It felt like the longest week of my life. I was tense all over, I had trouble sleeping, I couldn’t concentrate, and my stomach was tangled in knots. A torrent of emotion was stirring within. I tried to thrash it out at the gym and meditate morning, noon and night but nothing eased the pain for long.

Come the weekend, it felt like I was losing my mind. I was back at the gym, cycling away like a lunatic, sweat pouring out of my body till I was soaking wet. I was trying to outrun something but I didn’t know what. Images of the earthquake in Japan and the battles raging in the Middle East flashed before my eyes. Chaos reigned all around me. My nerves were at breaking point, my senses hyper-alert. It felt like the world was crashing to its knees.

I knew I wasn’t myself, that’s for sure. I was far more sensitive and self-conscious than usual, unable to shut the mind chatter down and be calm and rational. I had tunnel vision. My deepest fears were rising up, magnified to catastrophic proportions. I couldn’t focus on anything else. I was losing things, misplacing things, running in circles, chasing my own tail.

I was aching for company but I didn’t want anyone to see me in this blubbering mess. I couldn’t stand being in the flat. The place looked like a bomb had hit it; dust piled high, cushions strewn across the floor. I tried to scrub everything from top to bottom, work off the anxiety – then the vacuum cleaner blew up.

The sun came out with a vengeance and I decided to hit the road. I couldn’t choose what to wear – everything felt awkward, shabby. I pruned my facial hair and moisturised my skin but I still wasn’t happy with my profile. A serious inferiority complex had dug its heels in. I had to face the fact I wasn’t in great shape and stop fussing around. My image needed attention but my soul needed more.

The outside world was a minefield. It was a Sunday and, of course, I missed the bus. I had to wait for an eternity, melting in the sun, being eyeballed by cranky drivers stuck in traffic. The bus eventually pulled up and I struggled on board. It felt like I had no psychic protection – suspicious eyes pierced my defences like poison arrows. I was desperate for a pair of sunglasses – the other commuters had an unfair advantage. I shuffled to a seat up the back and did my best to appear cool, nonchalant.

Nothing was going to plan. I told a friend I’d meet him at three, then four – then I cancelled altogether. The bus chugged along at a snail’s pace and a gorgeous day was slipping through my fingers. I felt the urge to shove the window open and scream at the world, but I mumbled a soothing mantra under my breath instead.

My body was trembling all over. I felt like bawling for no particular reason. My moods were swinging uncontrollably. Tears welled in my eyes. ‘God, I wish I had a pair of sunnies’, I grumbled. We pulled up at another red light and a broadcast came over the driver’s radio. ‘It’s the full moon – the Supermoon – the biggest in 20 years.’

Finally, I had an explanation for this grinding anxiety and obsessive thinking. A reason why I was blowing things out of proportion – my life was nowhere near this messed up a few days ago. My body was falling apart as well. I was fatigued, I had stomach cramps, my liver was aching like mad. I imagined viruses taking me over, my immune system crashing and my heart imploding. Every cell was under stress.

A boy climbed on the bus wearing a cap that said Keep Calm. His friend wore a t-shirt that said No Fear. I took a deep breath and told myself to chill out. A warm, fuzzy feeling came over me and I snuggled into my seat. I read some graffiti and had a bit of a chuckle. The traffic started moving again and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was glad to be out here amongst it all – at least it was a distraction from the mind games.

Sure, I felt envious of people. I yearned for their muscular physiques, their confidence, their tattoos. I envied their exuberant personalities. I told myself I had one buried inside too; it was just a little crushed today. Walking the streets of St Kilda, I was smacked in the face by noise and advertising. It agitated me even more, being assaulted with consumer crap.

Among the ‘sales’ and ‘bargains’ my eyes locked onto something more profound. I saw giant red hearts and signs of love everywhere. They caught my attention like neon signs. Every time my thoughts sank into negativity, a loving message was around the corner – on walls, windows, shirts and shoulder bags. It was starting to feel like the theme of the day.

So I tried to be more compassionate. I told myself it was okay to be messed up; it was okay to be vulnerable, afraid. There was no need to lash out; there was no need to beat myself up. Walking down that street was like running the gauntlet. It was surreal, overwhelming at times. Throbbing music boomed from speakers, mobs of boisterous people wined and dined on the footpath. Buskers belted out familiar tunes, hoboes begged for coins and spooky characters stared me down like they knew my innermost secrets.

The seaside was buzzing too. I found solace in the company of melancholy strangers dotted along the shore. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon and a bunch of us were crouched alone, digging our heels into the sand. Some were hunched over, shrouded in dark glasses, staring into the sky, searching for answers. Some were clutching a beer for dear life, sipping it over and over to ease their suffering.

Staring at the shimmering bay gave me comfort like nothing else. Finally things started making sense. I knew I’d be okay. If only I could work this out, I’d emerge a little wiser. It felt like a cosmic challenge; my inner resources were being tested. Would old habits prevail or would I find a deeper understanding?

I tried to make peace with the fears and doubts. I tried to stand back from the catastrophes and worst-case scenarios. I didn’t try to bargain with the universe or deny anything. I stopped arguing with myself. I stopped covering up my emotions with stoicism and false cheer.

I searched my soul while fitness freaks whizzed by on roller-blades and star-struck lovers strolled by hand in hand, ogling the pretty sunset. I did my best to sit with everything and it felt like the universe was finally getting through. There was no point running, no hiding from the pain. Perhaps suffering was around the corner but I’d learn from it anyway. Perhaps I had things to face up to. Maybe I could be a little more open, a little more loving, a little more humble.

Either way, nothing was ‘wrong.’ This experience wasn’t ‘bad’. It was just the way it was, another step on the journey. I wasn’t exactly on top of the world, but hey, that was okay. I’d been cruising for weeks, maybe it was time for a reality check? I knew I was far from perfect. I knew this world could be a scary, uncertain place. I was still on the right track. I hadn’t lost my way.

Slumped on a bench at St Kilda beach, I finally surrendered that day. I was wiped out, exhausted, but I wasn’t alone; I wasn’t afraid. I was more grateful than ever – for my connection with the universe, for being forced to dig a little deeper and take the journey inside. I felt more conscious, more authentic, more determined. I felt more alive.

James May is a widely published freelance and creative writer. His work has appeared in various magazines and anthologies. He also has professional writing and editing experience in various community sectors such as mental health, drug and alcohol and HIV/AIDS. He is always on the lookout for new writing endeavours and welcomes any contact: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it