The Stranger in my Home

By. Maia Filippi

Sometimes I’ll just be lying there, minding my own business, calling on the sleep Gods to bless me as I tuck in for another late night. I won't be thinking about anything in particular. If my mind does wander off I’ll try to bring it back to my breath until the sound of it drowns out my thoughts.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

The transition is seamless, I don’t even realize that I’m drifting into sleep when suddenly it feels like I’ve fallen out of a tree. My heart butts itself against my chest, my whole body seizes up, and I take a quick and shallow breath like I’ve been taken by surprise. It’s almost like someone slammed the breaks on me. What follows is a deep and massive fear. All of a sudden the world becomes too big to handle and I turn into the raw end of a nerve sticking out into the chaos. 

This is what my anxiety feels like.

Like a stranger barging into my home while I was curled up on my couch with a cup of tea and a good book. Like someone interrupting me in the middle of a sentence with something totally unrelated and probably offensive. Like being pushed off the edge of a cliff while I was just trying to enjoy the view. Or a hand around my throat when I try to speak. 

Or blackmail. Anxiety feels like blackmail.

It likes to hold us hostage with our greatest fears. The fear that the world is impossibly big for someone as sensitive as me. That maybe the dream I have is not meant for me, because I don’t have what it takes, whatever ‘it’ is. It says there is a piece missing in me or a wire crossed. The shelves are not level and guess what?! I actually built my home on a fault line and the foundation is one shaking step away from splitting entirely. 

All this happens as a cascade in a short moment. The shock of it never really goes away. Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on things, anxiety lurks out of some dark corner and decides to take a shit right there on my new white carpet. It’s embarrassing.

The thing that is so wild to me is that I will try to look for it, so I can confront it. So I can sit with it and try to understand it. But it doesn’t come when asked. I'm usually met with denial. Instead, it hides behind the couch and swipes at my ankles when I pass, like my old cat Amy who never let anyone touch her. Even though it hides from my mind, it leaves clues of its existence on my body. Like my nails and cuticles that are always subject to the gnashing of my teeth. Or the soreness in my jaw from clenching through the night. Or the braille of knots that sing like an old jewelry box when my yoga instructor says “roll your shoulder blades back and down”. 

And it's so frustrating because I’ll go for weeks, even months, without so much as a sign. I begin to think I’ve figured it out, like I’ve finally gained some footing in this whole ‘living life’ thing. Then I’ll just be lying there in my bed, minding my own business and anxiety hits the breaks. And life becomes so big and overwhelming, much too big for a little heart like mine.

So I watch it, I watch her. This little child throwing a tantrum in my living room. But I know it's me, some fractured off part of my psyche that just wants to be told it's okay, that she is supported, that she is not alone in this world. So when I’m there lying in my bed, I listen. The fear, isolation, and overwhelm rise and circle inside me like the hurricanes that come every summer. But storms pass. I know this because I feel it. I keep breathing, maybe run a bath, get out of bed and go for a walk, or sometimes I don’t move a muscle because I’m too paralyzed. So I sit with it, finally a chance to talk with the little girl in me who's afraid of the world. She just wants to be heard, even if she has to scream for my attention. Usually, after that happens she tires out, puts herself to bed, and I can finally get some rest.

Insta: @kathrinemaia 

Maia is a traveler, yogini, philosoraptor and life artist that uses writing as her way to authentically connect with others.