High anxiety

One of the biggest challenges I face as a parent is helping my son, who’s going on 9, learn to cope with and manage anxiety.

I got a call from the school today to pick him up from the sick bay. I’d assumed it was related to the mild cold and wheezy chest that kept him home yesterday, which was flared up by what seems to be a sensitivity to grass. It turned out he’d had a panic attack in class over thinking he’d fallen behind after his day’s absence. The Principal asked me into her office to get my opinion over how he’s tracking this year. I’m so grateful that he’s attending a school that’s supportive and interested in his experience. We talked about how he’s come a long way since he started in Reception (prep), when he’d get so worked up about facing new things, instructions and the perceived need to get things right that he’d freeze or hide under the table. It took a while to convince him that Time Out was a disciplinary measure, not somewhere to send yourself if you didn’t understand something or finish a task on time.

Most of the time he’s fine once he’s found his confidence. He’s fortunately a very personable and funny kid who’s liked by his schoolmates and teachers. We could see today for what it was: a combination of returning to school after a week’s holiday during term-time broken by a sick day, a low grade thing hanging around and the unsettling influence of a growth spurt. But it didn’t completely negate the guilt I felt over yelling at him that morning when his procrastination made me late for work.

We went to a nearby cafe for a chat over a custard tart about what we could do to manage his thinking and behaviour when he felt the anxiety rear up. He talked about how, in essence, he feels he is his soul, but that his brain gets stressed and upsets his soul. We talked about mantras and decided he liked ‘I’m okay’. He asked if we could go to the shops and buy a stress ball, which we did (although I’ve told him we’ll call it a calming ball). We drilled a couple of hooks into the end of his bookcase so he can hang up his backback and jacket instead of always stressing about where it is (it’s always in his cupboard with the rest of his school gear but that’s a child’s mystery and a parent’s gripe). At bedtime, we did the relaxation exercise while lying in the dark. I congratulated myself for dealing with it all pretty well, but it didn’t completely negate the guilt I felt over my raised voice at his body tensing, breath holding, eye widening when asked to perform simple tasks in the evening. But that shit’s dangerous play: enacting run of the mill avoidance through an impression of a panic attack.

I get it, though. The fear of new things, the doubting self-talk as the default mindset, the feeling of dread when thinking about the big picture, the crankiness and defensiveness this lack of locus of control results in, which is often baffling to others. I don’t know how much is nature or nurture and really don’t care to think on it, but he takes after me. His reactions are different (I was more of a Noddy type), but he reminds me a lot of me as a kid. Which gives me hope, because I’m now a high functioning adult who can put things into context and know the things I need to do to to get my shit together when I feel my brain overwhelming my soul. But it also scares me, because I know what I had to experience to get to this stage.

When my son was about three, I was awarded a national scholarship to do my PhD. I found myself somewhat of a golden-haired child of the faculty because of the prestige of my award, my ‘cutting edge’ topic and approach and that I was a librarian. I won the best presenter gong at the university’s annual research conference the day prior to my confirmation of candidature. The first year was sensational, although I felt uncomfortable about having so much smoke being blown up my arse. But things changed at the start of my second year. My grandfather died, which wasn’t devastating in itself (he was in his 90s) but it was an event that kicked off a period of reflection and introspection. About who I was in my family. About the effect my thesis approach would have on my parents when certain truths and metaphors would come out. About how I was perhaps living the right dream, but it was definitely the wrong time, wrong topic, wrong supervisor, wrong faculty. The wrong city, the wrong set of friends. The wrong mindset and values. I could feel the sickening dread building up inside while the foundations sunk downward, just like that cinematic effect where the dolly pulls the camera back while the closeup drives forward. Eventually I could no longer listen to the churchlike dogma: it’s natural to have painful doubts as long as you come back to belief and keep going no matter what. I left on four weeks sick leave knowing I wouldn’t come back, and the sudden and tragic death of a close friend who was guiding me through it was the final nail.

I heard someone say once that a bad experience takes just as long a period to get over it, and it was definitely true in this case. Figuratively, I had to learn to walk again. I spent months finding a balance between weaning myself off the compulsion to read for my life and not wanting to have to read a single unnecessary word. The more I worked on letting go the stress, the more my body reacted to the withdrawal. Muscles in different parts of my body would twitch at random. I’d find myself scratching skin that wasn’t really itchy if I stopped to think about it. But I got there. One of the biggest influences was reading a book recommended by a GP called ‘Relief Withouth Drugs’ written way back in the 1960s. I started formulating a relaxation routine, running through my body parts, visualising and becoming aware of how they felt. I would wear a bulldog clip somewhere on my hand to override the buzzing of chronically tense muscles with a proactive form of discomfort to help me focus.

One day I told my mum about how I was using the book. ‘Oh, that was the book Nanna and Poppa used for their recovery after their respective nervous breakdowns,’ she commented. That moment had a quiet but seismic impact that resonates in me even to this day. My grandfather was a returned WWII serviceman who suffered years of PTSD, and his wife suffered along side him. They were always the picture of calmness and joy, even when they said they were feeling gloomy or restless. Each morning after breakfast without fail, they would settle into their comfortable chairs, close their eyes and meditate for several minutes. I used to think it was funny as a child: they’ve been asleep for eight hours and they need further rest and invigoration? But it made sense to me on a deeply soulful, even spiritual, level as I struggled my way through the exercises in the early days. It gave a new meaning to what I’d always told myself: if they can flourish out of the hardships they’ve been through, then there’s nothing stopping me.

Doing my poem-like version of meditation makes me feel hopeful once more. It makes me feel better when I’m feeling bound up with anxiousness, and makes me feel wonderful when I’m happy. And it’s something I know I’ll find hope as a mother as I help my son know…

I have come here to relax. I value my mental health.
I start with my toes. I count them: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
My feet are like sleepy puppies. My ankles are slack. My calves are docile. My knees are slack. My thighs bear no responsibility.
My body is at rest on my pelvis. My belly loosens and lolls; it feels funny to be this relaxed. My torso is like a tree trunk: strong and calm. I take a deep, refreshing breath, a gift of oxygen for my lifeblood.
My shoulders lower and settle; my neck lengthens and lightens; my head perches perfectly on top. I am like a marionette: graceful and still.
I am veiled softly by my scalp, forehead, eyelids, cheeks, lips, chin, jaw, throat. I take another breath because it feels so good.
My limbs rest low in their moorings. My upper arms bear no responsibility. My elbows are slack. My forearms and docile. My wrists are slack. My hands are like sleepy puppies.
And my fingers? I count them: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ten.
I am a calm person. I am a relaxed person. I am confident and I am brave. I can handle anything life can throw at me.