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Panic grips my chest as I think about what the hell to say to that. I can’t say no because I’ve only been here for a week. If I already start telling my boss I can’t do something, it’ll undermine my ability as a journalist and one of the strengths I listed on my resumé. I said I’m a quick learner, which wasn’t a lie, but how am I supposed to learn French to that extent so fast?
“Um, I can look into getting a tutor,” I reply, unsure what else to say, but my boss gives me an approving smile.
“Brilliant. We’ll cover that expense, of course,” he adds, then walks back into his office, leaving me to get back to work while trying to rack my brain over the fact that they want me to become fluent enough in French to understand native speakers of the language.
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
I’m so screwed.
My heart starts racing at the mere thought, my anxiety making my legs shake as I try to focus on the article in front of me. My breathing hitches uncomfortably, so I press a hand to my chest and take several deep breaths, trying to slow my heart rate.
Everything will be alright.
I’ll figure it out.
They’re not going to fire me because I can’t become fluent in French within the next few weeks.
Right?
More anxiety sweeps through me, forcing tears to prick my eyes. I grab my phone and rush toward the bathroom, holding off the tears that always come with my anxiety attacks long enough to lock the door and slide down against it.
I curl into myself, my breathing now heavier than before as I hyperventilate. The lack of oxygen causes my hands and legs to tingle before all feeling leaves them. Nausea builds in my chest too, and I only start panicking more when I realize I don’t have time to have an anxiety attack. Gillian will check on me soon, and if I’m not at my desk, he might get upset with me.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” I mumble over and over again, breathless and with a spinning head.
I fumble with my phone until I manage to dial Nova’s number.
“Helloooo,” she says as soon as she picks up.
“Code blue,” I manage to croak out, wheezing noises leaving me as I try to even out my breath.
“Alright, baby sister, let’s take deep breaths together, alright? In, hold, and out. Ready?” she asks softly. I nod over and over, more from the shaking than from acknowledging her words. “In,” Nova says, and I suck in a breath until she adds, “Hold.” I hold it up until she tells me to let it out again. It comes out shaky, but that small achievement, that one somewhat steady breath, gives me the courage to do it again.
I can do this.
Nova and I repeat the same three steps for another minute until my anxiety subsides enough to stop the shaking and regain the feeling in my legs.
These anxiety attacks have become rare for me. I’ve had anxiety since my injury happened four years ago, so I know where it originated from. I know what causes my attacks often because I went to therapy for three years. Today, it was my fear of failure that triggered it.
Scared of failing at this job.
Scared of not doing this right.
Scared of failing my family by getting fired.
Scared of not being good enough.
“How are you feeling?” Nova asks, her voice still gentle.
We’ve been through this often enough that she’s figured out a way to get through to me, and it isn’t by yelling at me.
It isn’t by screaming “Breathe! Why don’t you breathe?”
It isn’t by starting to freak out too.
It isn’t by asking me what’s wrong with me.
She’s gentle but firm enough to get through to me when I want nothing more than to scream and cry and ask whoever is in charge of my life why I had to get anxiety. It’s useless and definitely not rational, but these things become obsolete when it comes to anxiety. There are only feelings. They’re not always logical, but that doesn’t mean that whatever they are isn’t just as real.
