Nour Abdul Reda

And of course, I’m wide awake; nauseous with a stomach ache, my eyes weirdly itching, my body too exhausted, and I’m crying.

It is what it is, I guess. I can’t fight the anxiety; no matter how much I try to convince myself that this big thing is going to be okay, and even if it wasn’t okay, it’ll pass,

I’m still crying.

Even writing this, I’m finding it too hard to write and express myself with the right words because there is none, right words, I mean. I’m hand tight and scared of what will or might happen in a few hours. Am I going to embarrass myself in front of all these important people? Am I going to say the right words then? Am I going to know what to do and where to go? Will they be mean to me? Will they understand and lead me to safety?

Safety, please come back. I need you right now to protect me from the evilness of the unknown; I need you to reinforce the feeling of nonchalant in my system. My usual, “and then what?”

That’s my favorite grounding exercise.

I’ll be too shy to talk. And then what?

They’ll think I’m an amateur. And then what?

I won’t leave a good impression. And then what?

I will not do the right things. And then what?

I will feel anxious during. And then what?

And then it’ll pass. It won’t last forever. It’s only an hour and a half out of millions of hours I’ll live. It will be forgotten; I’ll be the only one to remember; it will only be as big in my head; they won’t think I am this bad. My anxiety intensifies my failure and turns them into something much worse than they really are.

It will pass. And it will be okay. ^{but why can’t it pass faster}

I will be supported. I will do good. I will make a good impression.

I will be supported. I will do good. I will make a good impression.

But for now, I need go back to sleep.

Disclaimer: this was written the very first few weeks at a new job. My opinions have changed, and my anxiety has lessened.

It’s been a very long day at work. The clock says 2:20 pm, but my brain and anxiety say 2 am. I still have 2 hours and 40 minutes to finish the day, and I can almost kill myself.

I finished all my work literally before 12 pm, and I have been reading and killing time ever since. What part of “don’t give someone a job if you don’t have any tasks to give to them” do employers don’t understand? It’s appalling to me.

I have my own office for COVID-19 reasons, which means I have been isolated from everyone else since I first started working, and it has been awful. Sometimes I am happy that I am alone, and sometimes I am sad that I am alive.

And the HR? She’s not helping either. “You’re allowed  to walk, we don’t prohibit anyone from walking.” She keeps telling me every day or two. If I was brave enough, I would have told her that, one, I have my one-hour awful rule that my brain has created to protect me: if I do not move for 30mins or one hour, I will not be allowed to move from my chair at all.

Two, I am moving, I am moving and communicating as much as I can, but you’re not seeing that, and it’s not my fault. I don’t have to ask for your permission to move, and I do not need you to tell me when to move or if I need to move, okay? If you think that’s your move as HR to break the anxiety and shyness of new employees, then I can guarantee you’re failing big time.

God, why do people keep doing that. I mean why? They don’t take into account that someone might be suffering mentally and cannot do normal stuff like walk around the office? I mean sure, the first while at my previous work was hard, but they never made me as uncomfortable, and they never asked me to move from my chair, as if I could.

It’s now 2:57 pm. There are still 2 hours and 3 minutes until I am free. Yes, free. Because I am most uncomfortable.

It’s now 3:34 pm. An hour and a half until I am free. God.

Disclaimer (2): I now walk more. Proud?

Anxiety.

What a passive-aggressive feeling that is. I’ve been trying to make up words to describe anxiety, or even just talk about it in general, but even that I am scared of.

I am scared of anxiety, hell, I am terrified of it.

Ask me about anything, and I can describe it. Depression? It’s a crippling crumbling wall in my chest saying; “I think the pain will last forever.”

But anxiety? No. The idea that I am actually trying to write about it is bringing tears to my eyes. A monster that keeps stepping on my head, and everything in me. Anxiety? It is a dagger dipped in every negative feeling in the world that stabs my heart every second of every day.

There is no distraction. There is no escape. Anxious at work? Wait until you get home and get to reminisce on the emptiness. Want to go out with friends? Awesome, the humiliation and the failure begin. Being alone? What a lovely opportunity to let me burn your flesh alive.

It is more than a feeling of “I’m not good enough” or “people are judging me” or “there is only darkness in the world.” It is more than overthinking and stressing; it is more than fear itself (even though the closest thing to anxiety is fear).

I cannot even talk about it to my therapist. I feel so mundane by only saying that word; “anxiety” as if it mocks me. “Are you snitching on me? You think that’ll help you? You think he cares? You think he believes you? You think you can ever describe the way I make you feel?”

“I can make your legs tremble with weakness, and your morning bleak with vomit, and your nights drown in tears. I can make your dreams a living hell, and your days an abyss. I can make you not only fear of tomorrow but also fear of yesterday, of today, of right damn now. Because you, Nour, is a beast. You, Nour, do not deserve to live. You, Nour, when everyone is starving and everything is breaking, are most ungrateful. Because you, Nour, are selfish and ugly and inhumane”.

I’ll admit, the monster is not always as awakened. But lately, it’s been kicking my guts at least twice a week, sometimes even five days in a row. Am I scared? No, being just ‘scared’ is a complete underestimation of the fire it makes me feel. I am losing my head from the unsafety of all of this, I am terrified of leaving this chair right now, at this moment, I am afraid to breathe.

Anxiety cannot be God-made, it simply cannot. He cannot have created something so evil. It can make the smartest feel stupid, the richest feel poorest, the most athletic feel crippled, the strongest feel weakest.

Sometimes the monster allows me to show it to my therapist, and it is that moment that I feel grateful. My therapist helps a lot, but I laugh when he tells me; “remember, Nour, it is all in your head.”

I know that. You don’t see me holding anxiety’s hands, do you? I obviously know that it is only in my head and that most of it is not real, but knowing is different that feeling. I wish I can stop myself from feeling.

I wish I could shut it all out.
Everything.
All of it.