head noise

Photo: Yoann Boyer

A few days ago I tuned into a podcast produced by Girlboss, where Sofia Amoruso interviewed Youtuber, Hannah Hart, and spoke about the ups and downs of self-made success. Part of Hart's testimony was her unique experience with mental illness and learning how to make the distinction between anxiety and intuition. I was inspired by her simple comprehension between the two; intuition she described as a gut feeling, the whirling juice that can't settle even after a wholesome night's rest. Anxiety, on the other hand, is a head thing. It's white noise, vibrating in circles like a dog chasing its tail. 

There are some days where I have to ask myself to zip my thoughts behind a dark waterproof jacket. If even the teeniest thoughts squeeze through I lose balance, and chaos consumes me. It chips away at this orange brick wall I build, block by block, every morning, during a rehearsed and perfectly monotonous routine. Waking up, for example, is often the heaviest brick, used to lay the foundation. I run to switch the heat on, let the water run till it turns luke, while I brush my teeth before washing my face, a few more bricks. I dress, cover and scent myself, more bricks. I get myself to the station, bus, foot, or uber, I am not ready, but I have created a ledge comfy enough to hide behind if absolute need be. It's book time on the train, and as my brows furrow underneath the sunlit windows, my wall is almost yay high. 

It's a protection and a defence. But yet still, there are gaps in the day, periods lasting a minute or so, where a thought wants to jump the fence. A long, dim, dark, square shadow looms, and I begin to wonder what the fuck I am doing. I watch the time, counting down when I can begin to take the bricks down again, to collapse into slumber, the only disposition I seem to want to spend most of my time these days.

Sometimes it bothers me when people question whether I have legitimate anxiety. Whether my thoughts are truly disorderly. There are buildings and lofts and skyscrapers running, businesses that don't close shop, and lights that flicker throughout the night - inside my tiny little head. I don't stop thinking. What a sensation it must be, to let go of the hooks that try and hinge a fleeting moment, and let water and air run its course through the day.

How much of myself will I lose if I choose this?

How can I compromise less?

If I choose to compromise more, can I guarantee a greater return?

Why do I suspect she is being disingenuous? Is she naturally like this, or is she playing a part?

I wonder if I am fit for the job?

How much money will this all cost? Will I have enough?

Will I crumble? Will I crack? Will I crack open? Will I fall through? 

What if he's not happy here? And what if I can't fix it?

What if none of this works? And what if it does?