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| Photo by Juan Pablo Arenas |
I thought I would to write
about how I dealt with my anxiety whilst at Uni, but the truth is that I did
not.
In fact,
in my four years of University, I spent the first year refusing to acknowledge
it as a possibility, and the second and third in denial, and the fourth
bouncing back and forth between treatment, denial and frequent panic
attacks.
I thought
that anxiety was not a thing I was “allowed” to have, that it was seen as
either something to be prayed away, or an illness for rich people with nothing
else to do and time on their hands. If I went back home saying I have
“anxiety”, my family would have assumed it was something I “picked up” like a
person picks up a quirky affection to make themselves seem more interesting and
complex. And to a certain extent, I believed this too. I thought I was too
privileged to have anxiety, too fortunate to be depressed and too African for
the two together. So I never dealt with them.
I hid
from them; I took medicine to avoid dealing with them; and avoided people who
could convince me to deal with them. In fact, a friend put it this way; my life
was a state that needed to be repaired and looked at in order to fulfil its
purpose and, instead of fixing the floorboards, I just pulled the curtains and
pretended everything was in order.
I write
this because I regret doing all of this. I regret the loneliness that
accompanied my efforts; I regret the friends I lost as I kept up my pretense; I
regret what I felt I had to do as I avoided my anxiety.
I wish I
could go back in time and tell my 18 y/o self to get her shit together and
acknowledge what she has. I would remind her that she has pretty awesome
friends, who understand more than she gives them credit for. I would tell her
to ease up on the vodka, whiskey is much better, and to actually talk about
what's bothering her.
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I would
tell her to stop hiding behind her series, documentaries and cartoons; they're
all distractions anyway. I would tell her to go to the gym more often because
it does help. I would tell her to believe in herself more; she is more capable,
more versatile and, simply, more than she gives herself credit for. I’d tell
her to stop by her flatmates rooms and tell them to give me time and to check
up on me sometimes, telling me that it's okay if I sit and do nothing.
I would
tell my 19 y/o self that sex isn’t the answer and to try things that scare you,
including that relationship you’re about to throw away. I would tell my 20 y/o
self that you can't hide behind God either; faith is not an excuse to be in
denial about your mental health. Also, take your damn medicine! I would tell my
21 y/o self that failing at something does not make you a failure. I would tell
her to keep trying and find something she loves doing and just do it, whether
you're good at it or not.
I would
tell all of me, to simply be and actually deal with whatever is bothering you;
not hide from it. Because years later, it didn't help.
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