Anxiety
Alarm goes off. You wake up. Dizzy.
Panic.
You don’t want to, but you check your phone.
You have 42 unread emails. 3 missed calls. 100+ unread WhatsApp messages.
You ignore the phone.
Mind is racing. You have a gazzilion deadlines. Everything is urgent. You hit the shower as you do mental check on the days’ work, errands and chores. It’s Saturday but it may as well be Tuesday. The thought makes the head-throbbing intensify.
You drag your feet to the kitchen and open the pantry just to find that the last of the cornflakes you wanted to eat for breakfast was raided that morning. (Remember the pack that had a ‘bunny’ at the front? — were a favourite but can’t get them any more nowadays.)
You then turn to your son who seems to be missing his pants, and ask, ‘What happened to the cornflakes?’ and he says, ‘ I don’t know’ with an innocent look.
Meanwhile, your daughter is watching TV and has been in a freeze position staring at that screen for 3 hours now. From 6.00 am. You shake your head. Speechless.
You ignore her.
Before you even contemplate thinking about where the help is when all this was happening, you look through the kitchen window and you realize that your car’s door is wide open (lucky the gate is locked). You go and try close the door and discover the battery is dead.
Defeated, you walk back into the house and try start breakfast going. It’s Saturday, 9.00am. But with Covid, it could be any day really. Days merge, the world isolated with it’s people.
You start the kettle. But forget it there.
You take a 2 table spoons of the kids Panadol as you think of calling the help, but you change your mind — you can’t face her.
Instead, you climb up the stairs slowly, feeling the weight on your shoulders. You get to the room, close the blackout curtains and collapse on your bed and tell yourself it’s a little nap (just to let the drugs do their magic).
You are bone tired.
Your mind is racing. Worried that some work won’t get done in time. Your power to control is slipping away.
You force yourself to close your eyes and quiet the self talk.
Your back is aching. So is your heart.
You feel hungry but you are not hungry.
You feel parched but you don’t want water.
You feel achy everywhere but you can’t pinpoint where exactly.
You crave for social interaction but you can’t face the world.
You feel dizzy but you are lying down.
You hear noises but no one spoke.
You know you need to rest but you keep checking on your calendar and phone.
You know you have impossible deadlines but you tell yourself you’ll still make it.
You want to get up. But your body won’t let you.
You are disintegrating.
Mentally.
Physically.
Emotionally.
You literally are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Just before you succumb to a disturbing sleep, you vaguely hear your phone ring.
It lasts 18 hours.
It’s Sunday, 5.00am.
You wake up feeling horrible with the realization that you need help. You text the help that you will be out and will return by mid morning. Quietly, you take an Uber to Nairobi hospital.
After doing the wash your hands thing, you are ushered to an outdoor queue, patients are seated 1.5m apart facing temporary white tents. Eerily, it reminds you of refugee camps that you’ve never been to but read about. You adjust your mask nicely.
You tell the nurse that you think your blood pressure is high and ask the nurse, ‘Perhaps I’m getting what my mother has; high blood pressure?’
Nurse looks at you strangely and says, ‘Pressure is perfectly normal.’
The doctor patiently listens to your story and gives you one long look and pulls up her chair towards you.
She looks at you deep in the eyes for a second and tells you what you have been denying all along.
And at that moment you know. You know that you have just had your first encounter of stress related mental health issue.
Now you know the feeling.