Hovering over the send button, my thumb is slightly shaking with regret. I read the text I’m about to send once more.
“I’m sorry, but I have too much anxiety to come over today. I already threw up once.”
Checking to make sure I’m sending it to Brantley, I hold my breath and hit send before slipping it back into my back pocket to continue drying the last of the dishes from dinner.
One more knot twists in my stomach before relief floods my body when my mind registers that I don’t have plans later. I can breathe a little easier, and my appetite slowly resurfaces. I’m hungry. I barely ate any lunch, just a few bites of what I knew I could get down with the nausea. The only worry still lingering is in wondering if he’ll be mad. That could make or break my mood for the rest of the night…and probably tomorrow. I really don’t want him to be mad.
For me, getting physically sick is what I classify as having a full-blown anxiety attack. It’s the breaking point. I will spend hours riding the waves of anxiety, fighting the urge to gag anddry heave over just the thought of what I have planned later in the day.
The intensity is similar to riding a roller coaster. Some waves are small, mere bumps, and some are steep rises, slow-building but intense.
When I come down from those bigger buildups, I get hit with extreme fatigue, as if my mind just went through a war. And the war isn’t over until whatever event or situation is making me anxious happens…or doesn’t.
I often do better with spontaneous things. It gives me less time to think about the what-ifs.
When I’m anxious, the walls of my throat feel like they’re almost touching, creating this desire to gag. To prevent it, I have to keep my posture and chin held at just the right angle to keep my esophagus clear for better breathing ability.
On top of that, I’m pretty sure I have emetophobia, the fear of throwing up. I’ve never been diagnosed by a doctor or anything, but if there’s anything that amps my anxiety up, it’s when I start to think about getting sick from having said anxiety.
Sometimes throwing up does actually make me feel better and I still follow through with the plans I had that were causing me to spiral. But other times…getting sick makes it worse. And I will back out. Like today.
Mom enters the kitchen from the dining room, carrying the half-eaten pan of brownies. They look good now. When they got passed around the table earlier, the rich chocolate smell was what sent me to the bathroom. I can only manage water and plain food when I’m anxious. Saltines, pretzels, bread, cheerios, sometimes Goldfish crackers. Anything with a sweet,savory, or even buttery flavor or smell is triggering.
“I’ll have some of those now,” I say and take the whole pan from her. I set it on the counter and grab a knife from the drawer.
She sighs, giving me a knowing look. “Guess you’re not going to Brantley’s tonight?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Well, he’s welcome here if you want to see him,” she offers, and I already know that but don’t think he’ll entertain it. He comes here often, but almost never on a Saturday. He doesn’t really like being with my entire family. He’d rather just be with me.
I sit down at the table with the brownie and pull my phone back out. He hasn’t responded yet but I see a new text from Wesley.
“Working on tractor again. If you’re bored…come on over.”
Wesley’s family runs the cattle farm next door—beef cattle farming. They don’t butcher the animals themselves. They then sell them as feeder calves, which then eventually would go to slaughter. I guess that might sound gruesome to some people, but that’s the circle of life around here.
It’s easy to get attached, especially when you see them as calves and get to watch them be born, but thankfully I don’t get too attached to animals. Our dogs? Sure. But I grew up in a family of hunters; I learned early on how to separate pets from livestock and game. That’s why God put them here after all—to feed us.
Wes also grows grains, like corn, wheat, and soybeans, to feed the animals. Winter is really the only season he has time to breathe. Same with us. It’s a slower time of year and toocold to really go out and do anything.
In the midst of chewing the last bite of brownie, my phone vibrates on the wooden table top. It’s Brantley. I can only see the first few words of it, but I already sense his annoyance and disappointment. I try to ignore it and tell myself I can’t care; I have to take care of myself too.
We’ve been dating a little over a year and a half. He knows how stuff like this is sometimes, yet he still acts as if I’m blindsiding him.
My anxiety had subsided greatly when I got to high school. I barely found myself having any episodes. Then Brantley and I met at a rodeo one summer, and he asked me to be his girlfriend the following November, then all of a sudden it was like my anxiety came out of hibernation.
The first date Brantley took me on was to a corn maze and I almost threw up on the trail. I had no idea what was really even going on. The anxiety I’d experienced in the past was so mild. It only ever really flared up a few times a year—first day of school, vacations, sleepovers, going back to school after Christmas break—it was sort of a rare occurrence.
I didn’t tell Brantley how I was feeling, I just spit my gum out and kept walking. Thankfully, I had a water bottle with me to sip on. That always helps.
Eventually it went away and didn’t come back the entire night.
Ever since then, the fear of it coming back has made being in a relationship so hard. I struggle to go anywhere with him, even his house. We’ve never even been out to dinner. That would absolutely be a disaster. The unknown smells of food, the fact that I have to sit there andeat?! Absolutely not.
* **
“Leaving now.”
