I was anxious all day Saturday, for no apparent reason.
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I woke a little later than usual, which should have been a luxury. But from moment I opened my eyes, I felt anxious. I felt like something was about to go wrong. My body, especially, felt like it was debating fight or flight—trembling hands, shallow breathing, pulsing jugular, and, most obviously, a pounding heart.
Understand: My resting heart rate is pretty slow, often falling at or below the low end of the normal resting heart rate for an adult (60 to 100 bpm, apparently). A couple weeks ago, I went in to the doctor for… well, let’s just say a procedure, and the nurse asked if I was feeling okay; my heart rate clocked in at 41.
So when I woke up Saturday with my heart beating over well over 90 bpm… well, even though that’s within the normal range for adults, it’s not normal for me. Something was going on.
There’s plenty in my life to be anxious about, of course, both generally (the global lurch to the right, the national dumpster fire) and personally. But things weren’t any worse Saturday than they had been the day before, or would be the day after. If anything, things should have been less stressful: the kids were with their mom; I’d gotten a little extra, guilt-free sleep; I had an uninterrupted day ahead of me, which I could use to start catching up on my work.
Nonetheless.
I tried a few different things to slow the heart down: I spent time meditating, focusing on my breath; I listened to Midori’s Bali and other calming music. I walked; I worked. But still my heart raced, my body poised for panic.
Tara Brach tells a story about the Buddha (as I mentioned in another post, I’m reading her book, Radical Acceptance) and his relationship to Mara, the god who represents humanity’s shadow side (and whose name means “delusion”):
Even after the Buddha had become deeply revered throughout India, Mara continued to make unexpected appearances. The Buddha’s loyal attendant, Ananda, always on the lookout for any harm that might come to his teacher, would report with dismay that the “Evil One” had again returned. Instead of ignoring Mara or driving him away, the Buddha would calmly acknowledge his presence, saying, “I see you, Mara.” He would then invite him for tea and serve him as an honored guest. Offering Mara a cushion so that he could sit comfortably, the Buddha would fill two earthen cups with tea, place them on the low table between them, and only then take his own seat. Mara would stay for awhile and then go, but throughout the Buddha remained free and undisturbed.
I’d just read that passage the previous week, so I decided to invite my anxiety to tea—to sit with it for awhile, to let it shadow me as I did laundry, and paid the bills, and chipped away at the mountain of work.
I don’t think any of this actually affected the anxiety itself, but it did change my relationship to it. Instead of following my first instinct—to explore why I felt so anxious—I just experienced it, let it be. It stayed for awhile—all day, well into the evening—and then went.
I’m fortunate. This doesn’t happen to me often, and when it does, it’s always fairly mild. I know that a lot of people, some of whom play an important role in my life, face much more serious versions of this—everything from low-grade but constant levels of anxiety, full of vague dread and adrenaline, all the way to full-flung panic attacks, sudden and debilitating.
But in many ways, that knowledge has mostly been intellectual. I see the pain and struggle, but I wouldn’t say that I understand it. I hope I act appropriately—offering support, withholding judgment—but I don’t necessarily feel it. It’s usually more sympathy than empathy.
But perhaps this experience has helped me lean closer to empathy. However briefly, and however mildly, inviting my anxiety to tea gave me some insight into anxiety more generally—how unpredictable, and inexplicable, and intractable it can be.