. I say this not as a judgement of my own moral failing, but as a factual way of describing a pattern of thoughts that continuously revolve around me. Everyone is judging me for being fat. My professors feel sorry for me. That thing I said earlier that made an acquaintance uncomfortable will be all she remembers of the evening. My friends aren’t tired; they are acting distant because they hate me. Anxiety assumes that everyone is paying attention to every action I have, and judging me for it, when in reality, most people are dealing with their own shit and probably don’t notice.
This is one reason why I am drawn to Buddhist teachings. While I still consider myself vaguely Christian, there are certain aspects of Eastern religion and philosophy which I find to be incredibly helpful. Buddhism teaches that there is nothing solidly existent in the world, and so a mark of human existence is that there is no self (anatma). Instead of having a permanent ego, the mind, body, and sense of self that we experience is thought to only consist of passing moments. We are not being, we are becoming. And while Buddhism does teach that life is suffering (dukkha), it does not claim that that is all life consists of. Rather, Buddhism teaches that we should recognize that each moment is temporary, and not cling to happiness or unhappiness, because both will go away. The same is true for anxiety in both the abstract and concrete. Abstractly, I can rationalize that when I am feeling anxious, it is a temporary feeling that will be replaced by another in a future passing moment. And as for my concrete anxieties like Fat, Bipolar Disorder, the fucked-up version of my mother, and Perfectionism? They will all leave me. They visit, but they never stay, and eventually they will be replaced by different forms.
A few weeks after I’ve resigned from Student Senate, I get a text message from my actual mother. The one with pretty blue eyes and soft hands. She asks me how I am doing, and so I tell her the truth:
I feel frustrated because I really try hard and I can’t fix this. I take my medication, I run, I go to appointments, I read books. But I’m really trying. I promise.
You are doing great. I’m so proud of you. Just rest.
Well, I resigned from Student Senate, so don’t be too proud.
You are everything I’ve ever wanted you to be.
I’m not Senior Class President anymore.
I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t know this had gotten this bad.
I was too nervous to tell you. I thought you’d be upset at me for quitting.
No, honey. I know how hard you work and how much you try. Your condition? It isn’t your fault.
Anxiety is a great liar. Anxiety is a paradox, real and unreal at the same time. Real physical symptoms, destructive patterns of thinking, but imaginary or exaggerated problems. I like to joke that if I were a caveman, I would be an amazing one. Not only are my shoulders broad, but the flight instinct is strong. Adrenaline courses through my body at incredibly fast rates. It’s actually kind of amusing that a physical reaction that was once vital to survival is the most detrimental part of my being.
I think surrendering is the final problem. I let anxiety in now, so that it will naturally dissipate, but there is a sense in which I am still trying to control it. That doesn’t mean that I want to just become a slave to my every fear or anxious whim. Surrendering isn’t the same as giving in. Perhaps a better word to use would be “acceptance.” I need to accept that I am bipolar. I need to accept that I won’t be thin like I was when I was eighteen. I need to accept less-than-perfect grades and interpersonal relationships. If I accept these things, then the anxiety that surrounds them will leave me be. But accepting sounds so passive. I accept things like gifts and compliments. Surrendering evokes images of weapons being thrown to the ground. Surrendering means looking uncertainty in the face and yielding. Surrendering means not holding onto pain, but letting it pass, the way it is supposed to. There are moments when I feel that surrender is possible, and there are more frequent moments when I feel like it is impossible. I’m learning to believe that neither is better than the other. I have to believe that neither is better, or else the cycle of self-hatred starts again.
After what feels like a day and a half, I open my eyes. The sanctuary is still quiet, still peaceful. I check my watch. Thirty one minutes have passed since I first sat down. I pause and do a quick self-evaluation. I feel…better. I feel more focused, and less frazzled. And maybe that’s enough. If I accomplished nothing but relaxation, I am fine with that. If I accomplish nothing but existence today, I am fine with that too. Life is suffering, remember? It’s painful and generally unsatisfactory. I think that over and over again until my lips curl into a smile, and I exit out into the hallway and the rest of my life.
Namaste, bitches.
Kaitlin Murray is a writer and animal enthusiast who resides in the hippest part of Akron, Ohio. She recently graduated from Malone University with a B.A. in Creative Writing. She is part owner of an extroverted cat and an introspective dog.