We would not have been able to survive so long if we were not able, at points, to get
very worried indeed; if we didn’t possess a native genius for flooding our minds, at
astonishing speed, with a cocktail of the most intense and panicky hormones our bodies
can secrete. And yet our capacity to keep surviving – or at least, and as importantly,
to draw some enjoyment from what remains of life – depends on something quite contrary
and even more challenging: an ability at points to unpanic ourselves, to wind down the alarm
and clear the bloodstream of catastrophic foreboding: a mastery of the delicate art
of unworrying. Many of us belong within a damnable category known as hypervigilant – that
is, we are not merely ordinarily careful and on the look out for our safety, as we should
be, but outright panicked and alarmed pretty much all the time. We, in the unhappy hypervigilant
camp, wake up terrified, spend the day in low-level dread and exist in near certainty
that something appalling will fell us. At points, it’s so tiring, it’s normal that
we may long for it all to be over – though that too is a dreadful prospect. The reasons
why are like this are always somewhat the same. At some point, long before we could
cope, we were frightened very badly indeed, so badly, we have never really recovered a
faith in the solidity of anything. Something so challenging unfolded, it has jammed our
minds in a state of alarm, even when the outward conditions have changed and when there is,
in the objective sense (as kindly friends like to tell us), nothing in particular to
be terrified of. Perhaps someone was very angry in the vicinity. Perhaps we were humiliated
and made to feel unwanted and sinful. Maybe an older sibling tortured us. Perhaps we got
sent away to an institution where we were appallingly isolated. In response, our level
of panic hormones spiked – and never came down. Now our hypervigilance scrambles the
part of the mind that regulates basic functions like sleep, digestion and touch – and so,
a telling symptom is that it will almost certainly be difficult for us to rest, to manage our
bowels or to be wholly at ease being touched by a fellow human, however much we long to
be. There is no easy cure, but it is the start of something to have at least a name to put
to the chaos. A degree of compassion can start up too. We can start to notice how much of
life has been held together by fear. We have a concept that links why it’s so hard to
go to parties, trust a lover, relax on holiday, go to the bathroom or sleep much past 4am.
Image result for agnes martin We might dare to tell a few others about our hypervigilance,
handing them the word like a gift, a clue to our particular brokenness. Every time we
find a kindly other to whom we can safely entrust news of our state, and who can smile
tenderly in response, the panic goes down and the world becomes ever so slightly more
bearable. But sometimes, when we are alone and the pressures mount once more, we may
simply have to stand back and observe the hypervigilance do its thing: smash our plans
and hopes, and unleash panic in a way that will knock us out for the day or the month.
We should forgive ourselves. This is a disease like any other. What can be hardest, but most
important, to believe is that being an adult means having options. We can push back against
bullies, move away when it gets too much and tell others what we need from them. We don’t
need to be hypervigilant because we have the option of true vigilance: if there were to
be real dangers, we would now have the inner resources to greet and fight them in good
time. We can worry when we need to, not just because we exist. In the meantime, we should
allow ourselves – with this strange, slightly ugly word in hand – to feel sorry for our
desperate impulses and strive, where we can, at 4.35am perhaps, to turn over and get a
little more rest.
We can learn the skill of being calm, not through special teas or slow breathing. But through thinking. Our book guides us through that process.