Being My Own Friend
This past week, I experienced something I haven’t in a long time – I came very, very close to throwing up.
This might not sound out of the ordinary, but as someone for whom vomiting has been my biggest phobia since age three (and it even helped in my early diagnosis, as I performed compulsions to “avoid” throwing up even at such a young age), this was beyond terrifying.
Even after nearly five years of writing this blog, it’s hard for me to describe the sheer terror that spread through my body as I realized I had to shut down the computer game I was playing because I was getting clammy; my body tensed up; I dashed for the bottle of antiemetic pills I keep in the house just in case and struggled to swallow one as I felt something rising through my throat.
Finally, I managed to choke a pill down, but things were just starting. My anxiety was kicking in now, and my heart started to pound as if I was running—something my Fitbit quickly picked up on as it congratulated me on the solid workout. I was filled with nervous energy and prayed that this oncoming anxiety attack wouldn’t progress into a panic attack, which I thankfully haven’t had in years.
Since it was so late at night, I was limited in terms of who I could call, and my best option ended up being a relatively new friend. I berated myself for having to share myself in such a state with a new friend, but thankfully, he was kind and accepting, and stayed on the phone with me for about three hours until I was relaxed enough to try to get a little sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, still exhausted from a night of panicking about my oldest fear, I was ashamed that I still felt like this. I still had to do all of my adult responsibilities like go to work and do chores around the house, all while still thinking about my experience from the night before and how I felt like I did when I was a kid—out of control.
It helped me a lot when I figured out—thanks to a little help from Mom—that this was likely a response to eating something contaminated with almonds. Normally, nausea doesn’t escalate like that in three seconds and my stomach doesn’t take a few days to re-regulate, but I do recall that the last time I wasn’t careful enough, I experienced symptoms exactly like this.
Realizing that helped me avoid panicking about a potential future episode, but I was still distressed that this one happened. I’m thirty years old and have been in therapy for years, I told myself—and I still reacted the same way as I would have reacted to nausea when I was a kid. I was disappointed in myself for panicking so much and felt like I hadn’t learned or grown at all since I was a little girl.
When I told this to my parents and therapist, they were surprised to hear me talk like this—and they all immediately asked me how I would respond if one of my several friends with anxiety that spikes like mine came to me with such a problem.
I immediately responded that, to a friend, I would be kind and encouraging. I have trouble doing it for myself, but with a friend, I would try to talk them out of their negative self-talk and say that they did their best under incredibly difficult circumstances and that’s all you can do.
My parents and therapist told me that, even though the thought of “I have no idea what to do” kept cycling through my head, I did, in fact, know what to do. I called for help, followed my therapist’s advice in the moment, and distracted myself in healthy ways until I could attempt to sleep. If any of my friends told me this story, I would have told them that they absolutely knew what they were doing and I was proud of them for facing a big fear like this.
But for myself, I still struggle to be kind. I still can’t treat myself the way I treat my friends and judge myself harshly, demanding perfection when this is impossible under such circumstances. Even though I know this isn’t exactly reasonable, I still find myself treating myself like one of my old childhood bullies, nitpicking everything and demanding a standard of perfection that literally no one can meet.
In the wake of this incident, I’m putting more effort into noticing my self-talk and how I handle even small incidents that come up. Maybe, if I can practice being kind to myself with something more minor, I’ll be able to be kinder to myself when bigger things come up. I’m going to practice treating myself like a friend, and see if I can bring the same understanding and hope I bring to my friendships to my own experiences.
Michelle Cohen, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.