The world was spinning, heat was radiating across her chest and the pit of dread in her stomach was growing each second. She placed one hand on the dresser to steady herself as she stumbled, and held her head with the other, willing the throbbing pain to stop, stop, stop. Tears fell from her freshly mascara’d lashes, leaving streaky black lines in the strategically placed foundation, planned to conceal the worry and tiredness. Her boyfriend rushed over to comfort her and demanded she sit and call the doctor; enough was enough.
Three hours and thirty minutes later she was sat in the GPs surgery to discuss what was happening to her.
Loss of appetite.
The doctor looked at her with concern and said: “It’s not Labyrinthitis”. He gave her a prescription for some tablets to help her cope, instructions to take it easy and learn to breathe properly, to meditate and come back in a week to give him an update. In a calm voice, he described to her that what she was going through was more common than she thought, but it wasn’t any less important that it gets sorted. There were things to help her get through this; she just needed some time and for people to understand.
She’s not pathetic. She’s not weak. She’s not being dramatic. She’s got anxiety.