I rode my first roller coaster when I was twelve years old. It was Apollo’s Chariot in Busch Gardens, Williamsburg. I sat in the middle seat between two friends of mine and screamed as we came barreling down the first hill, and didn’t stop screaming until the ride ended. I felt the wind running its fingers through my hair. I was exhilarated. I loved it.
I had my first panic attack when I was fourteen years old. It was in my Japanese 1 class, on the day of a quiz I’d forgotten to study for. I sat in the back row, between two people I barely knew. I hyperventilated with my arms over my head, crunched over my desk tornado-drill style, and didn’t stop until the test was in my hands. I felt my humid breath creeping back into my nose. I felt like my bones were imploding in on themselves. I held back tears the rest of the day.
Shortly after riding Apollo’s Chariot, I became a roller coaster junkie. No ride was too tall, too fast, or too steep to deter me. 90-degree drop? Let’s go. 305 miles an hour? Awesome. Indoor launch coaster in almost-complete darkness? Bring it on. I was a thrill seeker.
Not surprisingly, I did not react to my anxiety attack the same way. I was soon diagnosed with General Anxiety Disorder that quickly progressed to Severe as high school went on. At my worst point, I would have two to three anxiety attacks a day—often skipping lunch to hyperventilate in a bathroom stall. I was constantly worried about everything. I talked less for fear of saying something stupid in front of people whose opinions I cared about (which was literally every single person I encountered). I barely ate—every time I did, I’d get so nervous about gaining weight that I’d throw it all up five minutes later. Once I finished high school, my anxiety got a lot better, but it’s still something I have to deal with.
But what does that have to do with roller coasters?
As much as I call myself an adrenaline junkie, there’s always a moment before the roller coaster takes off that my stomach drops and I have the urge to yell “UNBUCKLE ME, I WANT TO GET OFF." I never let go of my harness on the ride and I’d pull my lap bar in as tight as possible because, during the whole ride, I’d be having visions of slipping out of my seat and consequently dying (as one does when they fall off a roller coaster). I loved the ride, but I was scared, and I’d walk off with sore hands and shaky muscles from being so tense the whole ride. Similarly, I love life, but I am scared. What anxiety does is keep me suspended in the “UNBUCKLE ME” moment, almost permanently.
This summer, I made myself relax on every roller coaster I rode. I threw my hands in the air! I let my legs swing! I didn’t suffocate myself with the harness! And guess what—nothing bad happened. I’m still alive and well and writing Odyssey articles. Before every ride—when my stomach dropped and I wanted to get off—I’d look at the machinery around us. The chains, the brake pads, the metal bars, the wheels. I’d know that this ride would not exist if it were a death trap. I trusted the people who had designed, checked, and triple-checked this ride. I trusted in safety statistics. I trusted in the thousands of people before me who had ridden this ride and survived, or at least come out intact enough to not want to sue the amusement park.
While riding the Volcano at King’s Dominion, I realized that this is a pretty good way to talk down my anxiety. Sure, life isn’t a roller coaster. There aren’t brake pads on the way to poverty or a nearly indestructible chain to lead the way to a new job. But there is a collective experience. No matter what I’m worrying about—a difficult class, a test I’m not prepared for, the silent treatment from a friend, or the 2016 election—it isn’t unprecedented. No, there aren’t engineers making sure that every life goes right, but there is therapy to keep up with mental health. And there are thousands to millions of people who have gone through every situation I’m freaking out about—thousands of people who have survived these situations. The human race wouldn’t have gotten this far if it weren’t for survival through nearly every experience. If humans—even humans with anxiety—couldn’t deal with things, the managers would’ve shut us down by now.