A bedtime story and an orange capsule…

I end my day with an orange pill as if the colour should brighten your mood. I suppose it does mine.

For many years, I have fought to find a balance with my anxiety. I am unsure whether the chemistry in my brain results from exposure to genetics or environment, but this is the hand I have been dealt.

My first vivid memory of an anxiety attack was when I was 14. I had taken the bus home from school, and everything had been seemingly normal. It was an abnormally hot day in May, and the kid in front of me on the bus had the window open.

Earlier that day, I had tried to straighten my hair, but it hadn’t cooperated. So, I had to put it up in a ponytail. I hated pulling my hair back because I got teased about my ears. My ears are like a mood ring to my soul. They turn hot and red when I am embarrassed or when I am not feeling well. At 14, my ears were also oddly large for my face: red, radiating saucers, just what a teen needs.

I had dance that night and quite a bit of homework. While I sat on the bus on the way home, I didn’t feel overwhelmed or overly stressed until the wind started a route through my tied-back hair. Whisps of hair escaped from the elastic’s grip, pirouetting across my nose and ears.

My damn ears.

I felt my anger creeping up. My blood began to boil. I swallowed hard, trying to force down the feeling of my heart in my throat. I quietly yet intentionally marched home from the bus stop. I walked inside the house, set my backpack down and sunk into the sofa. My mom intuitively asked if I was ok. I looked at her and said, “I feel like the only way I will feel better is if I pull my hair out.”

It wasn’t about the hair. It wasn’t about the wind from the bus window. It wasn’t even about my cinnamon heart ears. The restless itch I battled that day is the same one that creeps up time and time again.

It’s hard to explain what anxiety feels like, and it is different for every person. For me, it’s as if my blood has grown fur underneath my skin. My entire body becomes foreign and yet obnoxiously present. Every inch of my skin can trigger my brain, as nothing but the air creeps across it. I become quiet, and yet my thoughts are deafening.

It's impossible to anticipate what will trigger my anxiety attacks. Each moment leading up to that breaking point contributes in some way. The issue causing me the most stress is rarely the straw to break the camel’s back. My breaking point is almost always triggered by a form of physical discomfort. Whether I am suddenly too hot, feeling crowded, my hair is tickling my face, or my shoes are suddenly too tight. While the physical annoyance is seemingly slight, it is the final piece of my mental load that causes my brain to short-circuit.

As a teen, I had to sort through it.

"It's normal to feel that way."

"It's just hormones."

"You're just stressed."

My anxiety got increasingly worse and more difficult to manage. My ability to internalize became more difficult, and I would lash out. It wasn't that I was particularly angry, but that I was so uncomfortable in my skin, so uneased in my identity, so confused by the spinning in my brain that I acted without intent.

The person I was known as, the things I was known for, was not who I wanted to be. I sought out help. At first, to work through my "baggage", which then turned into the diagnosis of my anxiety.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am still spicy. I still get angry and frustrated and am likely disproportionately passionate. But it takes a lot to get me there.

So, I take an orange capsule each night before I shut off the light. A routine no different than brushing your teeth. It’s not that I cannot function without it; I don’t want to.

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