I looked around, letting my paddle fall on to my wetsuit-clad lap. Tiny waves lapped against my kayak, reeds swayed on the riverbank, clouds scuttled across the sky. All I could hear was rustling leaves and the occasional honk of geese. There wasn’t a person in sight.
Earlier, I had sat in my car beside the river in Yarmouth, gripping the steering wheel, gritting my teeth against the pressure that had been building in my head since I had seen that the tide and wind conditions were perfect for a solo kayak. Inside of me, there were two Annas. One loved kayaking and couldn’t wait to get out on to the water. The other desperately wanted to go home and curl up under a blanket where it was safe.
Living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) means that there are often two conflicting voices in my head. One tells me that it doesn’t matter what I have for lunch, while the other is desperately afraid of making the wrong choice. One loves reading in bed before I go to sleep, the other wants to stay up as late as possible watching TV to avoid nightmares. My brain is hardwired by traumatic experiences in my past to protect me, which it unfortunately does by identifying danger in situations where there is none.
“You will enjoy this,” I told myself, fighting against the tears gathering in my eyes. “I promise.”
Doing things quickly helps remove the anxiety of decision-making, so I flung myself out of the car and tried to lose myself in the mechanics of getting ready to go out on the water: inflating my kayak, testing my lifejacket was tight enough, assembling my paddle. All the while, I repeated to myself the mantra that I would enjoy this. One part of me knew it was true, while the other could not shake the all-consuming fear that something awful was going to happen if I didn’t get myself home right away.
Without allowing myself a moment to reconsider, I hauled my kayak on to my hip and strode down to the river. I jumped in and paddled away from the shallows, passing boats and families of geese. I paddled hard, willing the fear to fall away as I strained to cut through the water as smoothly and quickly as possible.
That day in 2022, as I told myself I loved what I was doing again and again despite the alarm bells in my head ringing on a loop, I found myself alone on a long stretch of river.
There is always something peaceful about being on the water, even when I’m on it with friends or watching my dog swim after a ball. But there’s something different about floating alone on a river. I stopped paddling. I let my aching arms rest. I looked around at the still water and the fields in the distance. The wind ruffled my hair as I breathed deep, my chest loosening.
I didn’t make a conscious decision to start crying. Despite the storms that clash inside of me, I’m quite good at squashing my emotions until I’m in a safe place to express them. I like to feel in control.
Yet something in the solitude the river offered me that day broke through those bolstered defences. Tears ran down my face and my chest heaved with sobs. All the fight I had carried with me, that had been necessary to get me on to the water, left me. I felt the sadness of living with PTSD. It’s cruel and difficult. It’s not fair. It’s so incredibly tiring.
Alone on that river, I cried out the pain of having daily battles to do simple things that other people didn’t spare a thought for. I let out the frustration of having a mind that worked against me, so desperate to protect me that, at times, it didn’t want me to do anything at all. I was deeply sad but even as I cried, I was so grateful that I was there on the river.
Mental health recovery is often a fine balancing act between pushing my limits to broaden my capacity and having compassion for myself, so taking steps back when needed. Somehow, that moment on the river was a beautiful mix of the two. I had battled to get there, had rallied against my fears, and I’d found a moment in nature that allowed me to care for myself, to let out some of the deep hurt I carry.
I don’t want my life to be small, and big moments such as sitting alone on the river, after the fight to get there, remind me that my life can be everything I want it to be.
Sitting on my kayak, I felt brave. When filled with fear on a daily basis, feeling brave can be alien. It takes courage to work against our fears, but there is always a little voice inside my head telling me that it can’t really be counted as bravery if you are doing things that other people don’t even think twice about. But that solitary moment was different. I had done something that other people would find challenging or even scary. I had been objectively brave.
I won’t pretend that I was magically cured of PTSD from that day onwards. Unfortunately, it is something I struggle with on a daily basis. I have good times and bad. In the tougher moments, I think back to crying in my kayak on the river. I was strong enough to get myself there, and kind enough to care for myself, too. I use it as a tangible example when I am struggling. I can be strong and kind. I can be more than my fear.
• Shot in the Dark by Anna Britton is published by Canelo (£9.99)
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