Going Under

I can talk myself into an anxiety riddled doom spiral with the best of them. The most recent one I was on, was regarding my previously delayed colonoscopy. Fortunately, I was brought out of it by an extraordinarily nice nurse who put me in my place.

“This is preventative,” she said, lowering her voice. “Lots of other people are diagnostic.”

I swallowed that bitter truth. There was a time in my life where I could have come down hard on myself for needing her to point it out, for being selfish enough not to acknowledge everyone else’s pain. Mercifully, a mindfulness practice, and a more tender-to-myself heart, heard it for what it was. A reminder that there is gratitude and thanks I’ve sacrificed to the wild anxiety screeching in my head. Where was she when I was “prepping” on the toilet at 4am? 

I’m inclined to focus on pain and discomfort. So worried about stepping on seashells walking on the beach, I don’t always remember to look out into the ocean. And I love that intersection between water and sky.  

My mother gave voice to every bad thing she thought would happen, and deflected feelings of success like a ping pong death match. Yet, those few instances I’ve been able to focus on something other than disaster, I enjoy whatever it is a lot more.

The view can be life changing when you’re not forever focused on the dumpster.

I was thinking about this as I hit the water for a Caribbean snorkeling trip that had me pacing half the night out of fear. At least 80% of the time, I push through and do it anyway, but the road there is full of spikes. And panic.

Over the side of the boat, I tried to catch my breath into the mouthpiece but I was taking on water. I heard the captain’s instructions. I memorized all of the hand signals for help in the open sea. For sure, I felt too fat to stay buoyant, though when they offered the opportunity to inflate the life vest just a little, I declined. I wasn’t up all night panicking just to go on the kiddy ride, though I love a good spin on some teacups.

The litany of warnings about what could go wrong ran in my mind as I realized my ability to swim hadn’t left me. Yet. I was going to watch out for the stinging thing clinging to the rocks that resembled burnt candle wax, and not drift into a point beyond which I’d be snorkeling through currents I didn’t have a chance against. Anxiety makes me the ultimate rule follower. Or, at least, the knower of the rules. 

“Breathe,” my friend ordered. “Take the thing out of your mouth.” 

Anticipating disaster has served me at different times. I don’t go around unprepared for most eventualities. I’m armed with potential remedies I’ll never use, though weirdly devoid of tissues that tend to migrate into the emergency use section inside the abyss of my bag.

I’m able to offer myself the grace of non judgment and really look at what this anxiety means to me. I used to wear it like an amulet, the way my mother taught me. If I imagined it, it wouldn’t happen. If I planned for everything, nothing bad would come. 

But that only works for so long. Life happens no matter what talismans you carry. Somewhere it switched from safety to avoidance. I don’t like to think of myself as that kind of person. I encourage adventure, and I revel in new experiences. I’m just scared shitless.

I stuck my face in the water and instead of frantic panic, punctuated by fish, I skipped that part and witnessed some amazing schools. I didn’t want to futz with my mind and my mask anymore. If I was going down into the arms of the briny deep, I was going to enjoy the view. And it worked. I wish I could name what I saw, but I don’t know one rainbow striped thing from another, I just know they are magic. There’s a whole world down there waiting to explore. At least until it dries up or overflows in the coming climate showdown.

I put the “panic to pleasure” ratio as “very little to very much,” with less convincing than it has taken me historically. A win not only for me, but those who dare to adventure with me.

Yesterday morning, as the doctors were about to set me into a different kind of sea, I explained, because they might not know. 

“I have a high tolerance to pain meds.”

They laughed, like they’d met my kind before. “It’s strong stuff.”

While panic was having its way somewhere in my brain, that wasn’t where my focus was. My son is coming home next week from a months’ journey abroad. My dogs are the cutest…. 

I came out of it, grateful and relieved that all is well and I won’t have to slay this particular demon for several more years, despite the fact that they do give you the good drugs for it.

On the other hand, I’m taking recommendations for the best Massachusetts snorkeling spots. Anyone want to join?