I was up into the wee hours of the morning reading. Not because the book was that excellent (though it was good). I needed to keep myself from looking at my phone, from watching the news, from seeing anything else about the pandemic for one night.
I’ve never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder though I’ve come to believe I have one. It’s typically not enough to alter the course of my day-to-day life, and I’ve developed some coping strategies to deal with its harsher effects. But when something catastrophic happens, it flares its ugly head.
And the way it manifests is in information intake overload. I can’t stop refreshing Twitter, watching CNN, or reading the New York Times. I’m searching for the one piece of information that will ensure my survival. Or will make sense of the insensible. And I keep looking, waiting for that tweet or news bulletin that will calm the anxiety bubble in my chest.
But it doesn’t exist, and the more time that passes, the more time I spend looking, the bigger the bubble grows. I don’t sleep. I obsess. I info dump on others, potentially increasing their own anxiety. And yet the bubble remains.
The first time I remember experiencing this was in the days following 9/11. I was in 8th grade, 13 years old. We had internet at home, and new media has gone online. I scoured the internet and soaked up the facts. The number of people who died. How many had been injured. How it compared to Pearl Harbor, Kansas City bombing, Hiroshima. And then I regurgitated that information onto my parents.
My dad took it in stride, either because he simply tuned me out or because he had no anxiety of his own to augment. But my mom was another story. What was an already fractious relationship broke down further. She didn’t understand why I was doing what I was doing (and neither did I). And I couldn’t understand that my actions were increasing her own worries and fears.
So, here we are in the midst of something new and frightening. There are data points, to be sure, but they don’t provide any clarity on the future. The next few weeks or months could be something straight out of an apocalyptic Hollywood blockbuster. Or they could be more or less regular with a few minor inconveniences. Nobody knows. And refreshing Twitter isn’t going to suddenly make that clear.
And so, I’m actively choosing to not engage as much. I’m putting my phone out of sight. I turned off certain notifications. I stuck the TV remote in a drawer, out of easy reach. I logged out of Facebook on my laptop. I’m creating hurdles for myself so that I don’t sink back into the miasma of anxiety I experienced over the past few days.
The anxiety bubble is still there. But when I’m not actively feeding it, it doesn’t grow so big. I can feel it. I know it’s there. But I’m taking time to recognize that there’s nothing I can do to make it go away. I’ve prepared as best I can for what’s coming. I have two weeks worth of shelf-stable foods in case of quarantine. I have cough medicine, Advil, and Tylenol for in case I get the virus. I have my office set up in case my work has us all work from home. I’m washing my hands and practicing social distancing. In short, I’m doing everything I can.
So, if, like me, you feed your anxiety bubble with information, I urge you to take some time away. Read a book that has nothing to do with contagion. (I’ll be posting a list tomorrow of books I can recommend that have nothing to do with plague, illness, catastrophe, or contagion. Something to take your mind off of it all.) Do a puzzle. Dance and sing to a playlist of your favorite songs. Take a walk around the block. Break out the board games.
The point is, the news will still be there later. And if something is important enough, it will find it’s way to you. So, take time to care for yourself in a way that doesn’t feed the anxiety bubble.
Take care. Stay healthy. Be safe.
