It’s with great apprehension that I share the following story, which largely deals with the subject of anxiety. Not that I’m afraid to write about anxiety. I write about it all the dang time. I sing about it all the dang time. I live with it all the dang time. It took me quite awhile, but I am actually happy that I’ve learned to identify and discuss my own anxiety. It’s part of me, it always has been, and it always will be.
 
What makes me hesitate to share this story is the simple truth that the act of a woman publicly coming forward about a personal experience often results in the perception that she is attempting to victimize herself or vilify others. I am not interested in any of that. I am, however, interested in spreading some awareness about what it is to live with anxiety. As a musician. And as a female. So at the risk of burning professional bridges and/or sounding like a “crazy bitch,” I decided to go ahead and click that terrifying little share button:
 
So there I was, getting ready to play a restaurant gig. I was the second act on the lineup, so I arrived early and had plenty of time to grab a drink and order food. A nice man walks up to me and introduces himself as the percussionist for the first act. We chatted awhile, then he mentioned he’d be happy to sit in with me on my set. I politely declined, sharing with him that I struggle with anxiety and that it’s really hard for me to play on the fly with other musicians without rehearsing first.
 
I should note here what may not be obvious about this situation. Though I have reached a place where I’m generally comfortable talking about my anxiety via writing or music or performing, this information is not the easiest thing for me to share willy-nilly in the first one-on-one discussion I have with someone. I just met you, and off the bat I must disclose something that makes me very vulnerable and insecure as both a musician and a human. If I were a man, I think a simple “no, thanks” might have been sufficient, but this isn’t my first rodeo. A woman’s "no" doesn’t carry the same weight, and often requires an explanation, so I made sure to be as personal and direct and nonthreatening as possible when attaching my addendum.
 
The man and I joked that I picked a real winner of a profession seeing as how anxiety and performing don’t always go hand in hand (har har har, so peculiar, my life choices). People commonly assume that anxiety equals stage fright. It might for some, but not for me. I rarely have stage fright, and I’ve quite confidently performed for several (okay, maybe 5-6) large crowds in my day (hair flip). Vulnerable again, I shared with him that I’ve thankfully found ways to cope with my anxiety and that I even take medication for it.
 
Our pleasant conversation concluded and the night rolled on. The first act played a great set while I scarfed down some dinner with my wife, and then it was my turn to go on. My expectations for anyone to listen to my original songs were low, as I’ve played enough background music/bar gigs in my day to just grind through it. Even so, I was digging the atmosphere and enjoying myself. I was in the middle of a song when the aforementioned percussionist walked up to the stage area and started playing his cajon. Immediately, I felt the anxiety starting to well up in my chest. Across the room, I locked huge eyeballs with my wife. She’s witnessed my anxiety firsthand enough to know this was a red flag.
 
I had a decision to make, and I had to make it fast. Either roll over and let it happen (as I probably would have done in my younger years), or find my big-girl voice and stand up for myself. After the song finished, I leaned over and reiterated to the man that I didn’t feel comfortable playing with musicians on the fly. Going so far as to comfort him (why to women do this!?) I even persisted in my reassurance that it nothing to do with him and everything to do with my own comfort level and anxiety. He proceeded to tell me how good he was at “feeling it out” to which I stated again that it had absolutely nothing to do with him or his skills as a musician. Then came the zinger. “Just give it one song,” he prodded. Now I was filled with anxiety and rage. Did this guy who I’ve known for a total of five minutes really just give me the musical equivalent of the classic “just the tip, just to see if it feels good” line?! I stared at him in disbelief and once again told him I wasn’t comfortable with him there. He finally got up and left.
 
Now, I’ve struggled with anxiety for so long that I’ve learned to control it…to a point. I am like a volcano in human form. When a panic attack is brewing, I might look fine on the outside, but there is lava-flavored dread bubbling just below the surface, invisible steam coming out of my ears, and I’m just waiting for an opportune (aka private) moment to erupt. I believe one of the reasons anxiety seems so vague (and dare-I-say imaginary) to people who don’t struggle with it is because the many people who do seem to have developed superhero powers when it comes to mastering the discrete panic attack.
 
On with the show, volcano. Still flustered, I trucked along with a few more covers until the guitarist from the first act heard one he liked and decided to join in. Now, I will clarify here that this man is a longtime friend of mine, and we had previously discussed the possibility of collaborating on a couple songs. Those two crucial details put me much more at ease than the previous encounter with the stranger-percussionist. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done at this point, so the whole thing felt a little twilight zone-y. I could feel the panic attack inching up my throat, so I set myself on autopilot and powered through the rest of my set as quickly as possible.
 
When it was over, I rushed into the restroom and locked myself in a stall. On came the tears. On came the heaving gasps for breath. On came the irrational thoughts that my lungs were going to collapse under the weight of my chest. I didn’t realize until I heard a toilet flush that someone was in the other stall.
 
Her: “Are you okay?”
 
Me: “Ye(gasp)ss. I’m(gasp)just(gasp)having(gasp)a(gasp)panic(gasp)attack.”
 
Her: “Do you want me to stay in here with you?”
 
Me: “No. I just (gasp) need to (gasp) get my (gasp) breath back.”
 
Her. “Ok, just take deep breaths.” Heads to the door. Pauses... “If it’s about a boy, just don’t think about him. Think about something else!”
 
It wasn’t really the best time or place to educate a stranger about my sexual orientation, but I appreciated her sincere offer to help, and her willingness to listen and accommodate my request for space. I finally gained enough composure to leave the stall, wash my face, and walk back to my seat. I could have kicked myself for not carrying my Xanax with me, but thankfully my dear friend had some essential oils in her purse. She gave me a good douse and I finally started to calm down.
 
Once I regained control of my breath, the shame, assumptions, and crippling self-doubt came along right on cue. Man, this drummer dude probably thinks I’m a crazy diva bitch. We share a lot of mutual friends – what’s this going to do to my reputation in the music scene? My friend will probably never invite me back to share a show with him. People are probably wondering why I’m all teary eyed in the back of the bar. People are probably wondering why I even play music at all. Why DO you play music at all, Lindsay? This is what you love? Having panic attacks in random bathrooms, for the love of music? You suck. You’re so terrible and high-strung and uncomfortable that you can’t even have a little easy-going jam session? Why do you always make a big deal out of nothing? You should quit. You should go find a normal job where you don’t have to burden people with the terrible experience of interacting with you. You are the worst. No talent at all. Not to mention ugly and fat. You are a sorry excuse for a musician, and quite frankly, you’re a sorry excuse for a human. The world is better off with out you.
 
Yep, that’s how bad it gets. Thankfully, I’ve learned how to quell those gnarly voices. It typically takes some careful combination of Xanax, sleep, exercise, my wife’s encouragement, a gratitude journal, and a therapist. The emotional toll is one thing, almost familiar and routine now, but the physical toll continues to take me by surprise. If you’ve ever experienced mild whiplash, that’s exactly how I feel the day after an anxiety attack. It’s the kind of discomfort you just have to wait out.
 
Again, I’m not sharing this story to place blame or call anyone out. I trust that people’s hearts are in usually in the right place. I LOVE people! I LOVE collaborating! For me though, time and preparation are HUGE tools I use to combat anxiety on a daily basis. Without them, I can go into a mind-numbing tailspin. I am sharing this story to crank up the volume on the often silent and lonely struggle that is dealing with anxiety. Compounded with the often silent and lonely struggle that is being a female musician, the impossible challenges and choices we face on a daily basis are so numerous, they become dangerously normalized. Everything from the way strangers speak to us, to the way we let them speak to us interferes with our ability to realize our full potential. We are socialized to make nice and not ruffle feathers. We are shown that advocating for yourself means you will be labeled as a raging fem-Nazi. We are taught to shut our mouth and sacrifice our sense of safety for the comfort of men around us. I’ve been playing music for a looooong time, and STILL I fight to overcome the “grin and bear it” cultural mindfuck that is being a woman in this industry (or any industry for that matter).
 
Whenever I hear stories about people with experiences that resemble my own, I’m comforted, and as a result my capacity for compassion grows. Whenever I hear stories about people with experiences that don’t resemble my own, I’m enlightened, and as a result my capacity for compassion grows. I hope there is a similar takeaway for people reading this post. For those who experience anxiety, I don’t wish to speak for you, because everyone is so different. However, I hope you know you aren’t alone. People like us are everywhere, and that makes the struggle less quiet and lonely. For those who don’t experience anxiety, I know I can’t expect you to read my mind. I accept the responsibility of advocating for myself so those around me understand what I’m comfortable with and capable of. In doing so, my wish is for understanding, but my demand is for respect. Just a little bit, just to see if it feels good.  

 Age 11
“NO! We do NOT use that language! It is ugly and mean! It is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!”
 
I had never been yelled at like that by anyone, let alone a teacher, let alone from the driver’s seat of a moving vehicle. Her shrill words shot like an arrow out of her mouth, soared over a handful of my wide-eyed classmates, found me slumped in the back bench seat of the school van, and pierced my well-meaning middle school heart with mortifying precision. What did I, a smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition, do to deserve such an attack?
 
I loudly yelled “Chinks!” as an Asian family drove by us on the freeway, that’s what. Somehow in my sheltered little farm town life, I had managed to skillfully detonate a racial slur before I really even knew what a racial slur was. I had no clue the word was harmful or derogatory; I just thought it was an observation. Me. A smart young girl, probably en route to some honors math competition.
 
I will never forget how I felt in that moment. My body went from zero to full sweat in about 2.2 seconds. I was overcome with shame, yet I still felt a strong urge to defend myself. Unfortunately, I couldn’t use the whole ‘I have Asian friends’ bit because my one and only Asian friend moved away when we were in kindergarten. I quietly apologized and shrunk into my seat, thinking about what just happened. My internal dialogue went something like this:
 
Well, I guess that was a shitty thing to say. I don’t have a problem with Asian people. Where did I even learn that word? Shit. I feel really bad. Awful, actually. Am I a bad person? I don’t want to be a bad person! I guess I wasn’t necessarily being bad because I didn’t know better. Stupid. I was being stupid. I don’t want to be stupid OR hurt anyone. So a) I’m definitely never saying that again, and b) I really gotta start wearing deodorant.
 
Age 17
“That makes you sound ignorant. Either you don’t like gay people, which is ignorant, or you’re using gay people to describe things you don’t like, which is ignorant.”
 
My sister was visiting from college, and we were headed somewhere to do something in her car. (Funny how the unimportant memories fade and the stuff that matters sticks). At the time, the phrase “that’s gay” was a really popular way to insult something or someone you didn’t care for, and I had just flippantly used the phrase in her presence. She didn’t let me get away with it.
 
In the moment, I rolled my eyes at her sensitivity and fired back on the defensive. “Sorrrrrryyyyy,” I said with my highest level of sibling-grade sarcasm. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just a stupid expression that every single person at my school uses to describe everything. I would never say it in front of a gay person.” (At that time, I knew a total of three gay people: one cousin and two neighbors. It didn’t even hit me that I was gay for another decade or so. Oh, the irony!) My sorry excuse for an explanation tasted gross coming out of my mouth. I sulked silently for a while.
 
Dammit. It does make me sound ignorant. She’s right. I hate it when she’s right. I don’t have to tell her she’s right because she already knows she is. So I won’t. And I won’t say “that’s gay” anymore either.
 
Age 27
“It just really upsets me when people say that. It’s so cruel…I know you didn’t mean it.”
 
There was no defense this time. I just sat there in my own ignorance and immediate remorse as my girlfriend’s face winced from the sting of my words.
 
Dammit! I know better than this. I can’t believe I let such an ugly word come out of my mouth. My co-workers say “that’s retarded” all the time, and I ALSO get upset every time I hear it! Why would I say that? What kind of monster are you, Lindsay White?! Do better! Be smarter!

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​This is just three of roughly three million examples of my own ignorance. In these instances, I overcame the urge to be right and eventually swallowed the awful guilt of being wrong. It feels like losing, but in the end you’re rewarded, pinky swear. For the record, I don’t always seize (or even notice) every learning opportunity. I am a human after all, and we’re not the smartest creatures, despite our opposable thumbs and our position at the top of the food chain. For example, how embarrassingly long did it take us to figure out wheels on suitcases?
 
I definitely know I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, as demonstrated by the fact I just used that expression. I could stand to be more educated and make more informed choices regarding the environment, race issues, class issues, women’s issues, foreign policy, the economy, etc. I could go on and on.
 
So who was I to unleash my election rage like a hungry pack of snarling wolves onto anyone in my real or digital life who had the audacity to vote for Trump?

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None of it made me feel better (except the Disney song, a little bit) or smarter (except the Disney song, a little bit). I hardly even recognized myself. It was as if years and years of repressed anger came flying out of my fingertips. No one was safe from this verbal vomit. You can primarily thank cat-calling men, know-it-all men, men who call me sweetie, men who tell me to smile, men who have touched me without permission, religious people who don’t understand the separation of church and state, and my mother for that.
 
Trust me, I know expressing rage on social media is a colossal waste of human existence. Who did I expect to reason with on this forum? With insults, no less? I started having flashbacks to all the times in my life I’ve been scolded for saying or doing something hurtful. Using the same critical thinking skills that I’ve learned in those crucial moments, I momentarily dropped the case I’d built for myself, scanned my sensibilities, and tried to put myself in the shoes of those I riled against. These were my findings:
 
I meant what I said
I couldn’t find an emoji that quite encapsulated my emotions, so I went to town with my favorite coping mechanism: words. I was outraged at, hurt by, and scared of those who "at best dismiss — or at worst, celebrate" the blatant and strategic racism and misogyny of Trump’s campaign. I wanted to express my gut-wrenching, binge-eating, bowel-moving blend of anger, disappointment, and fear. You know that one breakup you have where you think life as you know it is OVER? It was like that, only about a million times worse. By the evening of November 8th, it felt like America abruptly dumped me allowed a new rapey boyfriend to grab her by the pussy on national television. Suddenly I was the personification of every Carrie Underwood song, slashing all the social media tires I could find. Maybe next time the electoral college will think before it cheats the popular vote. I know I offended people, and I truly take no joy in that. But I kinda just needed to rage against the dying of the light for a minute.

​​I’m also not entirely sorry about questioning the collective intelligence of Trump voters. When I cursed the white uneducated masses, I wasn’t talking about people who lacked the ability to earn a diploma. I was talking about all the frosted flakes out there who lacked the ability to discern that Tony the Tiger would make a better presidential candidate than Donald Trump. I mean, if you’re into the idea of an orange president who is obsessed with the word great, why not pick an affable cartoon cereal mascot instead of a despicable buffoon serial narcissist?

​Okay, I’m doing it again. I know people don’t like being called bigots and/or ignorant. But I just can not for the life of me wrap my brain around any door number three explanation that excuses HANDING DONALD TRUMP THE KEYS TO THE FREE WORLD UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER.

But I also meant it for myself
Sorry. I almost blacked out there for a second. That was like the scene in Wayne’s World where Wayne scares the camera away with his self-pity and frustration. “OK, things aren't that great, but I'll get 'em back, OK?”
 
Referring back to the breakup analogy, I had to give myself one last snotty-nosed, puffy-eyed look in the mirror. I was livid at my country, but eventually, the only thing left to analyze was myself. Why did America dump me? Where did I go wrong? What did I do to deserve this rejection?!
 
A sudden realization came over me.
 
Duh, Linds. This is how SO MANY people feel 24 hours a day. Rejected by the very country they love. So you’re just going to sit here and throw an online tantrum? Sorry, friend, that’s not gonna fly. You can’t just throw a safety pin on your black lives matter T-shirt and call it a day, boo. You can’t just wear your protest like a trendy fall flannel for election season. A lot of people don’t have the luxury of taking off their otherness. They don’t blend in like you. They’re used to this. This is why your Mexican wife is more upset by a Lakers loss than a Trump win. She’s used to the folks in charge not giving a shit about her. You’ve been throwing around the word bigot, but you’re also kinda racist in your own complacency, aren’t ya? Eeeshh, you don’t look so good. Now you feel even sicker to your stomach because you just realized you could have been doing more this whole time, huh? Ain’t that some Schindler’s List shit? While you’re reaching for that barf bag, I might as well just get something else off my chest. I’m just gonna go ahead and call you ignorant too. Spending all your time berating people for their vote on Facebook like a damn loser. SMH. You’re just like them. Scrolling down a random abyss of cute cats and lunchstagrams and hilarious Biden memes, peppered with haunting images of child refugees and fancy profile pic filters for the latest mass shooting. No wonder you can’t process shit. It’s already a jumbled mess by the time it hits your brain. You ask what you did to deserve this? It’s what you didn’t do. It’s what you aren’t doing. So stop staring at a screen and fucking do something. Call your representatives. Do your research. Don't fall for the shock headlines. Donate. Volunteer. Make art. Peacefully protest. Speak up. Talk to people. Listen to people. Write your ass off. Own your shit. Do better! Be smarter! 
 
Age 33
Hopefully those who felt insulted by my words can take comfort in the fact I also have no problem ripping myself a new one. Which, I guess is the point I’m not-so-eloquently trying to make. If we hope to clean up our collective mess, we all need to stop treating Facebook like a sloppy, silly cafeteria food fight and get to work on ourselves.
 
I know I can only do so much to hold government officials and the media accountable. (Mostly just using my vote, my phone, my wallet, and my brain). But I could be doing a LOT more to hold myself and others around me to the very standards I seek in a president. I see how I've fallen short at that even in this very post. I’m still trying to adjust the dial somewhere between “shut up and don’t cause a scene” and “let ‘em fucking have it” so bear with me as I learn my lessons and find my voice. And I’ll try to bear with America while she does some learning of her own.