I woke up, having of course only slept for around two hours despite being exhausted. I had travelled for six and a half hours on the train the day before and as always, it's this sort of travelling that exhausts me. So why did I sleep so little? Unfamiliar surroundings - I was in a Bed & Breakfast in Falmouth, Cornwall. Today was the day that I had arranged a meeting with a course tutor at the Falmouth campus of Exeter University, to discuss potentially starting a Master degree in September. I was determined, and convinced by this determination, that I was ready for this challenge. My job had stagnated and anxiety had effectively ruined my chance of enjoying my University degree like the ones most people get - hard work, but fun and rewarding. For the most part, mine had been an anxious mess, filled with panic and social angst.
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| Falmouth - I'm sure it's a lovely place |
So I feel that I need a clean break, and this course in Falmouth looked like the ideal opportunity to start anew. However, the meeting with the course tutor wasn't at the forefront of my mind at this time in the morning; it was negotiating my way through breakfast. Eating out isn't my strong point, and just the thought of going downstairs to eat anything was making my stomach turn. The main concern, of course, was having to converse with the breakfast makers to tell them that I didn't want any of their apparently delicious breakfast. The extent of deliciousness is irrelevant - I couldn't eat anything because I wasn't at home. Simple as. I used the "I'm nervous about meeting the course tutor" excuse, and made the whole thing into a bigger deal than it really was. You see, I'd not actually even decided for certain that I was going to do this Masters - hence the meeting - so it wasn't a make or break trip.
So I spent as little time as possible in the breakfast lounge, being glared at by people who wanted to make me breakfast but who couldn't for my refusal, went back upstairs to pack and then scarpered. My meeting was at 9am and I had a bus journey to take.
I had prepared for the meeting yesterday by visiting the campus so I knew where to go, which bus to catch and where to visit, so this helped. I was anxious, of course, but in control. I had the meeting, which went well - it was just a fact-finding mission really, to see whether I felt that I could fit in. As I write this, whether I fit in is now irrelevant.
I made my way off campus but still had about an hour and a half to kill before the train home. I went for a walk around Falmouth, a lovely seaside town, just to gauge the sites and get some exercise. It was unusually hot for late March, and I foolishly wore my winter coat whilst having to carry my luggage with me, so by the time I got to the station for my train I was hot and even more exhausted than when I started. And then for the seven hour journey back.
I got on the first leg, Falmouth to Truro, sat down and attempted to chill. What happened next was unimaginable.
The first thing I noticed was my hands and feet starting tingling. This was getting worse by the minute and I was getting hotter. I then knew what was happening. This was the onset of a panic attack. It then dawned on me that there was no escape; I was on a train, in unfamiliar surroundings, seven hours before I was due home. All alone, with no-one but hundreds of prying eyes for company. This exacerbated the panic. My head started racing, heart started thumping, the tingling turned to numbness and it was at this point that I realised that I had lost control. The panic was all encompassing. I quickly looked to the floor as my eyes started blurring.
All of this must have happened over the course of about 20 minutes - it felt like two - because we'd arrived at Truro station. I somehow had to stand up and then get off the train. I stood up, made my way to the door, and dropped my mobile phone in a trembling panic; fortunately it landed just ahead of the gap between the train and the platform. I girl picked it up for me. I couldn't really look up because I knew if I did I'd collapse. I edged very slowly towards a chair. There were no chairs!! Where are all the seats?? This is a railway station!
Instead I saw a member of staff and told him I was panicking. I don't know why. I wasn't thinking straight. He found a chair - I remember it because it was one of those chairs you get in schools. It was brown, relevant for no reason. I sat near to the ticket barriers at Truro station, head permanently down knowing that lifting it wasn't an option. I remember shaking and thinking "there must be a hospital in Truro, if it comes to that." Then another staff member approached me.
He had obviously been called by the original staff member I spoke to and to be fair on him, he took empathy with me. He asked me what was wrong, I was honest. I remember repeating that "unless you can bring Stafford to Falmouth I'm not going to get better anytime soon." He stayed with me for a while but then had to leave. I sat there for a while longer, but knew I had to soon go over the bridge to the platform where my train was due. I asked the original staff member if the other guy who was more understanding was around to escort me. He wasn't. I felt hatred towards this guy for not helping me. How ridiculous, did I think he had a degree in psychology?
I staggered across the bridge and onto the next train - leg two, Truro to Taunton. I sat down and barely moved. I was next to someone. Not even sure what gender they were. There was a small TV screen on the back of the seat in front. The physical feelings were still there. I was going mad. I still am.
Oh for goodness sake, we're in Taunton. I knew that this was edging closer to home, but at least sitting on the train I was able to just sit and not interact or move. Luckily this time, the changeover of trains was only ten minutes and on the same platform, so I didn't have long to wait before leg three, Taunton - Birmingham. This was the longest trip and where I made a fundamental mistake. I tried eating something. It was a chicken sandwich. Silly boy. I was barely able to drink water, let alone eat a chicken sandwich. I was panicking. I was also concerned that by not eating anything I would make the situation worse. Ultimately the good news was that I wasn't getting worse. But I wasn't getting better. I was feeling sick. Hot, Sweating. Panicking. Unable to breathe.
I arrived at Birmingham. It was dark by this point. About a 30 minute wait. I sat on the ground at the platform. The last leg, from Birmingham to Stafford. There was a delay, which didn't help. Am I ever going to get home? I sat at a table on the train back to Stafford, on my own, with a person on the table adjacent, looking at me. I looked at myself in my phone. I was pale. We arrived into Stafford, I was still feeling the same. My dad picked me up. We didn't talk about my anxiety, ever. But I told him what had happened. He didn't say much. What could he say?
I got back home and I attempted to force beans on toast down me. This was about an hour ago. I ate half. Wished I hadn't eaten any. I phoned my best friend. What was he supposed to do? He tried saying the right things. They didn't help. It wasn't his fault, I was a mess.
Who am I kidding, I am a mess. I am still panicking. It started at about noon and now it's 10:30. That's a ten and a half hour panic attack. What am I supposed to do now? My chances of ever going to Falmouth are ruined. My chances of ever going to University again I ruined. My anxiety isn't any better at all. I'm still a mess. I have had hundreds, literally hundreds, of panic attacks in the past and this is my worst. I'm back to square one. No, square zero. I can't see what I'm typing any more, my tears are filling up my eyes. I need to try and sleep, how am I going to do that?
25 March 2016
For months after this incident, I could barely leave the house. I couldn't socialise, catch the train and even work was being affected. But it also prompted me to get the help I really needed, rather than the shoddy excuses for help I'd had previously. This was ultimately CBT through Anxiety UK, which lasted for 13 months and a total of 50 sessions.
In those five years, I had gone from the wreck portrayed above to someone who has their anxiety condition largely under control. I still have my moments of course, I always will. But I have achieved some good things, all of which seemed impossible five years ago. I cannot advocate therapy enough. I was in crisis and hope I never get there again. I now realise my destiny is in my own hands. I will never forget the help my therapist gave me. But now I truly feel what happens in my life is down to me.
Anxiety will always be a part of my life. But I'm determined never to let that happen to me ever again. Life is too short.
*To clarify, this was actually written today, I wrote it as if I had been writing it five years ago.
