Living in a Constant State of Anxiety
Words by Roxana Alexandru
The bang of a firework. The siren of an ambulance. A knock at the door. These seemingly benign sounds for anyone else transport me to the darkest corner of my mind. Each one of these sounds is a straight pang to my heart, with an accompanied panic attack. It wasn't always this way, but a plane ride to Germany in the fall of 2016 messed up all of my synapses so that the transfer of information from one brain cell to another was full of anxious static.
Let’s backtrack to that painful moment when I was short of breath and thought my world was ending. I was exactly four months pregnant when I stepped on a plane to visit my best friend in Germany. See, like any new mom, I knew that my life would be consumed by this new tiny addition to the family, so I wanted to travel before I couldn’t anymore. After having been to over 20 countries on my own, I didn’t think twice about booking my ticket. I envisioned spending the nights away with my best friend, chit-chatting about the future and what it’d be like to go through labor. Something I was terrified of! What I didn’t envision was that I wouldn’t sleep one minute on a 12-hour trip and that I’d get caught up in a vicious circle of thinking that I’d never get to meet my baby.
The moment the plane departed was the moment I broke down in inconsolable tears. I was flying to Paris, and during that time in 2016, there had been some terror attacks in France and Germany. The first thought that came to mind was that the plane would crash, ending all my hopes and dreams of meeting my baby. The second thought was that I’d be unlucky enough to end up in a terror attack at the Paris airport while waiting for my connection. The third thought was that, were I lucky enough to make it to Germany, I’d meet my end at a Christmas market.
These thoughts kept me up and kept the tears rolling down my face. I felt wave after wave of panic attacks at the lack of control I felt. Strapped to a chair, twenty thousand feet up high in the air, I only imagined my end. Thankfully I made it to Germany in one piece, and then back. Except I was now a completely different person. I’ll be honest and tell you that a week after I got back, there was a terror attack at a Christmas market in Germany – and all I could do was imagine myself there.
As my pregnancy progressed, the feelings I felt on that plane lingered, but I tried to suppress them deep down. Unfortunately, they were brought up to the surface with a vengeance the moment I got a call at 10:00 p.m. from my doctor, 10 days before my baby was due. Cue, panic attack. The words Cholestasis and stillbirth were ringing in my ears as we made our way to the hospital. Once there, I felt like I was in that plane again, losing control of my own destiny. Everything I’d imagined my birth to be, came crashing down. The idea of having a natural birth was thrown straight out the window. I was induced, and after 36 hours of labor, I ended up having an emergency C-Section.
A wave of guilt washed over me. “I can’t even have a natural birth, what kind of mom am I?” I thought to myself. I was so angry and frustrated that I couldn’t even look at my son. I wanted a do-over. While I was struggling with that guilt, a new setback hit me immediately. My baby was not latching properly. I was in so much pain from trying to breastfeed him. My nipples were split open, bleeding without mercy.
The first night in our own home, I broke down crying on my knees and told my husband I was already a bad mom for having to feed my baby formula. That was the breaking point for me because not only did I fail to have a natural birth, but I didn’t have what it takes to feed my baby. I pushed through in the next couple of weeks and managed to successfully breastfeed.
As my maternity leave ended, anxiety had officially taken control of me. Out of nowhere, I was paralyzed. I was too scared to go to work or to drop off my kid at daycare, lest an active shooter would lurk around the trees. My anxiety reached sky-high levels due to the massive amount of time I spent reading the news, watching the news, and imagining that I was on the news.
Every shooting, every car accident, every plane crash felt like it happened to me or to my family. I broke down in tears daily and wondered if all moms felt this sickening feeling in their stomach every second. I even stopped walking the neighborhood at a certain time of day. I literally stopped living, and that’s what killed me.
After eight months, I had to do something because we booked our first international trip, and I was terrified to step foot on another plane. I knew that wasn’t a reality for me because I loved to travel too much to stop. I had to overcome these irrational thoughts that consumed me, so I went to see a therapist. The sessions helped me tremendously to the point where we’ve taken our son to five different countries in the past year. While the anxiety is a constant companion that tags along wherever I go, I’m living my life to the fullest extent possible, because I know that the alternative is not acceptable.
It’s been three years now since that fateful day on the plane and the growth I’ve experienced has been tremendous. I’ve channeled all my worries and anxieties into a passion project that keeps my mind focused, on top of having a full-time job. I work on my mental health through self-care rituals. It’s a constant battle that I’m internally facing, but I know that I’m not alone. I know that every mom out there worries and hugs their kid just a little bit tighter every night, knowing that the worst could come to fruition the next day. I’ve let go of the mom guilt and I remind myself every day that I’m doing the best I can for my son, even though I may not meet my own expectations. I’m finally at peace with my birth experience and the struggles I had to overcome.
Living in a world that’s riddled with uncertainty, I’ve found peace in being mindful of the present, of putting down my phone when my son is home, and of keeping those dark thoughts at bay.
The bang of a firework. The siren of an ambulance. A knock on the door. I’ve grown to override these noises with each passing day because if there’s one thing that I want more than anything, it’s for my son to see his mom as fearless.
** Editor’s Note: This essay first appeared in Issue 20 of Holl & Lane Magazine. **
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