Coffee with Anxiety

Anxiety is pacing outside the cafe. Of course he is. Instead of going inside, getting away from the drizzle, he keeps pacing the same strip of pavement. Eyes cast down, murmuring under his breath, oblivious to everything and everyone. Even from a distance you can see thoughts racing through his mind.

I feel myself slowing down as I approach. Our last encounter - in fact, all our encounters - didn’t go so well. He kept bombarding me with random thoughts and I kept stepping back. It was too much; he was too much.

Mustering all the courage I have, I approach. It feels like I am getting closer to a coiled spring. Any second it might snap right in my face.

Hi, I say.

He looks at me with unfocused eyes. It takes him a few seconds to realise it is me. As soon as he does, wide smile adorns his face. In a high-pitched voice, he greets me back and shakes my hand quickly. The gesture feels so odd – we’ve known each other for years, yet we still behave like we are colleagues working in different offices.

We step inside the cafe. It is a trendy, busy place. I see laptops dotted around, heads nodding to sounds only they can hear. The smell of melted cheese and cupcakes fills my nose, my mouth waters. I’d love to eat a sandwich, but I don’t want to start something I might have to leave unfinished.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Anxiety. He seems to be calmer, but his eyes are darting around the place. When placing his order he repeats it three times. Wants to make sure that coffee arrives exactly the way he likes it – two double shots of espresso, very hot frothy almond milk, three pumps of caramel. Punchy, tongue burning, sickly sweet concoction. Too much, just like Anxiety himself.

We grab a seat by the window. Facing each other we are quiet for a minute. I can see how uncomfortable he is, how on edge. I give him the benefit of the doubt. I choose to look at him in a different light today; I choose to believe he will not start his verbal storm and will not try to drag me into it.

I avoided him for a reason. He was good at pulling me into his world. I wouldn’t even notice when his fear became mine. I would start assuming the worst, becoming suspicious, shrinking into myself. Even my body language would adapt to his – shaky, nervous, scared.

I didn’t like who I was around him, but back then I was too fragile to push back. Today I want to believe it will be different, that I can stop him if he tries. Later I realise how naive that was.

Anxiety takes a deep breath and launches a tirade, which I am sure he’s been preparing since our last meeting.

I freeze. I can feel my chest clench, my breaths become shallower. I listen as he tells me he is hurt, that I am ungrateful, that I make everything worse. He says he still thinks about what I said last time and I don’t even try to respond to that. He added his own meaning to my words; nothing I say will make him understand.

I feel hurt, attacked. I feel like an emotional punching bag I never agreed to be.

I came to talk, but I also came to be heard. I know I hurt him when I pushed him away, I wanted to apologise for that, but what good is an apology if the other side won’t admit their part?

Suddenly everything becomes louder – coffee cups clinking, dog barking, a child calling for his mum, music playing an upbeat tune, people laughing. I am drowning in sounds and all I want to do is cover my ears and close my eyes. Maybe it is my body going into safety mode, trying to protect me, not allowing me to absorb what Anxiety keeps telling me.

I try to focus on what he is saying, but it slips past me. I feel like I am swimming against a whooshing wave - my struggling body is louder than his voice.

Then it hits me.

Anxiety is teaching me to listen to my body. To hear and feel the signals when my system is overloaded. When a person, a place, or a situation is crossing my boundaries. All along Anxiety was trying to show me what it means when everything becomes too much.

As the clarity settles in, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I block everything else out and come back to myself. I open my eyes and look at him with a soft smile.

Thank you, I say. I genuinely mean it.

He looks confused but I do not try to explain. I grab my stuff and slowly, confidently make my way between the tables. I step outside and, without looking at him, I leave.

Will I see him again?

I know I will.

He gets loud.

But for the first time, I know how to step away.