The past few weeks have been challenging.
Apart from a depression which has at times approached severe, I have had an
attack of near crippling anxiety. It’s the type of anxiety that has no origin,
no reason, and no explanation. It is like a knot is around my chest and
everything is a source of supreme concern.
The best way I can describe it is as though
every single thing I have to do or want to do is suddenly at the top of Mount
Everest. Going to CrossFit? That’s nice. The box is now located at the summit.
You want to do some reading for your PhD? That journal article is only
accessible at an altitude of 29,000 ft. Oh, I see, you want to get out of bed?
Best to climb a mountain first.
I wish I could say I was exaggerating. When
EVERYTHING feels like it needs so much effort to accomplish, even the simple
tasks like getting up, brushing your teeth, taking a shower, cooking a meal
feel completely impossible.
One of the things I have managed to drag myself to has been CrossFit but it has required two
to three hours of intense self-talk to get me going. Coupled with the thirty
minute walk each way and an intense hour long WOD, you’re looking at a five
hour process to complete just one task. That’s a huge time and energy
investment and at the end of it, I’m not able to tackle anything else.
I have found one source of escape in all of
this besides my workouts (which, once I get there, are really brilliant). I
have been doing a lot of pleasure reading. Normally, to unwind I’d toss on
Netflix, but recently every film and TV show has seemed really unappealing.
I’ve found a better escape by reading books which I have been wanting to read
for years but never quite got around to them. In the past month I’ve read A Picture of Dorian Gray, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, and An Unquiet Mind. For someone who has
also written two papers (one major) and has had to do academic reading this is
a huge accomplishment.
Though I seem the type, I’ve never been
what you would call a Reader with a capital R. Reading was a bit of a struggle
for me because as a child and through high school I was a terribly slow reader.
When we had to read three chapters for English on top of chapters in history
and other work, I could never manage it. I emerged from the state school system firmly convinced of my own
stupidity and hating the act of reading. In the fifteen years since then, whether
it was through necessity in the academic arena or finally being permitted
to read books that I genuinely found interesting, I guess I developed an
ability to read more speedily. I’ve read Lord
of the Rings and The Silmarillion
twice. I’ve read all of the Chronicles of
Narnia and numerous books on Thomas Jefferson. I devoured the Harry Potter
series and along the way I’ve read other random books mainly classics like the Art of War, Pride and Prejudice, Dracula,
and the like.
While everything else has seemed like a
completely impossible task, for the first time in my life reading for pleasure
doesn’t. In fact, it has been my only refuge over the past two weeks. When the
horrors of the real world have been too much, I’ve lost myself in someone else’s
story and for those few hours, the anxiety abates and the depression levels
off.
I suppose as far as coping mechanisms go
this isn’t a bad one. But this has become an escape and I haven’t been able to
do any work over the past week. At some point, I’m going to have to
put the books down and return to the real world and face those giant mountains.
Perhaps
my next book should be a climbing manual...
