What makes Mullins Therapy so special when it comes to dealing with anxiety? Of course, we have the knowledge, as anyone who studies a subject does — but more than that, we have a personal relationship with anxiety that others haven't lived through, and that makes a real difference in how we help people. Here's how I came to know anxiety only too well.
The call that changed everything
I remember it like it was yesterday, and if I really focus on the intensity, I could certainly relive it, should I choose to. The anxiety was something I hadn't felt before in my life. What triggered it was my 52-year-old mother being diagnosed with terminal cancer. That was the start of my relationship with anxiety.
I was in a place called Ghazni at the time, and it wasn't the best of places, to be fair. I received a phone call from my mum, and I knew straight away this was serious, as she wouldn't have contacted me if it wasn't. I remember her words: she asked when I'd be home, and I said I had around five weeks to go. She said she thought I needed to come and see her when I got back, as she wasn't very well and needed to talk to me.
I asked a million questions, and all she said was, "It's OK, son. It's nothing serious, but you need to come here." She asked me to promise I would come, so of course I promised. My mum was a fighter and never let anything stand in her way, so the very fact she needed to see me as soon as I got home started me over-thinking, and I fell straight into a catastrophic mindset.
Where I was based had a limited phone and internet service — we were only allowed one call and thirty minutes of internet a week. Every time I tried to reach my mum, I was told she wasn't feeling great and needed to rest, and the negative thought spiral really kicked in at that point. The last time I'd seen my mother was around twelve months before, since we lived 500 miles apart and had mostly kept in touch by phone over the previous six months, because of my work and life commitments.
Walking through her door
I remembered her as normal and healthy, weighing around nine or ten stone — a normal weight for a woman her size. Nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into when I arrived at her door. It felt unusually early and quiet, quieter than I'd ever known that street or house to be, and it felt like walking into an ambush in my own mind. That gut feeling turned out to be right.
My mum was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, her tiny, frail feet sticking out at the bottom, with her little West Highland terrier curled up beside her. The second I walked into the room, the breath left my body. I couldn't breathe, think or focus. I couldn't believe what she looked like — she was lucky if she was six stone wet. Her face was drawn, she was pale and weak, and her pyjamas no longer fit. It's a moment that will stay with me for the rest of my life — the moment of my first ever anxiety attack.
My mum's cancer had ravaged her body from head to toe. She was a different person from the one I'd last seen. I fell to my knees and begged God not to let this be true. I started crying hysterically, and she forced herself to sit up.
"Come here, son," she said. "It's OK. I am ok. Don't be silly, I promise." I curled up with my head on her knee, feeling her kneecap pressing into my temple. She put her hand on my head and said, "Don't be upset, son. It's OK, I'm going to be OK. I have you back now. Everything's going to be OK."
The sharpness that had always been in her voice was gone. It was just peaceful. I couldn't tell you how long I sat with my head on her knee, but it felt like a lifetime. She knew she was going to die. She knew, and I knew, and all I could do was cry. I couldn't get off my knees. I couldn't breathe. She asked if she should call my sister over, so she could explain things and let me go outside for a while to calm down. I agreed, and my sister arrived. A look says everything about a person, and my sister knew, the same as I did, that this was a fight our mum wasn't going to win.
I said I needed to go, kept saying it, and ran out of the front door and was sick. My eyes lost focus. It felt like someone had stolen the breath from my body and I couldn't get it back. I felt panicky and full of agitation, like a brass band marching up and down inside my chest. I couldn't breathe, and got so worked up that the neighbour thought I was having a heart attack as I held my chest, trying to breathe. This, I later discovered, was a full-blown anxiety attack — and it wouldn't be my last for many years to come. In the short gaps between rapid breaths, I kept asking why this was happening. Please God, take me instead. I am not afraid of death. In fact, I welcome it. This isn't fair, I thought. It wasn't my time, and I got no answer that day. I couldn't even stay on the same street. My partner picked me up in the street next door and took me back to where I was staying. The feeling that I was about to die lasted six or seven minutes, and it felt like a lifetime.
One of the most memorable things about that day was feeling physically and mentally drained, as if I'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer — every muscle hurt, even my eyes were sore. Panic and anxiety attacks can be powerful enough to leave you washed out for a whole day. So I had no choice but to face reality: the woman who'd cared for me, loved me unconditionally, and made me who I was, had around six weeks left, and I simply wasn't ready. The stages of grief hadn't even started yet — I remember thinking that if she had six weeks to go, I needed to be strong. I couldn't let her lasting memory of me be a nervous wreck, showing anxiety, panic and fear.
The weeks that followed
She was my mum, and I was about to fight my anxiety on a level I hadn't thought possible, while also fighting hers for her. We'd lost my brother a few years before, and if I'm honest, my mother died a little inside that day too. She never fully recovered, and the fire and sparkle she was known for was replaced with a sadness that never really shone as bright again.
One of the most remarkable things I witnessed through all of this was her acceptance. She didn't try to fight it or insist it wasn't over. She held my hand tight and whispered, "It's OK, Kevin, my time here is finished. It's time to go and see your brother now." That told me how much peace her faith and beliefs gave her — something I have never seen repeated at that level since.
Then came the calm before the storm. I had to deal with daily anxiety attacks, and the fact that I never properly switched off or slept for the next six weeks was something I had to get used to. To make sure my mum wasn't upset by my sadness, I stayed calm, focused and protective around her, making sure no one cried in front of her or got too down, so she felt nothing but unconditional love for the time she had left.
When she slept, or everyone else had gone, I let it wash over me — the physical and mental symptoms of anxiety. I held my breath, tried to ground myself, and hoped the feelings would pass. Other times I'd pretend I'd heard the front door and let the attack come and go, then recover and carry on. This continued, physically and mentally, for the next six weeks. Having this new relationship with anxiety at that point in my life wasn't really a worry for me, because all of my thoughts were with my mum.
She was on medication, including an anti-anxiety tablet she'd taken for years, along with a beta blocker to help her final stage, since she refused other options. One of the most painful parts, for me, was when she was no longer able to take medication by mouth and needed it delivered automatically instead. The anti-anxiety medication and beta blocker couldn't be given that way, and the change in her was instant — like someone had flipped a switch on her anxiety.
Her anxiety and behaviour changed overnight. She couldn't settle or focus, and the agitation was something I'd never seen in her before. Nurses and doctors said it was part of the final stage and considered normal for her care pathway — but this level of anxiety wasn't normal in any way, and no one could really help. I remember wishing I could take her anxiety on top of my own, if it meant sparing her the discomfort and panic.
Losing her
Watching someone I couldn't help go through that level of anxiety was heartbreaking, made worse by the fact that it was my own mother. Whenever I've since been in a position to help someone with anxiety, I close my eyes, remember her, and start with her memory in mind. It's what keeps me focused and passionate about anxiety treatment.
Strangely, the six weeks she'd been given to live didn't seem to affect her the way the anxiety did — the anxiety was what tore her final weeks apart. She was too hot or too cold, too much noise or too little, and almost everything left her agitated to a degree no one should have to cope with. No one could help, however hard they tried.
For that, I'll never forgive or forget the impact anxiety had on the last weeks of my mother's life. In the early days, I hoped and prayed for more time. But towards the end, because the anxiety was so painful for her, I found myself hoping instead that she could finally be at peace — that she'd close her eyes and go to see my brother.
A few days later, my mother passed away in her sleep. I had nothing left to be strong for. I was numb and empty, apart from one feeling — anxiety. It would stay with me for many years to come, in one form or another.
What anxiety taught me
No matter how hard you try to outrun it, ignore it or distract yourself, anxiety, unless it's dealt with, simply won't go away. You can mask it and dull it with medication from your GP, but that won't fix it on its own. It's like covering a clock to stop it telling the time — lift the cover, and the clock is still there, ticking away. Anxiety works the same way.
If I'm honest, I think that if I'd learned what it actually was and dealt with it properly, I could have become largely free of it years before I did. Having lived through it at such a severe level is part of what helps me now — in showing people how to work through it, retrain their thinking, and adjust their response, so that when it eases, it stays eased.
