I’ve struggled with anxiety and panic attacks for as long as I can remember. As a child, I went through a battery of examinations to find an explanation for the pain I was experiencing every day. In the end, the diagnosis was simple: It was stress. It always has been.
My anxiety has been a lifelong companion, but it reached a peak during the pandemic. I wasn’t afraid of getting COVID and being stuck at home (despite the fact that my anxiety has always been linked to the fear of getting sick). Instead, it was the opposite: I enjoyed quarantine a little too much. Three months of lockdown wasn’t enough; I had to—accidentally—break my ankle two weeks after. Three more months in my bubble. Six months away from the uncertainty of everyday life. How safe I felt in the comfort of my own home.
I didn’t realize it at first, how afraid I was to go back outside. But my generalized anxiety disorder reminded me of that soon enough. Vacations turned into a nightmare. Whenever I went out, I was sick and unable to eat. It looked like a serious illness, until the minute I got back to my apartment: No more symptoms. All was well; I was inside again.
This continued to the point that I could no longer go to a restaurant or to my favorite bar without hours of doubt and stomach aches beforehand. Going away for the weekend resulted in sleepless nights and crying sessions. And commuting to work was even harder than it had been before. I considered breaking another bone—on purpose this time—to have an excuse to never set foot outside ever again.
But two years—and lots of expensive therapy sessions—later, I took a leap of faith and traveled to the Czech Republic. Now, here I am: enjoying a pint of delicious and foamy Pale Lager in a busy brewpub in Prague. I’m sitting comfortably, paying attention to the flavor. I can breathe. There are a lot of people around me, and no one is paying me particular attention. No one knows how victorious this feels for me. All is well; I’m outside again.
