Little Black Storm Cloud

Anxiety. It was something Virgil felt every day. The constant worry, the little voice in the back of his mind that never seemed to go away. Anxiety was like a little black storm cloud that seemed to follow Virgil’s every step. “Did I lock my car door?” something that should be a simple yes or no “Yes I remember doing it” turned into a ten-minute thing. Check, the voice would say, it would nag and nag until Virgil did as it said and then he would check another 3 times just to be sure. The constant fear weighed on him like a fallen tree and despite all of his attempts there seemed to be no way out, no way to rid himself of the weight. He was on pills, medication given to him by someone in a white coat, someone who, Virgil felt, had no idea what it felt like to doubt every little thing they did.

The pills did not help when he was like this, drowning in his insecurities, his doubts and fears consumed him, holding him captive in their lies and half-truths. Sometimes it would start during work, sometimes it would happen when he was in public, and the worst times would come when he was at home. Virgil could never handle large crowds of people; it was why he worked at a library. Sometimes it did not matter, because it would be at home, in what was supposed to be the safety of his room that his anxiety would attack. At first, it was a mere whisper, small things that would bother him but were easy enough to ignore

“You look like crap today”

“How are your friends? When was the last time you talked to them? Maybe they hate you”

“They must hate you, you shouldn’t text them you might bother them. They don’t even like you”

“What’s the point of getting out of bed?”

As the voice spoke, a small pit formed in Virgil’s stomach, causing him to shift uncomfortably. As the voice got louder so does the pit, weighing him down more and more by each passing second. Some-days that was enough to keep Virgil in bed for a while or even all day. However, today he got up, determined to get something to eat despite the fact that he felt as though he might throw up. Virgil made his way into the kitchen of his small apartment as the voice played like a broken record in his head. He set his phone down on the counter, ignoring his friends and family for the time being despite his earlier worry of them not wanting him around. He knew he was no good to anyone like this.

As he searches through the fridge, he notices his hands are shaking but there’s nothing he can do about it just yet. Food is his best option, if he can distract himself long enough the voice will go away for a while. He pulls out a carton of eggs, setting them on the counter before he turns on his music, blasting it as loudly as he possibly can without bothering the neighbors. The voice tells him that he is “being annoying, they can definitely hear the music. They hate you too you know?” As he pulls out a small saucepan he also puts on headphones, the voice now warns against this as it could damage his hearing, he ignores it.

With anxiety usually comes panic attacks, some big and some small. He has medicine that is supposed to help with that but it does not always work. His panic attacks can be random, sometimes it takes a whole day of nothing but crap to trigger one and other times it only takes a few small things to go wrong all at once for him to drop. The world does not seem to be on his side as he drops the pan on his toe, cracks an egg that gets all over the counter, drops the shell in his eggs in the pan and then burns himself trying to get it out. He adds to much salt and ends up burning the eggs even though he had only left for the bathroom for less than two minutes. He finds out too late that he is somehow out of syrup and ends up biting his tongue, multiple times while trying to eat.

Suddenly his breathing is uneven; he drops the plate and almost breaks it, chipping the side of the now empty plate. That is the last straw; he gasps for air, puts the plate up onto the table before he drops to the floor, ripping his headphones off in the process. He cannot breathe, it is as if a vacuum sucked out all of the air in his lungs, he pushes himself back against the wall of his apartment. Virgil’s hands come up to either side of his head, covering his ears; it does nothing to stop the voice now screaming in his head “WORTHLESS. PATHETIC. ALONE.” His breaths came out in short forceful gasps, his entire body shook and tears welled up in his eyes. He was drowning. Virgil desperately tried to remember his breathing exercises, in for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. He tried, he really tried to follow those steps but he couldn’t, not yet.

The longer that he felt as though he couldn’t breathe the more he panicked, the more he panicked the more his hands shook, the more his hands shook the more the world closed in on him. The more the world closed in on him the longer he felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Curled up in a ball on the floor of his apartment Virgil let out a strangled sob, tears streaking down his red face. He mumbled the words “I can’t breathe” so many times that he had lost count, at this point he did not even realize he was talking aloud.

It takes what feels like an hour to him but is in reality only about five minutes for him to calm down enough to put on his headphones again. He still can’t breathe, but he’s stopped saying it out loud, letting his sobs take over as his body continues to shake violently. It takes another five minutes due to his tears blurring his vision and his shaky hands but he manages to put on a recording that will help him focus so he can start his breathing exercise again.

Anxiety is a tricky thing, too little of it can make someone carefree and a danger to themselves and the people around them. Too much of it can become a handicap, it can ruin your life, making you constantly worry over every little thing you do. Of course, there is a healthy balance but for some, that isn’t easy to find. For some Anxiety is a small voice in the back of their head that simply mumbles, making sure the person double and triple checks things, forcing them to worry over stupid things. For other Anxiety is a voice that screams at them until they can’t think of anything else.

Eventually, Virgil can breathe again, each breath is shaky and carefully planned but he can breathe and that’s what matters. Virgil calms down, but that doesn’t make the voice go away. He still has mini panic attacks throughout the day, moments where he forgets how to breathe. Anxiety is a little black storm cloud that follows Virgil around, staying over his head on good and bad days. Someday it’ll be easier for him to manage, things will get better. But for now, he takes things one step at a time.