An Unsettling New Normal
“The opposite to anxiety isn’t calm, it’s trust.”-Barry M. Prizant
The ceilings were high, light poured in through the tall, Georgian style windows that still had their original wood cornices. The kitchen was open and modern with tons of counter space. A deep bathtub hugged the corner of the spacious bathroom, and the bedroom featured deep windowsills I could place my books and plants on; everything I could have ever wanted.
My dream of a first apartment. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to walk into the building, meet the landlord and sign the lease that same day. I was buzzing, practically skipping down the street.
The independence I craved for years was finally at my fingertips.
It was beautiful, almost perfect, but too quiet. Anytime I was home, I would turn on the television to a comfort show, even when I was puttering around and not paying attention. It didn’t matter, I wanted the noise from a late 90’s sitcom like Friends or Sex and the City. Those fictional characters were company, they were comforting noise in my lovely and lonely home.
My life was too regimented. I went to work, came home on my time off, and only left the house to go to the gym and the grocery store. I had a pitiful social life. I was finally on my own and could make decisions for myself, but I had no one to share anything with.
On my day off, after coming home from the second workout of the day I would walk into the apartment, lock the flimsy lock on the door, and turn on the television which would remain on until I fell asleep. The lock on the door was the only thing aside from the aching quiet that I disliked about that apartment. It was the type of lock for a bedroom or bathroom door, no deadbolt, no u-swing, nothing. Suddenly, all the Law & Order: SVU episodes and Lifetime movies my mom showed me growing up were running through my head.
What would I do if someone broke in? Could I defend myself?
I didn’t know Rochester or anyone there, so I had to wing it when it came to finding a neighborhood. After signing my lease, some people at the station said the St. Paul Quarter downtown wasn’t the safest area. Oh, great!
The parking garage was a separate building behind the main building through a narrow alleyway. At one point I ceased running any errands after it became dark. Even without daylight savings time I adapted, always arriving home before the darkness descended at 5pm.
I had my routine for better or for worse, little habits to make myself feel safe. The flimsy lock on the front door always on my mind, subconsciously I began to fall asleep on the sofa where I had a view of the door, unlike the bedroom. If I could see the door, I could react. I would fall asleep to the comforting sound of the television and in the middle of the night I would wake up and drag myself to my bed. Night after night, only exhaustion allowing me to fully surrender. I slept like a baby at the station. The company of my shipmates and the station’s security made me feel safer than I ever did at home. The barbed wire gate, how each door required a code to enter, and the massive armory left me without a worry able to sleep through the night.
Doing all the “right” things all the time began to feel awful. Nothing but exercise, healthy meals, bed early, work, more exercise, no plans, no friends- it wasn’t sustainable. There needed to be balance. Especially at nineteen, things are supposed to be a mess. I placed an enormous amount of pressure on myself thinking I now have my life together therefore I can never regress. I thought it had to be linear. I confined myself to being so disciplined that the world became grey.
I wanted to believe that I could do it all, and in that moment and on paper, I was succeeding, still riding a wave of confidence after making it through boot camp, moving and settling into my new home all by myself. I felt I had pulled it all off and I became addicted to feeling like I could do everything and keep the lid on so tight.
Many months into my routine of working out in every spare minute, falling asleep with my eyes on the front door, getting sound sleep at work, then coming home and repeating it all, I began to breakdown. I couldn’t pretend any longer that I could do it all or do it in this regimented way, and on my next day off I searched the internet for a local therapist. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t recognize the narrative running through my mind anymore, I didn’t want this intrusive and cruel narrative. I didn’t understand why and when the world had become an unsafe place.
Because I couldn’t change my circumstances, I had to learn to cope with whatever this was.
I walked into the waiting room of a therapist I found online, going for the friendliest face and the best reviews, and found a woman in her late thirties who had both a kind face and great word of mouth.
The waiting room was cozy, about the size of a large walk-in closet with no other patients waiting. Ambient spa music played from a small white speaker on the floor, and multicolored lights were strung on white shelves that held self-help books. I sat there looking around, unable to sit still, a psychology magazine on the coffee table with the headline, “Live the life YOU want, CONQUER your negative thoughts!” caught my eye. I looked at the woman on the cover who had a big, beaming smile while she was hiking. I noticed she was hiking alone.
A door suddenly opened, and I heard a woman say, “See you next week, take care.” I glanced at a small white clock on the wall, my session was beginning in five minutes. The patient, a middle-aged looking man, quietly left as she gently closed the door behind her. I sat up straight knowing I would have to get up at any moment. I hadn’t been to therapy before. I didn’t tell anyone I was going.
The door opened, and I became nervous as the same person as before approached the waiting room. Then, the kind face I saw online appeared. Let’s call her Leslie.
“Hannah? I’m Leslie” she said while extending her hand.
“Hi, I’m Hannah” I offered.
Leslie gestured to her office, and I awkwardly slid past her and went to sit down. There was no leather couch in sight, but a 90’s style loveseat that I plopped right into as I made eye contact with Leslie. My palms began to feel humid.
“So. Tell me about you, why are you here today?” she asked while holding a pen and white legal notepad.
I didn’t know how to explain to her, how to put into words that living in the way I thought I was supposed to felt fucking terrible. How could I say that I didn’t want to self-sabotage or self-harm, but I couldn’t deal with this unsettling new feeling. How could I tell her I wanted to escape? How could I tell her about the lock on the door? How could I make it clear how unhappy I was?