If ever I had to choose to sweat abnormally, and in copious amounts, to avoid painfully awkward eye-contact, shaking and jostling in an oversized, rattling death-trap of a bus (which really shouldn’t be allowed in residential areas, especially at those speeds), all while being forced to stare at, or at least be extremely aware of, the “comfortable cushions” that are spectacularly lined with what I’m assuming is used bowling alley carpet, please know my other options were likely death or something far worse.

If anyone knows about buses, or public transportation of any kind, they can understand this overbearing sense to escape almost immediately after boarding. Unless of course, you’re strictly a bus mechanic (Is that what you guys are called? I don’t know.) who’s never had to use it as a means of commute, then you can ignore the rest of this. Or keep reading; that works too.

Existing in these so-called busses at any moment gives host to an infinite amount of disaster-like scenarios, all of which I’d probably end up dying in. But what’s worse, and yes it can get worse, is throwing all of these variables to the mercy of anxiety.

Ah, yes, the dreaded anxiety. The thing that makes you seriously consider that maybe in fact you are dying of cancer, right now at this very moment, and you’re going to collapse at any second and there’s nothing you can do about it and you won’t be able to call anybody to tell them you love them and say goodbye one last time and everybody on this goddamn bus is just going to stare at you as you suffocate and eventually clear your bowels because you’re obviously just another crazy homeless person because you haven’t cut your hair in the past three weeks and you haven’t shaved in that time either because you want to grow out your beard but it looks horrible and you’re afraid you’ll never grow the beard you want because you just might not be masculine enough and later, as the coroner is silently inspecting your insides, he or she will look up and think to their self: “this guy is really ugly.”

Or something like that.

40 million people experience constant thoughts like this in the U.S. alone, according to a figure I vaguely remember seeing on an unspecified website (probably Web M.D., an anxious person’s hell). So I know for a fact I’m not going crazy (I’m not). In fact, it’s kind of comforting knowing that there just might be one or two other people on that bus having their own controlled panic attack inside their head alongside with me. Because if there’s one thing that makes anxiety worse, it’s worrying about other people see you freak-the-fuck-out.

I could go into how anxiety works, but that’s really in a case-to-case understanding. Meaning, one might have anxiety, but just attribute their emotions and mental state as stress or frustration or even just sadness. And others, which would include yours truly, think of anxiety as, well, anxiety. And we call it that. And we create this image, this monster if you will, who exists inside of us and is ever looming, with an ominous shadow creeping just behind our pupils that we try desperately to contain, less it escapes and wreaks havoc on the world.

That is our battle, or something similar, or something entirely different. I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that this bus is way too crowded? Is there a limit to how many people can be on here? Why is it so hot? And why can’t I open the windows? I’m trying, but it’s stuck. Shit, I’m sweating now. Can you get heat exhaustion after twenty minutes? Why is this bus moving so slow? Why is it so hot?

People also have anxiety triggers. Things or states of beings or even phrases that just instantly kick their paranoia-induced fear into overdrive. For instance, I apparently am triggered by stifling heat, because it (also apparently) makes me feel like I can’t breathe, which, as you know, is important to living. Which, as you might not know, I still want to do. So yeah, trigger. I can’t speak on behalf of anyone else’s triggers because, well, I’m not other people (although sometimes I’d like to be). But if anyone wants to talk about them with me I’m always up for that. Just let me get off this bus because I can’t breathe. Like, seriously, what is going on?

So that’s anxiety in a nutshell, if that nutshell contained one peanut made specifically for me and no one else and was really only, like, a tenth of the entire peanut. And while it may seem as if sufferers of anxiety are just doomed to the ever-increasing sensation that their neck is tightening up (or is that just me?), just know that it’s not permanent, if you don’t want it to be. It’s all about taking the first step to understanding yourself and why you feel the way you do. For me, the first step is right the fuck off this bus and then to evaluate why I feel the need to want to get back on it later (to go back home). There're all different ways to deal with anxiety (apparently alcohol works for a while, until you wake up three days later and feel like you’re dying, because you actually might be), and I’m actually really unqualified to give advice, and you should really ignore me and go see a professional on the subject. Because you see, I’m getting anxious trying to best close out this essay, because I’m not sure if I should give a heart-warming embrace into the beauty and inspiration of the triumphant, human spirit or make more jokes and avoid my real problems or employ a witty quote to perfectly tie everything I’ve said together, because I’m definitely considering actually just giving up and ending it right here.