As I stretch out after a long run and enjoy the euphoria of a “runner’s high,” I soak up the sights and sounds of our temporary home. It’s a domestically foreign place, but at the moment I’m not worried about the problems of the past, the pressing issues of the present, or the follies of the future. I’m here sprawled out on a splintered picnic table, unencumbered by stressors, while soaking in all of what remains of my euphoric state.

For me, and presumably many other young adults my age, it’s difficult to find serenity while also trying to find an internship, a revered GPA, or a part time job that doesn’t conflict with college credits. I know for me, specifically, relaxation rarely presents itself neatly. I don’t often find time to set aside my summer classes, my two jobs, and my concern for the future in order to pick up a book, nap, or go on a weekend vacation. I know that’s not everyone, but, that’s me: an animated, 19 year old, junior at Michigan State University who battles with anxiety.

My distinct experiences are my own, so I considered how to explain them uniquely and effectively. I thought about describing my experiences in an artificial, non-unique way: maybe I would read a few “Odyssey Online” articles on the subject and discover the secret to describing my problem. Maybe I would use the storyboard of those erectile dysfunction commercials. But I never relate to the author of those shallow articles and I never watch those commercials and feel as if I’ve learned about the struggles of erectile dysfunction. That would be doing the problem injustice. 

As I write this now, I’m deliberating what else I could be doing. But, I’m writing this today to tell all of the Wilbblog followers how I battle with my anxiety when trying to indulge in moments like this. Whether it be on a vacation, a weekend getaway, a late night adventure, or a simple, mid-length run, it can be difficult to soak all of it in when worried about other issues in life.Concealing the truth won’t help us heal, and sneering at it will only conceal it longer. Anxiety is something always brewing within me, and the story I share today is a taste of what I go through on a day-to-day basis.

In mid-May, Robert White approached me about the Newport Jazz Festival. He assured me that this 1600 mile round-trip, weekend getaway to listen to jazz would be well worth it. You can probably assume from the above description, I was skeptical to say the least. I deliberated the pros and cons for days, even weeks. “What about the money, what about the time off work, what about my 25 page research paper,” etc.. You all get the point.

After weeks of deliberation, he goaded me into a spur of the moment purchase of the Jazz Festival ticket. It was non-refundable. I was all in.

As the semester ended and I began to endure my 45-50 hour work week and fret over my extensive research paper, the Newport Jazz Festival trip was in the back of my mind, pestering me, stressing me out. I wanted to bail on the plans. That’s just the person I am, that’s just how my anxiety works. I began to construct the list of opportunity costs in my head. Again, the money, the work, the time, the paper.

Well, I couldn’t stall the decision forever. The weekend of July 29-31 had arrived, and on that Wednesday, we finalized plans to embark on our journey. Wow, was I ever hesitant. I don’t do well with spontaneity and my anxiety was running high. Ask my mom, she could tell.

Nonetheless, we departed. Approximately 21 hours later, after a harsh single cab, drive filled with the whole music spectrum, low-quality food, a poorly renovated hotel, and one dangerously hopped curb, we had arrived. We set up camp, bought some food, and packed the cooler. Rob and Mitch fell into the tent for a well-deserved slumber, while I, fitting the anxious overzealous archetype, went for a run.

And bam, here we are, full circle. My run is over, my “runner’s high” has faded, and the splintered picnic table still lies under my once blissfully relaxed body.

Reality once again begins to take over and my battle with anxiety begins again. My mind relentlessly racing, I’m rapidly reminded of my supposed vacation. I’m in Rhode Island, living in a tent. The weather forecast predicts rain. I’m in Rhode Island, spending money. I don’t need to be doing that. I’m in Rhode Island, not working; I must be wasting my time. I’m in Rhode Island, my anxiety won’t subside. I just want to run. Why can’t I relax? Shouldn’t I be reading? What about work? How do I better myself? Do I like Jazz enough? Is this trip warranted? Do I need to be doing this? I’m in Rhode Island…

The next morning, anxiety dampened my spirit just like the rain dampened my clothes. I was soaking wet as we huddled under the wind-bent pine tree and haphazardly cooked eggs and bacon. Working through the rain, we ate, packed up, and headed to the Festival.

The hour long drive allowed for time to reflect, and right on cue, time to consider the past, present, and future. Time to burden myself with anxiety. What about all of my family at home? What am I doing? I should be working. I should be studying. I should be… What about… I don’t…I need to do…I shouldn’t be here. The Jazz provided some breaks in the storm, but my anxiety dredged on, like the rain in the fabric of my soaked sweatshirt. 

While the rain couldn’t weigh down my clothes, the following day, my anxiety would continue to weigh me down. With the sun shining and the Jazz’s inevitable exhilaration, I still couldn’t escape the anxiety of the trip. It clung to me like the excruciating sunburn I unpleasantly earned that day. The day was perfect, however, I wasn’t fully present.

Shouldn’t I be doing something for my future? My family? My friends? My education? My jobs? My body? Mind? What else should I be doing? There went another performer, great music that I barely relished in. Why am I here? Why am I…? Why don’t I…? Why…? Why…? Why…?My anxiety persisted, and I couldn’t focus on the enjoyment right in front of me.

On the third day, we rose again, prepared to bask in Jazz influenced from all corners of the world. Our seats were 10 rows back from the main stage, and the music was exceptional. The tent shielded us from the overcast weather, as for reassurance in case of rain.The set list enthralled me; Lizz Wright’s vocals and Kenny Bank’s organ occupied my mind, easing the anxiety of the weekend. Today, anxious feeling shrouded the day only occasionally. The Jazz seemed insurmountable.

Three Days of spectacular performances at Fort Adams now winded down. The festival was over. We meandered through crowds of strangers as we walked back to the single cab Tacoma. Time to endure a 800 mile drive home. Time to reflect on the trip, and inevitably reflect on the anxiety it unraveled.

A beautiful weekend set to the sounds of the Newport Jazz Festival, what else could I ask for? Remembering the experience will be easy, but how would it have felt without the constant distraction of perpetual anxiety? How would it have felt if the rhythmic accordina of Ludovic Beier and the Django Festival All-Stars was not intertwined with incessant anxiety? I’m getting anxiety just thinking about it.

I don’t write this so my family, friends, and all others who read this can pity me. I don’t write this with hopes that people give me some weird, special treatment or frequently ask me: “Tyler, you good?” I don’t write this for the people who will inevitably read it, pander to some sort of privilege I definitely have, and then write my experiences off as overdramatized.

I write this blog post for those of you who feel the same way. I write this blog post for those of you who endure other mental health issues. Those of you missing out on your very own Jazz Festival. It may be right in front of you, but just like me, you can’t fully enjoy the moment. I write this so those people feel supported and know they’re not alone.
I also write this for my own health. For those of you reading this, and concealing a problem that relates to mental health, don’t conceal it any longer. There’s only so many Jazz festivals.

Your fellow JMC asshole,

Tyler VanHuyse