Coping...

Standing in a portacabin on a flat, grey day in February, I was nervous in a way that lived in my body more than my mind.

Anywhere “formal,” as I think of it schools, hospitals, places with rules and hierarchy does this to me. My body reacts before I have time to think. It tightens, sharpens, hums. As if something inside me has been alerted ‘pay attention, get this right.’

There are expectations in these places. Ways to behave. Things to remember. Procedures to follow. Directions to hold onto.
And it all lands inside a body that already feels full, already fizzing.

Too much, too quickly. I can’t take it in.
So I cope the way I always have.
I deflect.

I look for someone, anyone to connect with. Not because I’m especially outgoing in those moments, but because I need somewhere to put the feeling. Somewhere for it to go that isn’t just inside me.

That day, I was waiting for an MRI. Nervous as hell, though I probably didn’t look it. There were two men running the procedure in the portacabin, so my options were limited. But that didn’t matter. The need was immediate, physical.

As I stood on the scales, I made a joke about never owning any at home. It landed only slightly, just a flicker of response.
My eyes moved quickly around the room, searching. I noticed their computers, Rightmove open on the screens and my brain immediately began working, reaching for something clever or easy I could say. Something to create, however small, between me and them.

And then I was being guided into the MRI scanner.
Just like that, it was over.
Distraction complete.
It’s taken me a long time to understand that this is something I’ve been doing for most of my life. A quiet, well-practiced survival mechanism. I step away from myself by stepping toward others.
It works. That’s the thing.
It smooths the moment. It makes me appear capable, sociable, fine. It helps me get through.
But it comes at a cost.

Because every time I do it, I leave myself behind.
I lose track of what I’m actually feeling. I override it, push it down, hand it over, without even realising I’ve done it. And over time, that becomes a kind of absence. A disconnection not just in moments, but in who I understand myself to be.

I became someone who could manage. Who could cope. Who could handle things that, really, I shouldn’t have had to handle alone.

Extract from Could Try Harder by Eliza Fricker out May 2026, available to pre order from all good bookstores now.