There I was on my living room couch, sitting up straight with my hands resting at my side and my attention focussed on my breath [1]. I looked like a stock photo image for meditation [2], and I might as well have been, because everything about this felt staged. I wasn't meditating at all, but trying to fight off an anxiety attack [3].
It didn't make sense, because I had done everything right. I was comfortable and conscious. I had my phone off to the side, with a timer set to go off when my designated meditation time had ended. I had a journal on the coffee table, ready for my post-meditation thoughts. Yet, for what felt like the hundredth time, I had failed to meditate effectively. It was time to admit that the thing I had looked to for help with my anxiety actually made it worse.
My therapist had urged me to try meditation for a year before I finally committed to the practice. I read as many articles as I could about meditation and the benefits of mindfulness [4]. There were countless personal essays recounting people's journeys, some of whom had been able to replace more traditional therapies (including behavioural medication) with meditation. That really sparked my interest — I suffer from a mood disorder that makes my life painfully difficult at times. The anxiety and depression can be debilitating. Meditation seemed worth a shot.
But like clockwork, my mind would begin racing within seconds of me sitting down to meditate. It's like when you run to make a train, and once you're finally on board, you start sweating, exhausted and overwhelmed from the stress. It's as though I'm always running, and the moment I stop, the intrusive thoughts [6] come flooding back. I tried downloading a couple of the many meditation apps my therapist suggested, hoping a guided meditation would help, but having to go on my phone just led me to get distracted. Likewise, I tried to follow along with guided meditation videos [7] during a mindfulness course at my college, but eventually began sneaking out to the bathroom during that portion of the class, frustrated that everyone else seemed to be able to do what I couldn't.
It's as though I'm always running, and the moment I stop, the intrusive thoughts come flooding back.
Meditation wasn't something I tried once before giving up on it. I tried to practice mindfulness through meditation for close to two years. I wasn't diligent about daily practices and journal keeping the whole time, but I made a conscious effort. I was told to be patient with myself, that it would get easier with practice, but I can't recall a single session during which I was able to refocus after my mind wandered off [8]. Each attempt just led to racing, uncontrollable thoughts, which I then beat myself up over. I had anxiety over my meditation anxiety. After all, it seemed to work for everyone else, so why wouldn't it work for me?
At first, I felt like I had failed, but then a therapist reminded me that meditation isn't for everyone, nor is it the only answer. Plus, giving it up now doesn't have to mean giving it up forever. There may be a time in my life where I'm feeling more in control of my thoughts, and at that point, meditation might actually do some good. That's the thing about living with a mental illness: it's easy to fall into this narrative in which life is a rollercoaster I'll never be hardwired to handle. But exploring new ways to manage your symptoms (even if that means failing at times) is part of reclaiming your power.