So, in the last year I have realized and accepted that I struggle with anxiety and depression. I’m not sure if this is just a phase or something that is here to stay, but nonetheless, this is reality. The problem with this reality is that I’m the daughter of Caribbean parents. Caribbeans don’t struggle with anxiety and depression. They just don’t. They don’t have time for it. You come to America and you have to pull yourself up by your Caribbean bootstraps. Actually, you don’t even have boot straps. All you have is some lint in your pocket and a 19 mile walk through the snow because you moved to New York (because all Caribbean people start in New York). If you let the old Caribbean people tell the story, having a pair of boots at all is a privilege that you have to work for, and I’m only half joking.
You can understand what I mean when I say that you don’t have time for anxiety and depression when you’re a Caribbean immigrant. Anxiety and depression is a privileged American issue. Like…. “Natasha, you were born here in the States.” “You don’t know real struggle… that’s why you have the time for anxiety.” Or my favorite: “You have too many white friends. Anxiety and depression are white people problems.”
This is why I shrugged it off when my counselor first hinted that I had issues with anxiety. “This white lady doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I’m Caribbean. My ancestors had to walk like 19,000 miles in snow from Haiti to New York. Worry isn’t in my blood.” I couldn’t argue with her degree and expertise, but I was too Caribbean to have anxiety. She’d come around one day.
I’m Caribbean. My ancestors had to walk like 19,000 miles in snow from Haiti to New York. Worry isn’t in my blood.
Then I started having panic attacks. I’m not sure if they were contagious from my time with white people, but I was having difficulty breathing so I rediscovered that white lady’s number. Quickly. It turns out that she might have actually been on to something.
Fast forwarding a year or so from that initial moment when I began coming to terms with where I was, I can say that this journey has been difficult. I can admit now that I’ve always been a high functioning person with low key anxiety issues. In 2017, a perfect storm of life events set the stage for a period of intense anxiety and the most conveniently timed panic attacks that have ever happened to someone. It was like the abundantly crappy year that was 2017 became some awful version of an Oprah Winfrey show: “YOU get some crap, YOU get some crap, EVERYONE gets crap!”
I can admit now that I’ve always been a high functioning person with low key anxiety issues.
Well, really it started back in November of 2016, aside from that whole Trump-becoming-president-and-making-America-ridiculous-again thing. I was burnt out. Exhausted. Spent. But life must go on and so it did. There was a significant amount of leadership change at my job. In less than a year, 5 out of our 8 person leadership team stepped down, including our CEO. They changed industries, moved or whatever people do when they leave. Can you imagine?! 3 of us were left to run an already struggling organization and the 5 months that followed were tough. Really, tough. Overwhelming. Tiring. Challenging. Confusing. Full of let downs and disappointing discoveries. Sleepless nights. Worry. Eating crap. Work. School. Repeat. More work. School. Repeat. Really stressful work. School. Repeat. Terribly overwhelming work. School. Repeat. Panic attack. Two panic attacks, in the same day.
Whoa.
“Stop.”
“Maybe, you need to stop, Natasha.”
In the spring of 2017 I had two panic attacks that stopped me dead in my tracks. Like, “I can’t breathe…I think I’m dying… I think I’m dead…oh maybe I’m still alive….” kind of panic attacks. The first one struck one morning soon after I arrived at work. I managed to pull myself together because I had responsibilities but then once more on my way home. You can apparently press pause on your emotions, but you can’t press delete.
In the spring of 2017 I had two panic attacks that stopped me dead in my tracks.
It was terrible. It was the worst experience of my life and I wish that upon no woman, man, or living creature. It felt like I was suffocating. Drowning, minus actual water. My heart was racing. My chest was tight. And time seemed to stop while every system in my body seemed to speed up.
I called a friend who happens to be a therapist, and while I waited for her I called my brother. I love brothers. Brothers are smart. Calm. Steady. They google how to deal with a panic attack while you are having a panic attack. ha!
Bro: “Alright, count backwards from 100, by threes”
Me: “That’s dumb.”
Bro: “Tasha, just do it”
Me: “100, 97, 58, 55, …. help me”
“52…”
“38..”
Bro: “How do you feel?”
Me: “Better…That was actually really helpful, it helped me take my mind off of things long enough to calm down. Thanks.
Bro: “Yeah, no problem”
What a terrible thing to experience. It completely threw me for a loop. I was strong. Steady. A hot mess, but a put together mess. Who was I now that I apparently couldn’t handle life? How would I ever handle actual hard things in life? Husbands, Children, attempting to go vegan? Am I a crazy person? Weak? Unfit. for. everything. in life. ever? What would my friends think? My family? How would I explain what I didn’t understand? How did this happen? How did I get here? Better yet, how do I get out of here? This low, low, low place? This lonely place surrounded by self-doubt and insurmountable worry? On that day I realized I literally had nothing left to give. I left it all out on the field and fell flat on my face.
Who was I now that I apparently couldn’t handle life?
In my cloud of confusion, my business mentor told me get off my behind and do something about it. Do what I need to do to get me in a good place.
So, I did. I quit my job. Twice, actually. Difficult decision. But necessary. No back up plan. Just panic attacks and Jesus. A few weeks later I finished my last class (ever).
Then there was nothing. No plan, no nothing. I thought that because I was so wonderful, I’d find another job in two days. That was dumb, because I didn’t find a job in two days, I found a job in 5 months. I was unemployed for over 5 months. What is life? Just a stay-at-home single alone with her thoughts. What a confusing time…
Ok. But what did you do during those 5 months?
I cried. I worried. I prayed. I cried some more. I doubted. Then I reached out.
I sought out a counselor, even though I have Jesus. And I’m saved. And I’m the daughter of Haitian immigrants. I sought out a counselor even though I have a great group of friends, great family members, and a great church. I dealt with my crap. I gave myself permission to breathe. I finally admitted that I had a problem with anxiety. And suddenly so much more of my life and relationship with Christ made sense.
I went to a really low place and came out wiser, despite my awareness of how much I didn’t understand. I came out softer and yet, more formidable. I came out with a deeper and more truthful understanding of my identity. I was a daughter of Christ, daughter to Caribbean parents, and someone who struggles with anxiety. All those things are true, simultaneously.
I was a daughter of Christ, daughter to Caribbean parents, and someone who struggles with anxiety. All those things are true, simultaneously.
I’d have a whole book by the time it would take me to tell you all the details of the last year of my life.
I’ve shared my story with a few people and what is crazyyyyy is many of my friends (and even some in my Caribbean family) have suffered from severe anxiety issues. Panic attacks. The works. I couldn’t believe how many people related to the experience I had… It made me a little sad. It made me feel like I wish people talked about stuff like this more.
I wish Christians talked about stuff like this more. Anxiety and depression. I wish more people knew how much the people around them struggled just as much they do, internally.
I wish talking about things was easier. Less taboo. I wish that it took less courage.
I wish more Christians would go to counseling, even while they prayed for a spirit of peace.
I usually have some fancy ending to my posts. But all I’ve got is Jesus. It is only through the grace of God that I made it through that season in my life. His mercy allowed me to be surrounded by people who love me. I found safe places in counselors and sisters/brothers in Christ. I found refuge in the arms of our Father. I survived. Anxiety didn’t end my life. God was greater. Being vulnerable with mature people in my life didn’t push them away. I am not a crazy person (mostly). The point is: my life didn’t end that day, or during that season. Joy came in the morning… eventually.
If this post finds you in that place of despair, desperation and self-doubt. I pray that you would know that our heavenly Father is with you… and that you would be open to getting counseling.
I will run and NOT grow weary.