Built From Chaos

This week has felt longer than seven days. Not because anything extraordinary happened, but because internally it’s been loud.

I’m three weeks into reducing my medication. Not reducing it in theory, but in the physical, frustrating way where the tablet is so small you can barely split it anymore without it crumbling between your fingers. I’ve been on various medications since 2010. For years, if one thing was lowered, something else was there to cushion the drop. There was always another chemical buffering the system.

Now there isn’t.

At the same time, I stopped drinking at Christmas. That wasn’t a dramatic lifestyle pivot. I’d been at a Christmas party in the Netherlands with head office, flew home feeling dreadful, and thought, I can’t be bothered with this cycle anymore. So I stopped. Quietly.

And I was fine.

Until Sunday.

We went to the pub as a family. Karaoke in the corner. Football on the screens. Kids laughing, running about. It felt normal in the best possible way. I had a few drinks. Nothing wild. Nothing reckless.

Monday morning felt like punishment.

It wasn’t just a hangover. It was that hollow anxiety that arrives before you’ve even opened your eyes. The sense that something is wrong, even though you can’t identify what. I had a four-hour drive ahead of me for a meeting that hadn’t been confirmed as tightly as I’d have liked. My boss said he’d meet me there. That should have reassured me.

Instead, my brain began building scenarios.

What if he cancels?
What if I’ve got the wrong address?
What if I look unprepared?
What if I pass out?
What if I have an asthma attack?

I don’t have asthma.

That doesn’t matter to anxiety. Anxiety doesn’t check medical records. It scans for possibility, not probability.

During COVID this tendency was worse. I convinced myself I had cancer. Heart issues. Brain aneurysms. Psychosis. I once read the sentence “you can become allergic to anything at any time” and it lived in my head for months. Every physical sensation became evidence of something catastrophic. I rang doctors constantly. I was rushed into hospital more than once.

Alcohol became a mute button. Not because I loved drinking, but because it softened the edge of the thoughts.

Now I’ve removed both the alcohol and the medication, and what’s left is my nervous system without insulation.

By the time I arrived at the hotel on Monday, I felt as though I’d survived something rather than simply driven somewhere. I rang my wife to tell her I’d arrived safely. That word — safely — probably says more about my internal state than the actual journey.

Room 13. End of the corridor. Brown furniture everywhere and a mirror at the bottom of the bed large enough to reflect me in full. I’ve always had an irrational discomfort with brown hotel furniture. It feels heavy. Oppressive. I can’t explain it properly, but it unsettles me.

I unpacked, made a strong coffee, and took a ten-minute nap. When I woke, my boss had messaged about dinner. Quick shower. Clean clothes. Laptop under my arm.

I like my boss. He’s helped me. He’s given me opportunities most people don’t get. But he carries a constant irritation with him, as though the world is rarely meeting his expectations. The Winter Olympics were on in the bar. The GB curling team were about to win a medal. The place cheered.

He was frustrated. Loudly frustrated.

Under normal circumstances, I might have shrugged it off. In the state I was in, it grated. My nervous system was already overstimulated. Sitting next to someone broadcasting annoyance amplified it.

So I ordered a beer.

Then another.

We opened the laptop and worked through a customer email. The issues were solvable. Logical. Straightforward. But subjectively, everything felt heavier than it should have. We moved to a quieter, colder corner of the hotel and spent three hours refining wording with AI, adjusting tone, making sure it landed correctly. By the end, my head was pounding.

He went to bed.

I lay in room 13 staring at the ceiling, aware that nothing catastrophic had happened, yet unable to shake the hum under my skin.

Tuesday morning I woke up surprisingly energised. At Christmas, my wife bought me a sleep mask with built-in speakers and an app that plays white noise and guided sleep. It’s one of the best purchases we’ve ever made. I fall asleep faster. I sleep deeper. I don’t travel without it now.

Within thirty minutes of waking, though, the anxiety shifted focus.

What if the customer isn’t there?
What if he forgot?
What if this is a waste of time?

We drove separately. I arrived first. He was standing with two other people and didn’t notice me immediately. In that small window before he turned, my stomach dropped.

Then he smiled. Walked over. Shook my hand. Led us inside. One of his team was late because of the school run.

That was the disaster I’d rehearsed.

The meeting went well. Engaging. Productive. Clear next steps.

Saying goodbye to my boss afterwards felt like release. I got in the car and drove across North Yorkshire alone. The countryside opened up around me and for the first time that week I felt a sense of relief. Not joy. Not calm. Just relief.

The second hotel was beautiful. A small village. Properly decorated room. Rain shower. It felt considered, intentional. I answered emails immediately, sent paperwork to the earlier customer, wrote up meeting notes while they were still fresh. Clearing digital clutter gives me a temporary sense of control.

Then I crashed. Halfway through the day, like I often do. I still don’t know whether that’s anxiety, ADHD, or simple exhaustion, but it’s consistent. It’s not gentle tiredness. It’s a drop.

That evening I went down for food and walked into a packed bar. My body tightened immediately. Too many people. Too much noise. I turned around and left without speaking to anyone. Phone out. Just Eat. Nothing delivering. I was miles from normal city life.

There was a back door. I stepped outside, walked round to the front, peered through the window. It wasn’t actually as busy as it had looked from inside. Funny how perception shifts depending on which direction you enter from.

I went back in.

Ordered a beer. Found a corner table. Positioned myself slightly away from everyone else. Observing.

After the first drink, my shoulders lowered. After the second, I felt steady enough to order food. Steak and chips with peppercorn sauce. It was excellent. The atmosphere, once my nerves settled, was warm.

Then a notification appeared on my phone: Manchester United were playing.

I debated whether to go to bed and watch it there, risking falling asleep, or stay downstairs and have a few more beers.

I stayed.

Seven pints of Moretti later, I’d stayed too long.

I don’t remember going to bed. I do remember waking up feeling dreadful. Another appointment that morning. Another drive.

After a long hot shower, I checked out and walked to the public car park where I’d left the car. My heart rate climbed again.

Am I going to die?

Pins and needles in my hand.

Am I going to die?

Rationally, I knew I was hungover and anxious. Physically, it felt like imminent threat. I opened the car windows, let cold air hit my face, trying to dilute the sensation.

People often tell me they’d never know I struggle with anxiety. That I hide it well. Outwardly, I function. I deliver meetings. I shake hands. I hold conversations.

Internally, it can feel like erosion.

The second appointment that day was with a husband-and-wife team who had built something genuinely impressive. They were warm, thoughtful, engaging. The meeting went well again.

Then it was time to drive home.

Four hours. No music. No podcasts. No calls. Just road and thought. I drove in a narrowed state, focused on staying between the lines while my mind did what it wanted.

Home is normally the best part of the week. Hugs at the door. My wife. The kids. Noah, our small Maltese we got during lockdown, dancing in circles as though I’d been gone for months. He chases squirrels like they personally offended him. He begs for cuddles as though they’re oxygen.

That night I didn’t take my medication. I’d taken it the previous two evenings and I knew the inconsistency wasn’t helping. I slept badly. When I did sleep, the dreams were chaotic. Arguing with my boss. Some strange creature firing red darts at me. I woke up sweating, then freezing.

The next morning there was no warning. I just woke up and knew it was going to be a bad day.

And it was.

I was combative. Snappy. Defensive. A colleague closed a deal and I couldn’t bring myself to congratulate him. I didn’t want to give anyone anything. My wife asked me to walk the dog and clean the house. Both reasonable. I did neither. Not because I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to.

We argued. Over very little. She’s supportive. She understands what I’m going through. That doesn’t excuse me being difficult.

I stayed up until 1am because I couldn’t sleep. I took my medication again, fully aware that dipping in and out probably isn’t helping anything. I did eventually sleep.

Friday arrived differently.

I woke up steady. Productive. Clear. I boxed off tasks that had been hanging over me. The first thing I did was fix things with my wife. That mattered more than any email.

We’ve got Valentine’s Day tomorrow. Three-course meal. Suited and booted. Something to look forward to.

Before coming off medication, I felt sharp. Energetic. On the ball. That version of me exists. I’ve lived as him. I just need to find a way back to that level without relying on something external to stabilise it.

Nothing catastrophic happened this week.

But internally, it felt like it might.

And that’s the strange part.