Small Steps but Great Lengths

By Kaylee Anderson

My foot slips farther than I expect it to, and I stumble. My partner catches me as my heart pounds in my throat, and we continue on with our Standard Foxtrot. My hip yanks itself out of partnership moments later, and I have to stretch to keep up with my lead so as not to fall again. All of a sudden, I realize I am not doing the right footwork, and I panic as I try helplessly to fix it.

The song ends and my lead rolls me out right in front of a judge. I do my best to smile, but my face is humming with so much energy that I can't for fear of it twitching. When we get to the side of the ballroom, I am shaking so hard that I can't think straight. My partner tries to ask me if I'm okay as we move to sit, but panic has gripped my vocal chords and I can't bring myself to answer.

I manage to keep it together until my friend comes to sit next to me, but as soon as she asks what is wrong, I'm crying. I do so quietly, keeping the worst of the sobs inside, but the tears still threaten to ruin the layers of makeup that surround my eyes. I can't say much, but through halted, whispered words I describe the utter disaster that was my attempt at dancing Standard.

With every misstep, the anxiety in me had risen like bile in the back of my throat. I was messing up; I was making my partner look bad; I was undoing all of the hard work and progress I had made to make my standard the best that it could be. The worst part was that I knew I could perform all of the dances that I had butchered, and yet I had danced so miserably that no one would have ever known my true abilities. I keep the worst of this in my head, but my friend understands the mess that my mind is embroiled in. “It's okay, really. You know this won't matter in the long run."

She is perfectly right---my performance at Harvest Moon will have next to no effect on my ability to qualify for nationals. And yet, as I sat at the edge of the ballroom with invisible hands squeezing my lungs and tears streaming down my face, I was still completely crippled by my perception of my dancing. Why?

I describe the manner in which my emotions can overtake me as catastrophizing, a term that many people with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) are familiar with. One way of thinking about catastrophizing is as a tornado of thoughts: first you think about how terrible you feel about your performance, and then you nitpick all of the little things you did wrong, and then about how your partner must be so disappointed in you, and then you are suddenly caught in a whirlwind of emotions that is so difficult to extricate yourself from that it's easier to just let the tornado blow you away. This can often lead to panic or anxiety attacks, things that I have experienced on a multitude of occasions. At Harvest Moon, there's no doubt in my mind that what I went through as I tried to pull myself together post-performance was an anxiety attack. The feeling is familiar: the inability to breathe, the tears, the hopeless thought spirals. I've been dealing with GAD all of my life, and only recently, with the help of therapy, have I been able to get a handle on wrangling my emotions and strategies for coping with attacks.

Performing has always made me extremely anxious, and yet it isn't a thing that I've shied away from. Don't get me wrong: I love attention, even crave it, but there is something about being judged by my body's ability to be graceful that scares the crap out of me. It didn't help that at Harvest we went straight into final rounds for all of our dances due to the lack of collegiate attendees. I usually use the first round or two to get my nerves out and regain my ability to smile, but because I didn't anchor myself properly, my anxiety took the reins and kicked into high gear.

Here's the thing: when we finally got to the awards ceremony I was in shock. My partner and I managed to place third and fourth in standard bronze for the paired dances, and second for all of smooth. In no way, shape, or form did I expect to do that well with the performance I thought that I had given, and I was taken aback to see the gap between what I had perceived and what was reality.

I'm not necessarily saying that the world I see is always mangled by my anxiety and that I need to be better at pushing past my feelings. The point I'm trying to get across is that it can be extremely difficult to do the things that you love to do when you have GAD, but that it is possible to push past the emotional barrier your body creates and to do it anyways. If activities like performing are terrifying, but you love to dance, that doesn't mean you can't do it. And, if you manage to bring yourself to do something that terrifies you, you need to be proud of yourself for the effort that you put in regardless of the outcome. Any sort of attempt can be overwhelming, so it's immensely important to congratulate yourself for the smallest of steps. After all, the rewards you gain by pushing yourself into uncomfortable territory helps you grow as a person. Anxiety may stunt your ability to dive right in, but you can't let it stop you from doing what you love.

I find competing simultaneously terrifying and wonderful. Yes, I may have anxiety attacks regarding it, but the positive emotions I experience when my partner and I achieve great things regardless of my mental illness makes me feel like I am in control of myself. Yes, I have GAD, but it does not define me, and eventually I will be able to compete with far less emotional turmoil than I do now. My steps may be small, but when you add them together, they can equal great lengths.