Nattalie Gordon I've always made a point of never discussing religion, politics and race relations. I'm still taking that stance since this isn't a discussion, I'm simply saying how I'm feeling currently. I'm now very aware of myself all the time. I don't know If that's a good or bad thing. I'm aware of where I am all the time... and how I look while I'm there. I've been Black my whole life but I've never had to think about it everyday as I wake up. Do white people (and other races) think about their skin color everyday too? Is it just me? I'm not American so I do not use AAVE (African-American Vernacular English), I usually speak standard English because that's the English we speak where I'm from. Except now I'm aware of this fact and I'm not sure how to feel about it. Black people, 'my people' think I don't 'sound' Black and sometimes rush to make very unsettling assumptions. An African-American Uber driver had to call me for directions, when he arrived he looked at me all quizzical. Then he said "Hmm, I thought you was a white lady!" In a hurry to save face I replied "Oh, It's just because I'm not American, I didn't grow up here." While I hastened to explain, what I actually meant was 'please don't be mad at me for not sounding like I probably should.' But now, oh now I find myself feeling fortunate to not sound like a stereotype. People can't tell what race I am from a phone conversation and If they can't tell then they can neither help nor hinder me. Why should I have to consider these things? I am now in college much later than what's considered traditional, where I come from any sort of schooling beyond high school is still considered a luxury many people cannot afford. I've heard time and time again that I don't actually need college since many people hold jobs that pay quite handsomely and does not require a college degree. I've heard that college in America is simply another money-making scheme. College for me though is a place my grand and great grandparents weren't allowed in. They died poor, uneducated and barely functionally literate not because they chose not to 'pull themselves up by the bootstraps' and educate themselves; but because people with their skin color simply weren't allowed to part-take in this grand, luxurious money-making scheme. So whenever I feel the urge to simply quit school, I tell myself I'm staying the course for my family members who weren't allowed to. If you're Black and alive right now then you probably need therapy. I'm a distance runner, It's one of the things I enjoy doing. Before Ahmad Aubrey, I used to only think about a few things when going for a run. I hope my legs won't get that runner's itch, I hope no dogs in my neighborhood get loose and chase me, I hope I can run longer than I did last time. Now when I run I think 'Gosh, I hope some scared little white lady don't happen to see me running and think I just stole something and I'm running to make a getaway.' And somehow I feel like that's unfair. I am naturally a somewhat conservative dresser, but these days I don't simply choose an outfit because I like it. I find myself choosing clothing that says I'm not like 'those Black people.' I try to appear as non-threatening as possible. And I feel ashamed even though I keep doing it. I suppose I'm like a porn addict who feels ashamed but goes right back each time they clear their browser history. I ensure I smile and wave pleasantly in certain spaces. I stop mid-run to talk to my neighbors, ask after their dog who had surgery and I cleverly divulge information about myself, hoping I will appear less threatening. Why must I do this work constantly? Whenever I see White people looking at me intently, I find myself wanting to shrink down in my seat and cover my face until they look away. Because my mind races against itself in an effort to hopefully figure out what they may or may not be thinking. Are they thinking 'Ugh, look at that one. I wish I could kill it right where it stands.' Could they be thinking 'By God, they may very well be human after all, despite what we were told/taught?' Why do I even have think about this? It's tiring and seeing countless images of people who look just like me splashed all over TV screens daily is quite triggering. I hope I don't know, don't live next to and will never meet a person who watched George Floyd die with his face pressed to an asphalt and not feeling anything. I'm afraid to be assertive lest it be interpreted as aggression. I'm mindful of getting angry just in case it causes some people to 'fear for their lives.' I might as well be honest here, in case I die or get killed because my skin, my hair or my existence scare the wrong person. I don't like myself too much. I've tried. Some days I can look in the mirror and smile back at my reflection. But for the most part I avoid looking myself in the eye. I feel like perhaps Black people deserve what has happened to us. Maybe we were in fact born inferior. Maybe Dr. King was wrong, maybe we really are only three-fifths human. Maybe I have no right to desire education, a good job, a decent place to live. Maybe my decision to forego childbirth, dating and relationships in general is the only real sensible one I've made in a long time. For how stupid would I be to purposely bring a Black son into such a world? Only for him to undoubtedly be viewed and treated like a very large, very poisonous snake! I feel as though I don't deserve love and perhaps that's why it has so far managed to evade me in all its forms. Being alive means I can run, experiment in the kitchen, read as many books as I can, as fast as I can. Being alive means I can enjoy these simple things that make me smile if only just for a moment. If I was sure I'll still be able to do the same in the afterlife, then perhaps I'd have been brave enough to go there a long time ago. Isn't it silly, the thought that I stuck around because that's the only way I'm able to read? I once tried telling myself 'I love you,' and ended up feeling absolutely stupid. I've yet to work up the courage to call myself beautiful. And mean it. So you see...
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Anxiety is not how it looks in the movies!
Sometime in early December 2015: I woke up one morning and the left side of my chest, right over my heart was hurting. Like my mother, I’ve always been abit of a worrier, I diagnosed myself with depression at age 12. I cried almost daily my freshman year. When a bunch of teenagers realize how effortless it is to get the youngest kid in high school to cry, they don’t let up. After feeling horrible for months on end I read about this thing called Depression and then I took a suggested quiz. It instructed me to tick off from a list of 12 symptoms, which ones I had. That day I ticked off around 10 of the 12. I never told my parents or any of the other suggested adults. I didn’t exactly have a Pastor, my parents were simple country folk who wouldn’t understand any sickness that didn’t have a physical manifestation. Then there was the whole ‘talk to your school counselor/nurse’ bs. That was a no-no. As an 11 year old kid in high school who was already getting bullied, it wasn’t worth the risk to be spotted coming out of a counselor’s office. Then there was the school nurse, I wholeheartedly believed that woman hated kids. In fact she’d stomp around school all mad, insulting every and anyone within firing range and I think maybe she too was depressed. So no, talking to Nurse Ritchie was the worst idea. Back to December: 2015 was a terrible year for me, let’s just say everything that could go wrong went wrong and my stress levels for that entire year was through the roof. Constantly. The year kicked off with a breakup and an ensuing heartbreak that lasted longer than 12 months. For the first time in my life I didn’t have an address and was shuffling from one friend to the next. I uprooted my life on purpose in an effort to better myself. It was the first time I’d actively tried to take a few life chances, not one of those chances worked out and now the year was ending with me being suicidal. The chest pain was dull and annoying but I tried to ignore it. But I realized I really wasn’t myself when I became out of breath just doing simple chores like washing dishes or sweeping the floor. I grew up in rural Jamaica, we walked everywhere and most of us are physically strong and athletic. Now I was starting to feel weak, nauseous and just horrible overall. Then Christmas Eve came. I cooked dinner, I was excited to do it but then my appetite suddenly disappeared and I could barely eat anything. There was an old African soap opera I’d been obsessed with for years and I watched it every Sunday when it came on. Lots of people get sick and die on TV all the time and in real life and it never affected me. But then a character on the show suddenly got pancreatic cancer around the same time my weird feelings started getting worse. A lady I’d known since childhood had also just died and it was suspected that cancer was the cause. On the news a local 18 year old soccer player was also diagnosed with cancer in his leg and later died. That Sunday while watching my beloved soap opera I suddenly had to turn the TV off. Just like that. My dad was pleasantly surprised as I’d been taking over the TV from 2-4pm for years. I simply told him it was time to move on and I was done with soap operas and all that nonsense. I couldn’t tell him that suddenly seeing death all around me was doing something to me. I couldn’t say that the guy on the soap getting cancer struck a sudden fear in my heart and now I was terrified, weak and nauseous. I also didn’t know what severe Hypochondria was at the time. By December 28th I couldn’t eat at all! My chest felt like someone was sitting on it, I became cold in a hot house, my legs felt like jelly and I couldn’t breathe properly! I also couldn’t sleep, I had horrible nightmares and would jolt awake within an hour of falling asleep. I was shaking like a leaf constantly, I clenched my teeth so tight my jaws hurt and I could feel my teeth move. December 29th. It got bad, real bad. All the feelings I described got way worse, the world suddenly felt big and scary and I felt like I was free falling into a black hole. I felt sure I was dying. I could no longer hide it so I told my mother who reminded me it was the one year anniversary of my great aunt’s death. She reminded me just how stressful those final few months had been and that she wasn’t up for planning another funeral. Thanks mom, that really helped. It actually did, I took my ass to hospital and told myself it was better to die there than in front my mother. I arrived at hospital around 4pm December 29th and I suppose the fact that I walked in and registered meant I wasn’t in immediate danger. So they made me wait with like a million other people who weren’t emergencies, just asthma attacks, psychotic episodes and unimportant maladies like that. I curled up on a chair in a corner listening to people compete with each other with stories of someone they knew who died right where we were because nobody came to attend to them. You’d think things couldn’t possibly get worse for me but they did. I didn’t see a doctor until around 3:30 the next morning. He was a young, bleary eyed Asian kid who looked not much better than I did. I tried to explain what was happening to me but he cut me off saying it was stress and/or gas. He scribbled a prescription on a piece of paper, got up, walked into the hall and yelled for the next patient…while I was still sitting there in the throes of anxiety! Him asking for the next patient was how I realized he was done with me. I wasn’t in there five minutes! Of course in order to get the pills for free I had to get them from the hospital pharmacy. Let’s just say I waited in a super long line around six more hours. By the time I left the Cornwall Regional Hospital in Western Jamaica it was around 4pm December 30th. I’d tried to register for an EKG but was told I could be there as long as I was the day before so I left and borrowed money from my mother to do one at a private facility. The doctor said my heart was fine but he’d never seen someone my age (28) with stress levels that high. He told me that my prolonged period of extreme stress had culminated in acute anxiety and that it wasn’t going to get better unless I figured out a way to eliminate the stressors. He even suggested that I leave whatever environment I was in when it all started. As it turned out I had made plans to leave the country in another week. Little did I know that even though my appetite was back and I could eat a whole meal that day, my issues were by no means over. In fact they were just begging. January 2016: I was now in America but I wasn’t better. That’s when I became addicted to Dr. Google and WebMD. I dated someone for roughly two months and the only good thing that came from that was me dating a nurse. That’s how I heard about Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder as well as several other mental health disorders. Turned out I had GAD as well as extreme levels of Hypochondria. Let’s just say you don’t just experience a symptom or two then it’s back to life. Below are a list of symptoms I experienced over a seven month period. That’s right, it took half a year before I was physically, mentally and emotionally ok-ish again. SYMPTOMS: Headaches Dizziness Vertigo Sore spots on the back of my head, like I got hit with a blunt object. Burning skin Red spots on my skin Feeling hot in a cold room Constant, constant worrying Preoccupation with death and illness Extreme fear of a specific disease such as Cancer, AIDS, Tuberculosis etc. Feeling convinced I had at least 5 different types of cancers. Doctor shopping. Inability to watch medical shows or cancer-related advertisements. Somatoform Disorder. Being terrified of giving blood. Extreme obsession with WebMD. Crawling sensation in my legs. Intense pain ALL over my body. The worst been Back, elbow and leg pain. Temporary tunnel vision. Loss of appetite Rapid weight loss. Checking whole body daily for lumps/moles. Weighing myself at least two dozen times per day. Gag reflex when eating. Persistent nightmares. Inability to sleep without medication. Non-stop yawning. Startle easily. Terrified of loud noises. Talking about illness nonstop. Inability to make future plans for fear of sudden death. I know many of these symptoms sound made up, they’re not. This list will probably make me look like a crazy person, even though I’m not I sure felt like one. I’m taking the time to write this because if it could happen to me, it can happen to anybody. It’s also good to not feel like you’re the only one going through that much craziness. Many thanks to the complete strangers online (those from PatientInfo.UK especially) who helped me cope. I don’t know you guys, you don’t know me and we’ll probably never meet each other in any lifetime. But you made sure to listen to me as I did you. Together a bunch of crazies helped each other out. Guess what you guys? I got over it!! I freaking got over it!! All my symptoms disappeared after seven horrible months. I’m still here and I don’t curl up in a ball everyday thinking I have nine different types of terminal cancer. Hypochondria is the biggest bitch! So are the people on TV who make mental illness sound simple. P.S. I am still a person with a specific anxiety disorder and Hypochondria that flares up from time to time. But I’m ok. |
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