By Katie Versey | First published 4th September 2017
I want to begin by saying this isn’t written for sympathy, pity, or attention. Writing this is a form of therapy for me—and perhaps a way to help others, including my partner Jamie, understand what it’s like to live with anxiety. I despise the trend of glamorising mental health issues. For those of us who genuinely live with them, there’s nothing “quirky” about it. I’d give anything to not feel the constant terror, panic, and dread.
You may have seen me on Facebook—seemingly confident, always out and about. What you don’t see are the days of worry, the racing thoughts, and the physical reactions that come before those outings.
Any time we plan a trip, even for a couple of days, this is the loop running in my head:
What if something happens to the animals?
What if I didn’t lock the door?
Did I leave the straighteners on? The oven?
What if the pet sitter loses the keys?
What if? What if? What if? It’s exhausting.
I don’t say I suffer with anxiety. I live with it.
From 18 to Now: The Long Road
I was 18 when I first knew something was wrong—nausea, cold sweats, racing heart, pins and needles. Back then, I had no idea what anxiety was. I saw a doctor, was prescribed Dothiepin, and told to see a therapist (which I still haven’t done). I jokingly referred to it as “the weird sick thing.”
At 21, I met Jamie. Our relationship was rocky at first—partly because I avoided social events due to anxiety. I didn’t want to embarrass either of us by throwing up or panicking in public. Jamie, older and more confident, made excuses for me. I know it was frustrating. But we worked through it, and I’m glad we did.
Eventually, we tried for a baby. I was diagnosed with PCOS. Jamie got tested, too. For reasons only life can script, we delivered his sample en route to a funeral—me holding it between my legs in the car to keep it warm.
His results were fine. Mine weren’t. After 7–8 years and no pregnancies, I accepted that maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. I’ve grieved names that never became babies. But I’ve also found comfort in our animals—they’ve filled a gap, given me purpose.
The Peak (and Pit) of Anxiety
Around age 30, I enjoyed two unexpected, blissful years of freedom from anxiety—no clue why. But it came back with a vengeance.
January 2016: I had a panic attack queuing to get into the National Television Awards. Cold sweats, racing heart, nausea. Jamie recognised it immediately. I made it to the toilet just in time to be sick quietly. Once inside and settled, I was fine. That’s how it goes—if I can get in, sit down, and feel in control, I’m OK.
But May that year pushed me hard. Three major outings in one week triggered a complete meltdown: daily sickness, constant fear, and weight loss. I lost half a stone in less than a week. My doctor prescribed Sertraline and Propranolol, and referred me to Suffolk MIND, where I began an online CBT course.
It helped. So did support from an in-law who’d been through it. And my co-workers—Karen and Sara—simply being kind and present made a huge difference. If I hadn’t gone to work that week, I don’t think I’d have left the house.
How I Cope Now
I’ve built a toolkit to manage it:
- I always book aisle seats at shows or cinemas.
- I keep a plastic bag in my handbag, just in case.
- I sit in front of a fan to calm myself—cool air helps regulate my breathing.
- I’ve learned to communicate what I need: space, silence, time to breathe.
Other issues linger. I grind my teeth in my sleep and clench my jaw during the day, which causes headaches. I avoid the dentist unless I’m in pain—because the thought of going triggers more anxiety. It’s a loop I can’t yet break.
Anxiety embarrasses me. I know it shouldn’t. But it does.
Still, I don’t suffer with anxiety. I live with it. And I’m learning how.
