by Sarah Knight
Or, and this is just a wild guess, maybe it’s all of the above?
Yeah, I kinda thought so.
Well get ready to drop a jaw, because I have news for you: IT’S ALL CONNECTED. That low hum of background anxiety, your worries about Shit That Hasn’t Happened Yet and Shit That Already Has, the little stuff and the big. All of it is related and all of it can be attacked with the realism, pragmatism, and logical thinking that I’ll be preaching throughout Calm the Fuck Down.
But before you can attack your anxiety about it, you must identify and isolate the specific, underlying problem. One at a time, please.
Sometimes that’s easier said than done. If we’re talking about a smashed-up Schwinn or a gopher colony, then I trust you know what’s what.* But there may also be days when you feel blah and blech for no reason, and those feelings send you spiraling into the Bad Place.
I can’t fall asleep at night.
I woke up in a panic.
I can’t relax.
I’m so distracted.
No reason, huh? INCORRECT.
There is a reason for your anxiety, a what-if behind your worry. And if you can name it, you’ll be in a much better position to calm the fuck down about and deal with it. For example:
I can’t fall asleep at night because what if I get bad news from the doctor tomorrow?
I woke up in a panic because what if my presentation goes badly today?
I can’t relax because what if I don’t study enough to pass the test?
I’m so distracted because what if I forget to do everything I’m supposed to do?
Everything is a tarantula
I’m familiar with waking up in a panic. I’m also familiar with feeling blah and blech for “no reason.” It can come upon me in the morning, late at night, or even at the stroke of 4:00 p.m., my cherished “spritz o’clock.” I liken it to being stalked by a hidden tarantula; I know there’s something out there, but if it refuses to show its fuzzy little face, how can I be expected to deal with it? When I find myself actually muttering “Everything is a tarantula” out loud—as I have taken to doing since oh, about six months ago—I’ve learned to stop and ask myself No, what is it really? Because everything is not a hidden tarantula. Everything is right out there in the open, with a name and a form of its own: My book is due. My parents are coming to visit. The roof is leaking. I’m planning a party. I have a new boss. Did I pay the phone bill? Only when you take the time to identify what’s truly bothering you, can you start to address it. And anything is better than a tarantula, which means this technique works on multiple levels.
First, you need to figure out why you feel this way, so you can figure out what to do about it. ACKNOWLEDGE the problem. You do that part, and I’ll help with the rest. I think it’s a more-than-fair trade for a few minutes of introspection on your part, don’t you?
If you woke up in a panic this morning or you’re feeling blah or blech in this very moment, take ten minutes right now to give your tarantulas a name. You don’t have to calm down about or deal with them just yet, but get ’em out of the shadows and onto the page.
(If you are not currently experiencing “everything is a tarantula” anxiety, skip this part—but keep it in mind for the future.)
MY TARANTULAS:
Next up, I’ll show you what happens when your worries and what-ifs leave you not merely distracted or unable to sleep, but barreling toward a full-fledged freakout.
Why am I taking you deep into the Bad Place? Because understanding how freaking out works will help you understand how to avoid it.
The evolution of a freakout
Imagine you’re hosting your daughter’s high school graduation party this weekend. She’s headed off to the University of Texas; you’re very proud. And although you tallied the RSVPs thrice and calculated your provisions accordingly, what if more people show up than you expected?
You start to worry that you don’t have enough food and drink to serve all of your guests, plus the inevitable plus-ones, plus a half dozen teenage boys who will undoubtedly show up unannounced and decimate the hot dog supplies, leaving you with a subpar grilled-meat-to-potato-salad ratio far too early in the day.
This is normal. Show me someone who’s planned a big event and hasn’t been plagued by what-ifs and worries and I’ll show you a superhuman who runs on Klonopin and hubris.
It’s what you do (or don’t do) next that counts.
You could run out and grab an extra pack of dogs, and just throw them in the freezer if they don’t get eaten. By taking action—tying a knot in that loose thread—you can prevent this worry from destroying your metaphorical sweater.
Or, instead of acknowledging the problem (potential meat shortage), accepting what you can’t control (uninvited guests), and addressing what you can (dog quantities), you could just keep worrying.
Let’s say you do that.
What if the citronella torches don’t keep the mosquitos away as advertised? What if it rains? What if the UT novelty coasters I ordered don’t get here in time?
Uh-oh. Your sweater is unraveling knit one by purl two—and those are just the logistical what-ifs! You can’t help yourself. You keep pulling and tugging and adding more to the mix:
What if people take one look at my yard decorations and think I’m trying too hard? (Or not hard enough?) What if the neighbors are annoyed by all the cars parked along the street? What if we did all this work and everybody cancels at the last minute?
Now your sweater is more of a midriff top, you can’t stop to breathe, let alone take action, and you’re no longer merely worried—you’re officially freaking out.
This is how it happens. And with the proper training, you should be able to prevent it.
In part II, for example, we’ll practice identifying what you can control (investing in a few cans of industrial-strength bug spray, a tent, and expedited shipping) and accepting what you can’t (next-door neighbor Debbie’s disdain for orange-and-white floral arrangements; everyone you invited gets chicken pox) so you can prepare for some outcomes and let go of your worries about others. Go Longhorns!
But for the moment, and for the sake of a good ol’ cautionary tale, let’s stick to diagnostics. Because whether it’s bubbling up or already boiling over, it helps to know which type of freakout you’re experiencing.
They all look different and there are different ways to defuse each of them.
The Four Faces of Freaking Out
In my previous books, I’ve been known to offer a neat taxonomy of the different types of readers who could benefit from taking my advice. I do this because I find that encountering a somewhat personalized profile helps one feel seen, which is comforting when one is about to be smacked upside the head with some decidedly uncomfortable truths.
Which makes it unfortunate for you and me both that Freaking Out, How Everybody Does It and Why, is all over the goddamn map.
Some of us don’t blink an eye when our septic tanks back up, but hyperventilate if Starbucks runs out of almond croissants. Others pull a Cool Hand Luke when the car gets towed or the test results come back positive, but reach our own personal DEFCON 1 when the cable goes out during America’s Next Top Model.
Furthermore, freaking out manifests in different strokes for different folks. For some it’s the openmouthed, panic-sweating countenance of a Cathy cartoon from the eighties (“Ack!”); but for others, freaking out is more about tears than tremors. Or black moods. Or blank stares.
And to top it all off—any one of us might experience a different form of freakout on a different day, for a different reason.
For example, you may not be a big dumb crybaby like your friend Ted who spends all day posting “feeling emotional” emoji on Facebook, but if you lose your wedding ring or your grandma, you’re liable to get a little weepy. And I don’t typically waste my breath screaming and shouting, but one time in 2001 I opened the refrigerator door on my foot and the resulting spittle-filled tirade was not unlike Jack Nic
holson’s turn on the stand in A Few Good Men.
As I said, all over the map.
So instead of trying to fit you, as an individual freaker-outer, into one tidy category, I’ve winnowed the types of freakouts themselves into four big, messy categories—any one or more of which you might fall into at any given time:
Anxiety
Sadness
Anger
Avoidance (aka “Ostrich Mode”)
These are the Four Faces of Freaking Out—the masks we wear when we worry obsessively—and ooh, mama it’s getting hard to breathe up in this piece. Your job is to learn how to recognize them, so you can fight back.
Know your enemy and all that.
What it looks like: Anxiety comes in many forms, and for the uninitiated it can sometimes be hard to label. For example, you may think you’ve got a touch of food poisoning, when your upset stomach is actually due to anxiety. Or you might think you’ve been poisoned when really you’re just having an old-fashioned panic attack. (Been there, thought that.) Other indicators include but are not limited to: nervousness, headaches, hot flashes, shortness of breath, light-headedness, insomnia, indecision, the runs, and compulsively checking your email to see if your editor has responded to those pages you sent an hour ago.
(And remember, you don’t have to be diagnosed with capital-A Anxiety Disorder to experience lowercase-a anxiety. Plenty of calm, rational, almost-always-anxiety-free people go through occasional bouts of situational anxiety. Good times.)
Why it’s bad: Apart from the symptoms I listed above, one of the most toxic and insidious side effects of being anxious is OVERTHINKING. It’s like that buzzy black housefly that keeps dipping and swooping in and out of your line of vision, and every time you think you’ve drawn a bead on it, it changes direction. Up in the corner! No, wait! Over there by the stairs! Uh-oh, too slow! Now it’s hovering three feet above your head, vibrating like the physical manifestation of your brain about to explode. WHERE DO YOU WANT TO BE, HOUSEFLY??? MAKE UP YOUR MIND.
Overthinking is the antithesis of productivity. I mean, have you ever seen a fly land anywhere for more than three seconds? How much could they possibly be getting accomplished in any given day?
What can you do about it? You need to Miyagi that shit. Focus. One problem at a time, one part of that problem at a time. And most important: one solution to that problem at a time. Lucky for you, part II contains many practical tips for accomplishing just that.
Keep reading, is what I’m saying.
What it looks like: Weeping, moping, rumpled clothes, running mascara, the scent of despair, and heaving breathless heaving breaths. It can also lead to a condition I call Social Media Self-Pity, which is tiring not only for you, but also for your friends and followers. Cut it out, Ted. Nobody wants to watch you have an emotional breakdown in Garfield memes.
Why it’s bad: Listen, I’ve got absolutely nothing against a good cry. You’re worried that your childhood home is going to be bulldozed by evil city planners or that your hamster, Ping-Pong, might not make it out of surgery? By all means, bawl it out. I do it all the time. Catharsis!
Just try not to, you know, wallow.
When worrying becomes wallowing—letting sadness overtake you for long periods of time—you’ve got bigger problems. Ongoing sadness is EXHAUSTING. As energy flags, you might stop eating or leaving the house, which compounds the encroaching lethargy. You’ll get less and less productive. And all of that can lead to feeling depressed and giving up on dealing with your shit altogether.
But to be clear, being sad—even for a messy, depressing stretch—is one thing. Having clinical depression is another. If you think you might not be merely sad, but fully in the grip of depression, I urge you to seek help beyond the pages of a twenty-dollar book written by a woman whose literal job is to come up with new ways to work “fuck” into a sentence.
Though if that woman may be so bold: depression, like anxiety, can be hard to suss out when you’re the detective and your own head is the case. Do yourself a favor and listen to people around you when they say “Hey, you seem not merely sad, but fully in the grip of depression. Maybe you should talk to a professional?” And don’t be ashamed about it. All kinds of people—even ones with objectively hunky-dory lives—can suffer from depression. Mental illness is a bitch.*
All of this is to say, I may not be qualified to diagnose or treat you for depression (the disease); but under the auspices of Calm the Fuck Down, I think feeling depressed (the state of mind) is fair game. And to my mind, that state is exhausted.
What can you do about it? Patience, my pretties. We’re gonna get you up and out of bed sooner rather than later. It’s what Ping-Pong would have wanted.
What it looks like: Painful encounters with fridge doors notwithstanding, I don’t tend to get angry. Maybe it’s because my parents didn’t fight in front of me. Maybe it’s just my natural temperament. Or maybe it’s because I’m a stone-cold bitch who skips getting mad and goes straight to getting even. But even though I don’t do a lot of yelling, screaming, wishing poxes on people, or setting fire to their prized possessions myself, that doesn’t mean I don’t know the drill. Those in the throes of anger experience unhealthy side effects such as rising blood pressure and body temperature, the desire to inflict physical violence and the injuries sustained upon doing so, splotchy faces, clenched jaws, and unsightly bulging neck tendons.
But an invisible—though no less damaging—result of an angry freakout is that it impedes good judgment. IT MAKES THINGS WORSE.
Why it’s bad: In the age of smartphone cameras, every meltdown is a potential fifteen minutes of infamy. Do you want to wind up on the evening news spewing regrettable epithets or on Facebook Live destroying public property because you couldn’t calm the fuck down? No, you do not. Behold: Mexican Airport Syndrome.
Mexican Airport Syndrome
Once upon a time my husband and I were returning from a family vacation that had been organized by a travel agent. Somehow, when the thirteen of us got to our connecting flight in Mexico City, I didn’t have a ticket. Not a seat assignment, mind you, but a fucking ticket. Who knows what had happened, but you know what doesn’t fix it? Getting all up in the face of the airline employee manning the check-in desk. My [sweet, generous, kind, typically very calm] husband nearly learned this lesson the hard way when he lost his shit on one of said employees for about three-point-two seconds before I elbowed him in the ribs and communicated I don’t want to get detained overnight—or forever—in Mexico City with my eyes. Also saving his tocineta that day was the Long Island mom who was having the same problem and dealing with it in an exponentially worse way. Do you know that she has a Very Important Bar Mitzvah to attend tomorrow?!? Right. I got on the plane. She didn’t.
What can you do about it? Well, you could take an anger management class, but that doesn’t sound very pleasant. I have a few stimulating alternatives I think you’re going to like. (Especially here. That’s a good one.)
PS If I’m being honest, I’m curious about what it’ll take to activate my Anger face. It’s been a good fifteen years since the Refrigerator Incident and ya girl is only human.
What it looks like: The tricky thing about Ostrich Mode is that you may not even realize you’re doing it, because “doing it” is quite literally “doing nothing.” You’re just ignoring or dismissing warnings and pretending like shit isn’t happening. Nothing to see here, folks! Head firmly in the sand.
(BTW, I know these giant birds do not really bury their disproportionately tiny heads in the sand to escape predators, but I need you to lighten up a little when it comes to the accuracy of my metaphors; otherwise this book will be no fun for either of us.)
Now, sometimes the ’strich stands alone—if you’re merely putting off a mundane chore, that’s pure, unadulterated avoidance. Other times, ostriching is the result of having already succumbed to anxiety, sadness, and/or anger. In those moments it feels like your brain is a pot of boiling lobsters, and if
you can just keep the lid tamped down tightly enough, maybe you’ll never have to confront their silent screams. (This is typically when I dive headfirst for the couch pillows.)
Why it’s bad: First of all, un-dealt-with shit begets more shit. Ignoring a jury summons can lead to fines, a bench warrant, and a misdemeanor on your permanent record. Pretending like you haven’t developed late-life lactose intolerance can lead to embarrassing dinner party fallout. And refusing to tend to that pesky wound you got while chopping down your Christmas tree may mean spending the New Year learning to operate a prosthetic hand better than you operate an axe.
And second, while I concede that willfully ignoring whatever shit may be happening to you is a shrewd means of getting around having to acknowledge, accept, or address it—guess what? If your worries have sent you into Ostrich Mode, you haven’t actually escaped them. They’ll be sitting right outside your hidey-hole the next time you lift your head. (Hi, guys. Touché.) Avoidance means NEVER, EVER SOLVING YOUR PROBLEM.
What can you do about it? Great question. Just by asking, you’re already making progress.
