I'm Not a Security Officer

I couldn’t breathe. No matter how much air I sucked in, my lungs wouldn’t expand far enough to feel satisfied.

            This was the third time this had happened and this time, I hadn’t even taken a NoDoz yet, nor a single sip of an energy drink. Why couldn’t I get enough air? Why couldn’t I breathe?

            It turns out, it was anxiety. Anxiety like I’ve never had before in my life suddenly hit me—first during the active shooter training, then during my first 12-hour shift, and now again on my second day in the field, the moment I arrived.

            To top it off, I felt as if I would pass out if I closed my eyes, even if I was standing up. The idea terrified me beyond belief; getting fired was the last thing I wanted to do! If I fell asleep, I would be fired. And I couldn’t breathe.

            I remembered the day in training when this had first happened and my mind replayed Ryan and Nate telling me to let them know if this problem persisted. The problem was persisting.

            I couldn’t work like this. I told my field training officer what was going on and let him know that I believed I needed to go to the VA. Tonight. He talked to the supervisor and had me do so as well; I was given leave to go to the VA and get evaluated to figure out what was wrong.

            That’s exactly what I did.

            They surprised me by knowing I would be there before I even arrived. I don’t know who called it in, but the VA was expecting me in the emergency department. I was called back soon enough and went directly from the vitals check to an exam room, rather than waiting again in the lobby as I had done the only other time I’d been there.

            I spoke with a social worker. While speaking to her, I realized that transit security really isn’t what I’m meant to do. I can’t work with this anxiety and it doesn’t help that I’m supposed to work nights for 12 hours at a time more often than not. She explained how unhealthy such a shift is and it made me think of the suffocating anxiety I had felt, the way my lungs couldn’t take in enough air.

            What I really want to do is art. Even if all I do for a career is teach art after college, I want to do art. I want to write my stories and illustrate them, too, and possibly make money on Patreon or through physical book sales. I want to paint. I want to dabble in photography. And I can do it all if I go back to the Evergreen State College.

            So, that’s what I’m going to do.