When I left my old life, I fell out of the door and into a waiting room in my mind. A peaceful waiting room that gave me the space to find myself again, a room in which I could learn to walk, breathe and live again; somewhere to regain my strength so I’d be ready to walk through the exit one day and on to the next part of my life.
This peaceful room had posters on the walls for meditation, mindfulness and promises I’d be happy again one day. It had music playing that was calm, but me, and it felt like vents gently pumped in air that was filled with parts of me that I had lost.
I learned to live again within these walls, and it became somewhere I felt comfortable. The only problem is, I felt too comfortable.
See, this room was never meant to be my home, it was meant to be exactly what it says on the tin ‘a waiting room’; somewhere we don’t spend a long time, and a time we often forget about as time goes on. But I hid in the waiting room and lived in it.
In my mind, everything outside of this room was scary, so in order to live a happy, safe, life, I needed to stay in this room and invite anything new in to live with me.
I started a new relationship, I got a new job, I bought a house and became a cat-mother again. I bought a new car, found new interests, and invited old hobbies back. I found new music I loved, new TV shows, and put new colours in my hair! But the more I invited in, the more cramped it got, but because it happened gradually, I didn’t even realise it happening.
Now imagine a waiting room filled so full you can’t move – that’s how my mind felt. It was so loud, it was cramped, and my lungs didn’t have enough air to breathe properly. Being stuck in this room raised my heart rate and gave me the worst anxiety I’d experienced since I was a teenager (which is longer ago than I want to admit)
No matter where I went or what I was doing, my anxiety would skyrocket, and I would hear “I need to get out.” in my mind; so I’d leave the building I was in, change what room I was sat in, get out of the car, or head home from where ever I was; but I realised it was never where I physically was that I needed to get out of, instead it was the waiting room.
After hitting rock bottom, not being able to go to work, get in my car, visit family or loved ones, being able to enjoy anything I loved, and completely breaking down to my counsellor, I knew things needed to change, but I didn’t know how.
I was desperate.
I opened my laptop with intentions of getting lost in one of the fictional worlds I write in, you know, become someone else for an hour or so, but instead opened a blank Word document and just let my mind roam freely.
I was angry, and I ranted. How unfair it was, how unwell I felt, how out of control I felt; then it all came to a head, and I had that feeling again, “I need to get out!” the panic began to take over, and so I wrote exactly what I felt.
I was stood in the waiting room pacing, I described the fear and discomfort. In my mind, I picked up the two things that entered the waiting room with me, my little girl Neveah and my cat Goose, and I ran. I ran as fast as I could, and I burst out the door.
While I was writing, I could barely catch my breathe, it was as if my body was actually sprinting. I was breathing so heavily, my heart was racing, and tears streamed down my face, but I didn’t stop writing, nor did I stop running, until I found myself in a clearing in my mind.
The clearing was warm, it was open, and it was calm. I put my little girl and cat down next to me while they took in the views with me. I turned to look behind me to see the door I just ran through in the distance.
I stood and watched the door close.
Then I heard it lock.
In my mind, I sat on the floor, then I laid down, I was exhausted. While in real life, I sat at my desk with hands covering my bawling eyes.
When I felt able, I put away my laptop and ventured off downstairs to watch some TV, listen to music, do normal things, but one thing felt different; it was quiet.
Everything was quiet. I kept sitting still and listening to the nothing. I hadn’t realised how loud it had been until it was silent. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything so beautiful in all my life. When I went to bed that night, I just laid and listened; there was still nothing, and when I woke up in the morning, I sat up expecting the noise to start again, but it didn’t: it was still silent.
The next day, I could barely move. My body was exhausted, so I did nothing but sit on my sofa and watch TV all day, and I was still tired when I went to bed that night.
As I write this, I am four days out of the waiting room. My mind is still silent, and although I’m still exhausted, I’ve been able to do things I’ve not been able to do for a long time, and I’ve been feeling like I’m a bit more in control. I had a shower, I went to the seaside, I walked to the shop, and I spent time with loved ones: all pretty simple things to the average person, but to me, they have been things that have crippled me for months.
My body feels like a deflated balloon, but I’m feeling better than I have for a long time. Learning how to live my life is scary but, I’m slowly easing myself back into it. Learning how to do the things I want, and trust that it’s going to be okay is a frightening process, but it’s a path I’m walking down gingerly, but walking never-the-less.
I actually feel excited about life again, which is sadly something I feared I would never feel again. I’m excited about hobbies and interests, old and new. I’m excited by the thought of going places, near and far. I’m excited to just be able to breathe and listen to that silence every day.
The waiting room was exactly what I needed at one point, but I see now how I outgrew it. I’m grateful for what I learned within them walls, but I am also grateful to be out. I’m excited to be able to roam this new part of my life! But for now I’m quite happy to just sit on the floor and breathe in the peace.
Gwen Richards 