I have a bad habit.
It’s not something I can uniquely call my own, as it is essentially true for all of us. Yes, even you. It’s something so inherent in life that it’s hard to discern as an unnatural behavior at all, let alone a harmful one. It’s something that, as a competent human being, plagues my daily routine. It’s something none of us can ever really escape. It’s also something that is a little difficult to explain, so bear with me.
I think the best way to unravel this bad habit is to lay it all out. Cover the page with it. Let it flow from my tired hands to the bright screen of my laptop at-what time is it?– 12:25am. So I’ll start with my stories, my examples of how greatly this habit has affected me throughout the years. Maybe you won’t understand my dilemma, maybe you will. Either way, it’s important to be aware of this plight of the mind.
When I was young– too young to remember exactly when– I was an average child. No worries clouded my mind, other than if we had any good cereal in the cupboard, when my brother would be out of school so we could play, and where my favorite Polly Pocket dress was at any given time. I was normal.
I was 3 when I remember the first change. I was enrolled in dance classes: tap, ballet, and acrobatics. I loved it. It made me feel like I was part of something. I excelled. I liked my dance instructor, I liked the girls and boys in my classes, I liked it all.
I would impatiently wait in the tiny lobby of Long’s School of Dance in Fairview, PA. My mom would bring me early because I thought on time meant tardy. When the doors would open and Ms. Lee Anne would welcome us into the studio, I became overjoyed. This was how it felt every single time I had class. But all good things come to an end, even a little girl’s dreams of being part of a group.
At 3 ½ I walked confidently into the studio, excited for dance to start. While we were stretching that day, a girl my age pranced over to me and exclaimed that I had “fat legs!” Where this 3 year old learned these insults beats me, but she didn’t think twice before firing it at me.
My cheeks turned red, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t want to cry in front of my peers, but, man, did that comment hurt.
I don’t remember much after that, the memory of that day being the only thing that plagues my mind during that time, but my mom has told me the horror story: I stopped eating.
At 3 ½ years old, I should have been snacking on Dunk-a-roos and eating mac-n-cheese for a living. Instead, I was starving myself because someone thought I was fat. And it wasn’t just a small hiccup, either. I refused to eat for so long that my pediatrician became concerned. Over the course of 6 months, I had lost a significant amount of weight. My family was funneling PediaSure down my throat to make sure I had something in my body. My bones were fragile enough that my doctor made my mom pull me out of dance. I missed two months of classes, and couldn’t participate in the symposium. That made me angry, so I hesitantly began to eat again, at least so I could dance.
I broke my collarbone the next year, which was ultimately related to my weakened bones. I danced with a sling and started eating more.
I am now 21 years old, and I still have body dysmorphia.
I always need to know if I look skinny or fat in those pants?
Around the time I reached 1st/2nd grade, I remember another change. The most vibrant moment I’ve kept from around that time was of a summer day in my front yard. I was pretending to be a rabbit and, being an incredibly dedicated player, I ate a piece of grass.
It dawned on me a few days later that I had ingested some bacteria-ridden piece of earth, and I had no way to tell if I’d become sick. Not knowing how rabies spread at the time, I ultimately decided I would die. That grass had given me rabies, and I was doomed to face death at too young an age.
I demanded my mother take me to our local library so I could find a book about the disease. Very Matilda-like, I marched straight to the adult non-fiction section, and asked for anything they had about rabies. Being 7(ish) years old, I couldn’t understand anything they were saying, so I analyzed the photos.
I saw foxes with foaming mouths staring at the camera, raccoons that looked mangled and hairless crawling about during the day. All truly terrifying images to any normal human. Those did not phase me, though, as I wasn’t an animal. It wasn’t until I saw pictures of human hands, swollen and red, that I decided I knew what to look for in human rabies cases. I spent the majority of 2nd grade sitting in the back of my classes, looking at my hands every 10 minutes to make sure they weren’t swollen.
I realized I wasn’t a normal kid. I made my mom take a bite of my apples before I did, just in case they were poisoned, in some attempt to sacrifice her life for mine… Sorry, mom. I was afraid to explore the wildlife in my backyard because I knew frogs, toads, and turtles were carriers of Salmonella.
I began to self-diagnose when I was old enough to google my symptoms- even if they weren’t symptoms. It turned out that I had a new disease every other week. I never really expressed it to anyone, but I knew my brain didn’t work right.
I’m now 21 years old, I’ve been diagnosed with Illness Anxiety Disorder (Hypochondria), and I still nervously google my symptoms.
I always need to know whether I’m sick or healthy.
When I was in 3rd grade I remember sitting on the grass during recess. A few of girls in my grade had this little routine where we’d show off the new skills we learned in gymnastics the week prior. It was fun, until it wasn’t.
On this particular day, we were all sitting in a circle trying our splits when one girl stood up and announced that she had mastered her back walkover. This wasn’t new to me, as we’d had gymnastics together, and I knew her abilities. She proceeded to show off her flexibility, to the excitement of everyone else. They all began to try the trick, but I stayed on the ground because I knew it wasn’t in my skill set yet.
All of the other girls eventually managed to do at least one walkover. They sat down and looked expectantly at me.
“Well, Allora? Can’t you do one?”
“She’s probably just not good enough…”
My mind started to wander as the verbal assaults entered my conscience. I became dizzy, and soon enough, everything went black.
When I woke up, I was on my back with a teacher standing over me, wondering what the hell just happened.
“You fainted, I think. But your eyes were open and you were rolling around a little. You should see the nurse!”
I was escorted to the nurse’s office, where she sat me down and told me that I had a panic attack. I remember asking what in the world that meant, and having the possible causes and symptoms explained to me.
Since then, I’ve always mapped out the nearest exits in any classroom I’ve been in to avoid looking like a weirdo if I were to panic.
I’m now 21 years old, and still feel my heart race in new places.
I always need to know whether I’m anxious or calm.
A few years later, 5th grade, I was enrolled in a school-based support group for children who had lost a parent. My dad was sick, not dead. It was confusing, as the counselor would ask us all what we remember from the funeral, or how we felt when we were told about our parent dying. I always felt a little out of place, like people didn’t think I should be there because I didn’t have a dead parent… weird. My tears would stop at the corners of my eyes because I didn’t have the right to cry in front of kids who had it harder than me. At least, I thought I didn’t. I didn’t know whether to be happy or sad?
The summer before my junior year of high school, I had the right to let those tears go. My dad had been too sick to live any longer.
I was depressed for a long, long time. I was unmotivated for awhile. Some days I refused to get out of bed.
When school started back up, though, there were so many reasons to be happy. I had good grades, I was captain of my high school’s color guard, my friends were all supporting me through my dad’s passing. Again, I didn’t know how to feel. I was conflicted.
I’m now 21 years old, on medications to stabilize my moods, and I still get confused about how to feel.
I always need to know whether to be happy or sad.
Just a few weeks ago I became overwhelmed with everything in my life. I had assignments piled up, it was my dad’s 51st birthday– the 6th birthday without him here to celebrate– and my health anxiety was spiraling. I wasn’t in a good place, and I did not know how to deal with it.
Everything seemed like a weight on my chest. Going to class was hard, doing my assignments was hard, even getting out of bed proved impossible.
I was told that, as a human being, I needed to let myself have a hard time. I was assured that hitting a roadblock was alright, and that I just needed to let myself take some time; after I figured out how to navigate around the bump, things would be okay again.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself of that, though, there was always this niggling feeling in the back of my head.
I needed to know whether being overwhelmed was hurting me or helping me.
So I continue to fight with this habit– this terrible, very bad, annoying, hard-to-kick habit of needing to know exactly what to think or how to feel. It’s as if some emotions or thoughts are better than the others. It’s like I’m trying to crack the code to a good life by suffocating my mind with toxic questions about my mental or physical state of being. I’m slowly destroying any semblance of inner peace I have because I’m too worried about the outcome of everything.
Literally, everything.
There is not a day that passes without my brain coming up with these insane contradictions, these scenarios that, if I work them out the right way, might lead me to be in a happier mood or less anxious state of mind...but probably not.
It’s always those damn whether’s that get in the way. Whether to be this or not, and whether to think that or not. It’s so frustrating. I want to be okay with feeling happy and sad, overwhelmed and at ease, anxious and calm, healthy and sick. I want to feel okay about being unsure. I want it to be normal to force aside those decisions, and just be.
So I’ve come to the conclusion that there needs to be a clause under the word “whether” in every dictionary made from this day forward. It should say something like this:
Whether (conjunction)
–expressing a doubt or choice between alternatives
(A reminder to stop and consider acting/feeling/believing both or all options available, not a tool for determining success in life).
