I am riding the elevator up and down, from the bottom floor to the top floor, then to my destination on the second floor. I’m in a staring match with the bright red numbers blaring on the screen above the buttons as we move from floor to floor. I try to stop holding my breath, but I can’t. At the second floor, the elevator dings and stops. The doors don’t open. Dread flows from the base of my throat to the pit of my stomach. I feel my heart pounding. I’m not breathing again. The doors open. I exhale.
In eight hours, I’ll ride the elevator again — to the fifth floor, the top floor, then back down to the ground floor.
The first exposure I ever did was spinning around in circles. When I was told that would be my first exposure, I was terrified. Terrified of feeling dizzy, terrified to tempt fate by spinning in circles, terrified of the risk. I had kept myself safe by not spinning in circles, by moving slowly, by constantly checking on the sensations in body to determine if I was slightly dizzy or not. I had kept myself safe from this uncomfortable feeling that often came before panic attacks, before fainting; this sensation that needed to be avoided at all costs. So, on that fateful day, right before I took my first rotation, I tried my best to tune out the voices in my head that were screaming at me to stop. That I was risking everything by doing this. That if I did this, and it made me feel dizzy, I might be stuck feeling that way forever, and I would only have myself to blame.
But I knew I wanted to get better. I knew that I couldn’t keep living my life like this, in such a small box of a world where I convinced myself I could stay safe by cancelling plans, isolating myself, and staying in my house. I knew where this path led, and it frightened me even more than spinning in circles. I was tired of feeling trapped in my head, a prisoner to the whims of the intrusive thoughts in my brain. In a desperate attempt to try and enact control over life, I only felt it slipping away more and more.
The deeper and deeper you dig into an obsession, and therefore a compulsion, the more something which may have previously felt insignificant begins to feel all encompassing. I’m fixated on the possibility of dying, especially from illness. I know illness or death can come about from bad food, from the quiet signs your body shows you, or sudden accidents. So, without even thinking about it, I start checking cans for dents before I buy them because I read somewhere that dented cans have botulism. I start scanning my body for anything out of the ordinary: a new pain, a change in habits, any tiny oddity that I can find. I go to the doctor often. I avoid actions that I’ve deemed too risky, where I feel unsafe, trapped: elevators, train cars, planes. The more I do these things, and live, the more I’m convinced it’s my compulsions (checking cans, scanning my body, avoiding “dangerous” situations) that are keeping me alive. That these actions, and myself alone, are what’s keeping me safe from the uncertainty of illness and dying. The longer this goes on, the more insurmountable it feels to stop. If I stop, I’m tempting fate. If I stop this time, it’ll be the one time I ignore something important, and I’ll get sick or die.
By carefully avoiding any movements that may make me feel dizzy, I’m keeping myself safe from uncomfortable sensations that make me obsess over my health or feel like something is wrong. But I’m also obsessing over the possibility of feeling dizzy by constantly checking how I’m feeling in my body. Either way, I’m obsessing, and I’m miserable. So, what’s the cure?
I spin in circles.
The first time I did it, I had a massive panic attack that kept me in bed the rest of the day, and only reinforced my thinking that I need to be in control, that this is what happens when I’m not. I was terrified to see my therapist again, but ready to convince her that this was all too much, too soon. Her response? Keep spinning in circles.
So, I did. At first, one or two times a week. Then once a day, but only the days I was working from home (doing it before going into the office still felt too high of a risk). Then everyday. Then three times a day. Until I could spin and spin and spin and feel dizzy for a few moments and move on. Until I could invite the uncomfortable sensation and panic and uncertainty in and not be scared of it anymore.
This process took a few months, with constant setbacks, with weeks where I couldn’t spin in circles at all because the fear was too much. I still had a long list of obsessions and compulsions that I needed to overcome after this one: taking elevators, not checking cans, leaving my house without constantly checking the cameras to see if my pets were still alive or that the house hadn’t gone up in flames. Each of these felt insurmountable at the start, and each I barely think about now.
Recovery is a long and exhausting road. Each day, you’re choosing to wake up and stare down your deepest fears, strip away the actions that make you feel safest, and invite uncertainty in. You begin grieving all the time you lost doing your compulsions, all the things in life you missed out on because of these fears. I didn’t want that kind of life. I want to be free, to travel, to take risks, to keep my head where my feet are and stop trying to control a future that is so unbelievably beyond my control.
So, I ride up and down the elevator. Tomorrow, I may take the train underground, sitting silently in my seat as the voice in my head screams at me that I’m about to die, that I need to get out, that this isn’t safe. I’ll take a breath and invite the panic in, let it get comfortable. I’ll resist the urge to try to create certainty in uncertainty. I’ll remind myself, most importantly, that I cannot protect myself from that which is beyond my control, no matter how hard I may try.