I am riding a very unpleasant solo teeter totter these days. When you're at the top, you've got a long way to fall. When you're at the bottom, you've got to expend a lot of effort to move upward. While you teeter totter by yourself, you can't stay up....you always end up back down at the bottom, but it's only worthwhile if you're trying to get to the top again. So you find yourself bouncing back and forth, feeling good at the top for a second, realizing quickly that you're going to come crashing back down and then sitting at the bottom mustering enough energy and courage to try to reach the top again.
I cannot find a balance, a pleasant place in the middle when I'm not dreading the descent or struggling to rise. More than in such a long time, I have moments of wonder, happiness, hope even. But the highs are fleeting and the courage it takes to do the things that feel like highs right now is so delicate that when I fall back to the ground with a thud, my resolve is as bruised as my body would be.
The greatest struggle is to keep trying and not give up saying, "You just can't do it. You're not capable." But I feel like I just can't do it. It's too hard. There's too much damage. The cycle has gone on for too long for me to change it. I'm not even content to sit at the bottom of the teeter totter and forget trying to go back up. I want to just climb off of the ride and lay down somewhere far away where I won't have to see the teeter totter mocking my failure.
Today, I took great strides. I went into work. I organized. I spent hours here. I went through emails and responded to some. I brought my pup with me to keep me company and to help with my panic attacks. I felt really good being here. I was even brave enough to walk down the hall with the dog to get him some water. I tried again later, needing to use the bathroom, when I thought I heard someone coming. I didn't just take two steps back, I turned and ran. I'm so tired of being a coward.
I remember a time when I was strong. I was good at things. I was funny. I didn't want to claw off my own skin. I want to get back there. I want to be speaking at gatherings and planning conferences and making friends and smiling at my neighbors. I don't want to spend anymore time being afraid of what everyone must know about me (you know, the imaginary sign I am wearing) and what everyone must think of me, and worse, that everyone wants me to be suffering for the damage I've done.
I want to be happy. I want to take steps forward. I want to laugh on the playground instead of thinking about how it mimics how I feel about my life.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
Chasing Rainbows
I posted yesterday about the frustration of seeking the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. You really want to believe that it exists, but you know that no matter how diligently you pursue that end, you're never going to get there. Then last night, as I was singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to my sleepy children, them looking up at me, content from their beds, warm and comfortable, loved, I considered that maybe I can find some other goal in chasing rainbows. I so often forget that the destination is the end of something, and it's really the pursuit that gives life meaning.
Sure, I want to be in a better place in the end, any end. My dad recently had a minor health scare, although it never feels minor when you're sitting in the ER while the strongest people, your parents, are weak, sick or scared. Before I had seen him with my own eyes, to be able to assess how he was really doing, I sat spinning in "what if" scenarios. Beyond the very obvious when someone you love is sick, I kept getting stuck at, "If we were nearing his end on this earth, I would never forgive myself that I was last able to show him this current me. This mess." I so badly want to emulate all of the good traits that make up my dad. He's kind, motivated, understanding, joyful, loyal, admired and so many other things. It pains me to know how far I have to go to get there and that the path I am on doesn't seem to go forward.
But, I am learning to forgive myself for my shortcomings. I don't believe it's my fault that I have mental illnesses, although it's much harder for me to let go of responsibility for all of the havoc they have caused. I know that this mess is not my end. Thankfully, it isn't the end of anything, it's just the beginning of whatever is next. When I think of the aspirations I have, wanting to make my father proud, wanting to make my children proud, wanting to contribute to my communities, to change lives, I know that the better way to chase rainbows is to be grateful to see them at all and chase the simple joy that brings, instead of the "end of it." There is no end of a rainbow to reach, like there is no end to reach in life, until death, but there is magic in rainbows and there is magic in life. I see it in my children's faces. I hear it in my father's laughter from the hospital bed at 12:00 a.m. the night before a transatlantic flight. I note it in the thanks I received when I brought my mom coffee for the second time. I feel it when I do something I can be proud of. I feel it when I look at all the things that scare me and have hope that it will get better. It will get better. It has to and it will.
Sure, I want to be in a better place in the end, any end. My dad recently had a minor health scare, although it never feels minor when you're sitting in the ER while the strongest people, your parents, are weak, sick or scared. Before I had seen him with my own eyes, to be able to assess how he was really doing, I sat spinning in "what if" scenarios. Beyond the very obvious when someone you love is sick, I kept getting stuck at, "If we were nearing his end on this earth, I would never forgive myself that I was last able to show him this current me. This mess." I so badly want to emulate all of the good traits that make up my dad. He's kind, motivated, understanding, joyful, loyal, admired and so many other things. It pains me to know how far I have to go to get there and that the path I am on doesn't seem to go forward.
But, I am learning to forgive myself for my shortcomings. I don't believe it's my fault that I have mental illnesses, although it's much harder for me to let go of responsibility for all of the havoc they have caused. I know that this mess is not my end. Thankfully, it isn't the end of anything, it's just the beginning of whatever is next. When I think of the aspirations I have, wanting to make my father proud, wanting to make my children proud, wanting to contribute to my communities, to change lives, I know that the better way to chase rainbows is to be grateful to see them at all and chase the simple joy that brings, instead of the "end of it." There is no end of a rainbow to reach, like there is no end to reach in life, until death, but there is magic in rainbows and there is magic in life. I see it in my children's faces. I hear it in my father's laughter from the hospital bed at 12:00 a.m. the night before a transatlantic flight. I note it in the thanks I received when I brought my mom coffee for the second time. I feel it when I do something I can be proud of. I feel it when I look at all the things that scare me and have hope that it will get better. It will get better. It has to and it will.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Standing Still
I keep trying to move. Forward - looking to the future, even backward - trying to repair what has been damaged in this breakdown. But I am paralyzed.
I have crystal clear moments of hope, optimism even, that I will enjoy my life again. I WANT to enjoy my work again. I want to throw open all of the doors, both literal and figurative, and welcome something other than numbness into my heart. I want to feel like a contributing member of society, of my own world.
And yet, I just can't seem to harness the fleeting moments of hope. It feels like I'm chasing the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. No matter how swiftly and accurately I pursue it's course, I never get there. There is no end to the chase. I fear that this hope, my rainbow, will evaporate, as rainbows do, before I get to the end, to the gold, to the goal. Contentment. Joy. PEACE.
I was recently asked by a well-meaning, although not terribly understanding, friend whether I really needed "all this medication" I'm on. She asked, "Do you think you needed it to live your life years ago?
I answered honestly, "No." But so much has happened in these years. So much has changed and I feel absolutely beaten into submission by the experiences I've had. The result, the reward from these experiences, is crippling anxiety and paranoia.
I compared my existence to a volunteer fire department... I can manage the three or four emergencies, fires at a time. But then I began to manage the town, the city and the county's needs. What was completely under control is now an inferno. And I am living in it.
I absolutely want to quell the flames, stop the chaos and the noise in my head and maybe not need all of these medications. But I'm not there now. The fire is raging and I am standing still in its fury.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
The Things in my Head
I often describe my poor state of mind as "wanting to claw my own skin off." I am so tired of me. I'm so over the dialog in my head. Not only does it drive me insane, but I have come to believe that if anyone knew even a third of what went on in my head on a daily basis, no one would want to be anywhere near me. It's why I can't stand myself. It's also why I started with the facades that crumbled leaving me broken and ultimately, completely exposed.
There are horrible people in the world. Horrible things happen with no justification. People hate, hurt and ruin others out of spite and frustration at their circumstances. The more kindhearted one is, the more deeply one can be taken advantage of. I abhor that I feel like I have no choice but to play along in this ugly existence. Worse, I loathe myself for not being stronger, braver and individual enough to say I'm not doing it anymore and simply find my own way to live passionately. I did live passionately once, but it was long before I had children to role model for, a husband to be a wife for, responsibilities, expectations laid at my feet....I was young and unattached to anything that matters to me now. That was an easier time. I knew me then. It's harder to know this me that I've become under the strain of all the new expectations.
Sure, life is as simple as our choices. Yes, I can choose to go back to my line of work and do it differently, create better boundaries, better organize or I can choose to do something else and walk away. But no choice is really that simple. When I weigh the benefits, my happiness, my peace of mind, don't rank as high as the comfort and expectations of my family. When I consider the factors, it's impossible to pretend I live in a world where what I do doesn't matter because that's just not true. To someone, it will always matter and that someone is the someone I feel like I continue to disappoint. I don't even know what I want anymore, except to claw off my own skin.
There are horrible people in the world. Horrible things happen with no justification. People hate, hurt and ruin others out of spite and frustration at their circumstances. The more kindhearted one is, the more deeply one can be taken advantage of. I abhor that I feel like I have no choice but to play along in this ugly existence. Worse, I loathe myself for not being stronger, braver and individual enough to say I'm not doing it anymore and simply find my own way to live passionately. I did live passionately once, but it was long before I had children to role model for, a husband to be a wife for, responsibilities, expectations laid at my feet....I was young and unattached to anything that matters to me now. That was an easier time. I knew me then. It's harder to know this me that I've become under the strain of all the new expectations.
Sure, life is as simple as our choices. Yes, I can choose to go back to my line of work and do it differently, create better boundaries, better organize or I can choose to do something else and walk away. But no choice is really that simple. When I weigh the benefits, my happiness, my peace of mind, don't rank as high as the comfort and expectations of my family. When I consider the factors, it's impossible to pretend I live in a world where what I do doesn't matter because that's just not true. To someone, it will always matter and that someone is the someone I feel like I continue to disappoint. I don't even know what I want anymore, except to claw off my own skin.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Looking for a Light at the End of this Tunnel
I'm struggling not to succumb to feeling sorry for myself. I've always been able to take responsibility for my role in the things that "happen to me." I know my therapist would say I take far too much responsibility. It's one of the reasons I feel like weight of the world is on my shoulders. I feel like I should be capable of making my world work. I used to be able to make my world work.
Unfortunately, the more I talk about the things I've dealt with in the past few years (and longer, in some instances), the more I realize that a lot of it really is as awful as I've come to view it, and much of it is outside of my control. Of course I have played a part in the things that have transpired in my life, whether intentionally, unintentionally, or as a result of my mental illness, but it just doesn't seem fair and I find this a very unhealthy and completely unhelpful place to be stuck. I simply can't move forward if I see the world as absolute chaos that seems inherently skewed against my favor.
I spent some time with these thoughts this weekend. I had an experience that thrust me well into "why me?". Friday night, as I slept on the floor of the nursery with my two sick children, I awoke to the vibration of my phone ringing. I'm an incredibly light sleeper. I picked up my phone and saw a local cell phone number that I didn't recognize and that it was 1:57 a.m. No message. My phone rang again at 1:59. This time there was a message...no speaking, just what sounded like wind in the background. Now, I'll acknowledge that weird phone calls in the middle of the night set a lot of people on edge. What if there is some sort of emergency? Sadly, as the night wore on, I went from rational questions like this, that I think would be quickly put to rest when no one left a comprehensible message, to the completely irrational considerations that have become the mark of my anxiety.
Because I was awake and a little shaken by the two calls and strange "voicemail," I decided to read. It's one of the few things that can focus my mind well enough away from whatever thoughts creep into my head when I'm trying to sleep. I read for a few minutes before, at 2:06 a.m., the phone rang again. Same number. This time, because I was holding the phone, I declined the call. My phone instantly began to ring again. I declined again, and it rang again . . . nine times in immediate succession. That is eleven telephone calls in fifteen minutes. The last call came in at 2:12 and I laid in the dark room contemplating what this could be about. After some time, I checked the five messages that were left. Again, the sound of wind in the background. No voice. No words. No explanation, except those I was starting to come up with in my own head. I used some relaxation techniques to try and calm down (because I didn't want to touch my phone again, even to read). I had sixteen minutes with my thoughts before the phone rang again at 2:28. Another message Sometime in the next hour, I drifted back into sleep. At 3:38, I woke again to the sound of my phone vibrating. In the next ten minutes, I got calls at 3:41, 3:41, 3:42, 3:45, 3:45, 3:46 and 3:48. They came with another four messages, but by now, I was too afraid to listen to them, knowing I would find only the sound of the world outside, without explanation for this intrusion on my peace of mind. (I did eventually listen to them as the sun rose when I had a little less fear about the unknown because it was no longer dark.)
My mind drifted from one possible, terrifying scenario to the next. I started with rational things like a wrong number, but after ten messages, whoever was calling knew that the number belonged to me and not whomever they might be attempting to reach. I considered a pocket dial, but that just doesn't happen twenty times, much less in rapid succession after declining the call. I wondered if someone was hurt, but why no message? The next set of thoughts revolved around loved ones and emergencies, somewhere just beyond rational. Had my sister been abducted and she was trying to reach me in secret? Was it about my parents who are traveling? Is someone after my children?
The spiral into complete panic came next, and quickly. I was convinced that someone was outside my home, that the wind I could hear was the same breeze that was blowing through my children's open window. I closed and locked the window in the dark, while trying not to disturb the curtains. I was afraid to turn on the light to alert whomever was outside to the fact that I was up. I couldn't remember if the patio door was locked, but I was too scared to walk through the house to the kitchen because my presence would be exposed by the curtainless windows in the office. I wasn't sure whether I believed "they" were after me or my family, but I was terrified to leave my children in the room alone. At one point, my daughter woke and asked to sleep in my room. The terror I was sure was lurking outside weighed on me when I refused. I didn't want the kids away from me. I didn't want them split up and thereby vulnerable. I cried myself back to sleep and mercifully, there were no more calls.
Saturday, I couldn't sleep because I was waiting for it to start again, still certain, in some irrational part of my otherwise mostly functioning mind, that it was an intentional "attack," either to actually harm me or just to completely terrify me. Thankfully, I haven't received any more calls from numbers I don't recognize. Unfortunately for my imagination, I also haven't any explanation. In the light of day, I know the conclusion that someone was outside my house either to get me or to scare me isn't reasonable, but there is still a part of me that is thankful when my children wake up night after night so that I can hold them near me in the scary dark. Perhaps the worst part about all of this is that I'm struggling to convince myself that this isn't related to something or someone I've wronged, that the harm is intended toward my children to make me "pay" for what I might have done, and that it's simply not real because it hasn't happened again. I can't shake the nagging feelings, the fear.
I've had some incredible nightmares since Friday. I haven't slept soundly, but when my kids are in my bed or I am in theirs. I don't feel safe when they are not with me. I'm a bit paranoid about even posting this, but this blog is one of few places where I feel like I take back some strength and stand my own two feet. Here, I'm not hiding in a dark room, I'm flinging the door wide open, lights blazing and admitting exactly what I feel, even though it's terrifying. I don't feel strong, but I know that saying these things "out loud" makes me stronger and I believe if I continue moving on one direction, I will begin to see a light at the end of this tunnel.
Unfortunately, the more I talk about the things I've dealt with in the past few years (and longer, in some instances), the more I realize that a lot of it really is as awful as I've come to view it, and much of it is outside of my control. Of course I have played a part in the things that have transpired in my life, whether intentionally, unintentionally, or as a result of my mental illness, but it just doesn't seem fair and I find this a very unhealthy and completely unhelpful place to be stuck. I simply can't move forward if I see the world as absolute chaos that seems inherently skewed against my favor.
I spent some time with these thoughts this weekend. I had an experience that thrust me well into "why me?". Friday night, as I slept on the floor of the nursery with my two sick children, I awoke to the vibration of my phone ringing. I'm an incredibly light sleeper. I picked up my phone and saw a local cell phone number that I didn't recognize and that it was 1:57 a.m. No message. My phone rang again at 1:59. This time there was a message...no speaking, just what sounded like wind in the background. Now, I'll acknowledge that weird phone calls in the middle of the night set a lot of people on edge. What if there is some sort of emergency? Sadly, as the night wore on, I went from rational questions like this, that I think would be quickly put to rest when no one left a comprehensible message, to the completely irrational considerations that have become the mark of my anxiety.
Because I was awake and a little shaken by the two calls and strange "voicemail," I decided to read. It's one of the few things that can focus my mind well enough away from whatever thoughts creep into my head when I'm trying to sleep. I read for a few minutes before, at 2:06 a.m., the phone rang again. Same number. This time, because I was holding the phone, I declined the call. My phone instantly began to ring again. I declined again, and it rang again . . . nine times in immediate succession. That is eleven telephone calls in fifteen minutes. The last call came in at 2:12 and I laid in the dark room contemplating what this could be about. After some time, I checked the five messages that were left. Again, the sound of wind in the background. No voice. No words. No explanation, except those I was starting to come up with in my own head. I used some relaxation techniques to try and calm down (because I didn't want to touch my phone again, even to read). I had sixteen minutes with my thoughts before the phone rang again at 2:28. Another message Sometime in the next hour, I drifted back into sleep. At 3:38, I woke again to the sound of my phone vibrating. In the next ten minutes, I got calls at 3:41, 3:41, 3:42, 3:45, 3:45, 3:46 and 3:48. They came with another four messages, but by now, I was too afraid to listen to them, knowing I would find only the sound of the world outside, without explanation for this intrusion on my peace of mind. (I did eventually listen to them as the sun rose when I had a little less fear about the unknown because it was no longer dark.)
My mind drifted from one possible, terrifying scenario to the next. I started with rational things like a wrong number, but after ten messages, whoever was calling knew that the number belonged to me and not whomever they might be attempting to reach. I considered a pocket dial, but that just doesn't happen twenty times, much less in rapid succession after declining the call. I wondered if someone was hurt, but why no message? The next set of thoughts revolved around loved ones and emergencies, somewhere just beyond rational. Had my sister been abducted and she was trying to reach me in secret? Was it about my parents who are traveling? Is someone after my children?
The spiral into complete panic came next, and quickly. I was convinced that someone was outside my home, that the wind I could hear was the same breeze that was blowing through my children's open window. I closed and locked the window in the dark, while trying not to disturb the curtains. I was afraid to turn on the light to alert whomever was outside to the fact that I was up. I couldn't remember if the patio door was locked, but I was too scared to walk through the house to the kitchen because my presence would be exposed by the curtainless windows in the office. I wasn't sure whether I believed "they" were after me or my family, but I was terrified to leave my children in the room alone. At one point, my daughter woke and asked to sleep in my room. The terror I was sure was lurking outside weighed on me when I refused. I didn't want the kids away from me. I didn't want them split up and thereby vulnerable. I cried myself back to sleep and mercifully, there were no more calls.
Saturday, I couldn't sleep because I was waiting for it to start again, still certain, in some irrational part of my otherwise mostly functioning mind, that it was an intentional "attack," either to actually harm me or just to completely terrify me. Thankfully, I haven't received any more calls from numbers I don't recognize. Unfortunately for my imagination, I also haven't any explanation. In the light of day, I know the conclusion that someone was outside my house either to get me or to scare me isn't reasonable, but there is still a part of me that is thankful when my children wake up night after night so that I can hold them near me in the scary dark. Perhaps the worst part about all of this is that I'm struggling to convince myself that this isn't related to something or someone I've wronged, that the harm is intended toward my children to make me "pay" for what I might have done, and that it's simply not real because it hasn't happened again. I can't shake the nagging feelings, the fear.
I've had some incredible nightmares since Friday. I haven't slept soundly, but when my kids are in my bed or I am in theirs. I don't feel safe when they are not with me. I'm a bit paranoid about even posting this, but this blog is one of few places where I feel like I take back some strength and stand my own two feet. Here, I'm not hiding in a dark room, I'm flinging the door wide open, lights blazing and admitting exactly what I feel, even though it's terrifying. I don't feel strong, but I know that saying these things "out loud" makes me stronger and I believe if I continue moving on one direction, I will begin to see a light at the end of this tunnel.
Monday, September 16, 2013
All alone with Taylor Swift
Well, not really. For those of you that know me well, you'll know that bad music is a guilty pleasure for me. I'm not saying I don't like Taylor Swift. I freaking love Taylor Swift. I'm just saying that most thirty-somethings probably don't. But she's genius sometimes. Take this lyric that has been bouncing around in my head for some time now, "Time won't fly. It's like I'm paralyzed by it. I'd like to be my old self again, but I'm still trying to find it." I can't stop repeating that line over and over in a silent monologue that just keeps going on and on.
I expected that, as time passes, this would all get easier. Better. Normal. I should be able to get back to my life. Instead, I feel like time just inches along and nothing changes in my head. The world keeps spinning around me, but I'm at a stand still. I feel isolated from everyone else. It's as if I can't relate to the existence I've always existed within.
For me, this experience, the mental illness, goes on and on. I went to the hospital, I got help, I'm in therapy, I'm on medication, things should be okay. It feels as though people expect that I should just be better. I expect that I should just be better. Instead, I am still this shattered me that's putting pieces back together, but will forever be changed, marred, broken.
Some day, I may actually be able to live a life that resembled the one I lived before. I may be able to take stress in stride, distinguish who I am from the opinions of others, take some pride in my existence. Or, I may put my head down, do what I have always done, and find myself exactly here again. Always. While I hope that that's not true, the more time passes that I feel the same, the less I believe that things may change.
I expected that, as time passes, this would all get easier. Better. Normal. I should be able to get back to my life. Instead, I feel like time just inches along and nothing changes in my head. The world keeps spinning around me, but I'm at a stand still. I feel isolated from everyone else. It's as if I can't relate to the existence I've always existed within.
For me, this experience, the mental illness, goes on and on. I went to the hospital, I got help, I'm in therapy, I'm on medication, things should be okay. It feels as though people expect that I should just be better. I expect that I should just be better. Instead, I am still this shattered me that's putting pieces back together, but will forever be changed, marred, broken.
Some day, I may actually be able to live a life that resembled the one I lived before. I may be able to take stress in stride, distinguish who I am from the opinions of others, take some pride in my existence. Or, I may put my head down, do what I have always done, and find myself exactly here again. Always. While I hope that that's not true, the more time passes that I feel the same, the less I believe that things may change.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Panic
I've been doing much better, generally. I still have tremendous triggers at work, but I think that my depression is under control. That makes home life just about normal these days, which is amazing. I have been working from home a bit more, to increase productivity that suffers in the office. I had four hearings last week, all of which were successful. All in all, things have been going rather well.
In the meantime, lots of exciting things have happened as well! My little big girl started school last week. Our oldest started her senior year in high school. My husband participated (although didn't race) in a 100 mile race. And we brought home a rescue dog!
With all of this positive stuff, imagine my surprise when I had a crushing panic attack today, away from work and in my normal life. Because it came and went so quickly, I found that I was able to recognize and recount today's panic attack. Usually, I'm so consumed by it that I lose the time that I'm having the attack and sort of "come to" feeling foggy and drained.
I put my little girl on the bus for the very first time this morning. She was totally ready for it and I wasn't quite, but I knew it was right to let her stretch her tiny wings. We waited at the bus stop and got excited when the bus rounded the corner. She climbed in without a second glance backward and I waved frantically at her in the window. And then she was off.
I know many of you are thinking, "Oh, so she's the mom who followed the bus to school. I get it." In fact, I was okay. No tears on the first day of school, no tears on the first day on the bus. If my girl is ready, I can manage. With that said, because there aren't any other 4K kids on her bus, I was a little worried that she might struggle to find her classroom. The drop off locations are different for the big kids and the young kids and she wasn't going to have the benefit of having the special drop. I figured she'd either find her way, someone would help her, or the school would call wondering why she didn't show up. Gulp.
Of course, no one called because she was probably fine. When I arrived to pick her up today, a pickup I normally don't do but insisted on because I knew I wouldn't feel quite comfortable until I saw her smiling face again, the 4K classes were outside. As her class lined up, I scanned the playground for her. As her class started marching toward their backpacks, the first step toward having them in our waiting arms again, I scanned the playground for her. As her class assembled on the blacktop for pickup, I scanned the playground for her again...because she wasn't with her class. She just wasn't there. I scanned the ground for her waiting backpack, but I couldn't find it.
And my heart stopped. Where it should have been beating, I felt a searing hole. Then, because it wasn't beating (or rather, it was likely beating incredibly fast and erratically), I started to take fast, shallow breaths, unable to take in any more air than just enough to keep me conscious. My chest got hot and the heat rose quickly up my neck. I grew faint and my head started to pound. And then, of course because I'm here blogging and not a number of horrible places doing awful things that I'd rather not imagine, I saw her. Almost immediately, the attack ceased and my heart slowed. I took long, deep breaths and by the time her little arms were around my waist, I was me again.
Now imagine that three times a day, five times a day, ten times a day. Imagine it for no reason at all or simply because you vividly remember something that manifests itself terribly in your head. Imagine it in the middle of a dark room at night, driving a car, sitting at your desk or holding your children. It's an awful thing and one that I am gaining control over.
Although most episodes last up to a half an hour for me, today's was rather easily swept aside. The specific fear that triggered the attack was remedied the moment I saw her blue pants, messy hair and coltish gait. I'm thankful. I'd rather not have panic attacks, but to have one that was so quickly conquered (although tamed as much by circumstances as it was managed by my efforts) reminds me that I wasn't always this way. I used to be normal and able to do things that terrify me right now. That gives me hope that I will be able to do it all again. I'm thankful that only my husband has witnessed a true panic attack and that I have been able to raise my children without them knowing my anxiety firsthand. And I'm thankful, of course, that my little person can live her life, enjoy riding the bus, play without a care in the world and come back to the Mama she knows will always support her and stand strong behind her, even during those times when I can hardly stand on my own feet.
In the meantime, lots of exciting things have happened as well! My little big girl started school last week. Our oldest started her senior year in high school. My husband participated (although didn't race) in a 100 mile race. And we brought home a rescue dog!
With all of this positive stuff, imagine my surprise when I had a crushing panic attack today, away from work and in my normal life. Because it came and went so quickly, I found that I was able to recognize and recount today's panic attack. Usually, I'm so consumed by it that I lose the time that I'm having the attack and sort of "come to" feeling foggy and drained.
I put my little girl on the bus for the very first time this morning. She was totally ready for it and I wasn't quite, but I knew it was right to let her stretch her tiny wings. We waited at the bus stop and got excited when the bus rounded the corner. She climbed in without a second glance backward and I waved frantically at her in the window. And then she was off.
I know many of you are thinking, "Oh, so she's the mom who followed the bus to school. I get it." In fact, I was okay. No tears on the first day of school, no tears on the first day on the bus. If my girl is ready, I can manage. With that said, because there aren't any other 4K kids on her bus, I was a little worried that she might struggle to find her classroom. The drop off locations are different for the big kids and the young kids and she wasn't going to have the benefit of having the special drop. I figured she'd either find her way, someone would help her, or the school would call wondering why she didn't show up. Gulp.
Of course, no one called because she was probably fine. When I arrived to pick her up today, a pickup I normally don't do but insisted on because I knew I wouldn't feel quite comfortable until I saw her smiling face again, the 4K classes were outside. As her class lined up, I scanned the playground for her. As her class started marching toward their backpacks, the first step toward having them in our waiting arms again, I scanned the playground for her. As her class assembled on the blacktop for pickup, I scanned the playground for her again...because she wasn't with her class. She just wasn't there. I scanned the ground for her waiting backpack, but I couldn't find it.
And my heart stopped. Where it should have been beating, I felt a searing hole. Then, because it wasn't beating (or rather, it was likely beating incredibly fast and erratically), I started to take fast, shallow breaths, unable to take in any more air than just enough to keep me conscious. My chest got hot and the heat rose quickly up my neck. I grew faint and my head started to pound. And then, of course because I'm here blogging and not a number of horrible places doing awful things that I'd rather not imagine, I saw her. Almost immediately, the attack ceased and my heart slowed. I took long, deep breaths and by the time her little arms were around my waist, I was me again.
Now imagine that three times a day, five times a day, ten times a day. Imagine it for no reason at all or simply because you vividly remember something that manifests itself terribly in your head. Imagine it in the middle of a dark room at night, driving a car, sitting at your desk or holding your children. It's an awful thing and one that I am gaining control over.
Although most episodes last up to a half an hour for me, today's was rather easily swept aside. The specific fear that triggered the attack was remedied the moment I saw her blue pants, messy hair and coltish gait. I'm thankful. I'd rather not have panic attacks, but to have one that was so quickly conquered (although tamed as much by circumstances as it was managed by my efforts) reminds me that I wasn't always this way. I used to be normal and able to do things that terrify me right now. That gives me hope that I will be able to do it all again. I'm thankful that only my husband has witnessed a true panic attack and that I have been able to raise my children without them knowing my anxiety firsthand. And I'm thankful, of course, that my little person can live her life, enjoy riding the bus, play without a care in the world and come back to the Mama she knows will always support her and stand strong behind her, even during those times when I can hardly stand on my own feet.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Even in sleep, there is no escape
I have had a wonderful week. By that I mean, I only had two panic attacks, despite two court appearances and two and a half days in the office. I made it through an entire work day without taking my Lorazepam and I only lost one day to my depression. From where I've been, it's like nearly reaching the summit and seeing a clear path straight to it.
Unfortunately, I'm still frequently reminded that depression is more like alcoholism, than reaching the top of a mountain. You're never quite cured. You never actually summit. Fighting urges toward self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness is like an alcoholic struggling not to drink when she smokes. Except I can't just avoid thinking the way an alcoholic could conceivably avoid smoking. Combine that with anxiety, which ebbs and flows, and triggers can transport you from good to really, really bad.
And, of course, as the title suggests, there is really no escape from your own mind, even in sleep. I had one of the worst nightmares I've ever had last night. Although I'm prone to dreaming, and I often lucid dream (a state of realization that you're dreaming and the ability to manipulate the outcome), I fairly rarely have true nightmares. Sure, I suffer the occasional "I forgot to put pants on before going to work" dreams, but I think everyone has those.
Rather, last night, my dream involved the same terror that my waking anxiety invokes. I honestly don't vividly remember the details, but I do remember the emotions. A man was trying to "get" me, although not in the chase-me-through-the-woods kind of way. He was bearing down on me and I knew he was dangerous. He was scary, in part, because he wasn't sinister on the surface. He smiled, seemed friendly, but it was a mask. First, he called and called and called on the phone. He sent emails, he friended me on Facebook. He tracked me down at home, where I refused to answer the door. Then another time, he tracked me to my parents' house and I answered the door not realizing it could be him. There were sirens outside and he was seeking refuge from something, a ploy to convince me to let him in. I turned him away at the front door only to find he tried to get in around back. I saw him cross the deck and disappear into the dark backyard. The police later showed up because they were trying to find him. Because he was after me. Then, at a party at some house that my mind built, he arrived, uninvited, but finally able to get close enough to me because the hostess didn't know the danger I did. I was trapped. Although no one else seemed to know what was happening, he had me hostage and I couldn't leave. I remained strong and calm and unbreakable. Then he went after my daughter. Once he had her, I shattered completely and I succumbed. He released her and I told my terrified, tiny child to run. "Run into the woods and don't come out. Do not come back here. Mommy loves you"
I woke up then, without knowing what was to happen to me or my little girl. Did she get away? Did I? Was she too brave or frightened to leave her mommy? Was I doing the right thing by giving myself in her place? Could I have saved us both? ....Was she better off without me and the terror that follows me?
And that's what has stayed with me for the waking hours today. Time will pass and suddenly I'll get a wave of complete terror. Almost the opposite of foreboding, like I KNOW something bad has already happened. Even as I type, I feel creepily outside of my own body. I can't shake the feeling that something important and terrible has happened, and then I remember my dream and realize that I'm just carrying that ugliness into my day without even realizing it. I've spent time thinking about what the dream means, and I like it no better rationalized than I did subconsciously. I feel stalked, exposed and trapped. I agonize that my children will suffer. I am afraid.
While I want to believe that things will continue to get better with time, and I will apply the coping skills I have learned, I also know that my mind is relentless. From the minute I wake up until the minute I fall asleep, my demons circle around in my head, and even when I can't recognize the individual thoughts, the emotions are clear. Fear, sadness, hopelessness, worry...they're almost never naturally inclined toward something positive. Then, when I need to be free from myself the most, I sleep, only to be chased by those emotions, personified by the villains in my dreams. It leaves a person tired. So tired.
Unfortunately, I'm still frequently reminded that depression is more like alcoholism, than reaching the top of a mountain. You're never quite cured. You never actually summit. Fighting urges toward self-loathing and feelings of worthlessness is like an alcoholic struggling not to drink when she smokes. Except I can't just avoid thinking the way an alcoholic could conceivably avoid smoking. Combine that with anxiety, which ebbs and flows, and triggers can transport you from good to really, really bad.
And, of course, as the title suggests, there is really no escape from your own mind, even in sleep. I had one of the worst nightmares I've ever had last night. Although I'm prone to dreaming, and I often lucid dream (a state of realization that you're dreaming and the ability to manipulate the outcome), I fairly rarely have true nightmares. Sure, I suffer the occasional "I forgot to put pants on before going to work" dreams, but I think everyone has those.
Rather, last night, my dream involved the same terror that my waking anxiety invokes. I honestly don't vividly remember the details, but I do remember the emotions. A man was trying to "get" me, although not in the chase-me-through-the-woods kind of way. He was bearing down on me and I knew he was dangerous. He was scary, in part, because he wasn't sinister on the surface. He smiled, seemed friendly, but it was a mask. First, he called and called and called on the phone. He sent emails, he friended me on Facebook. He tracked me down at home, where I refused to answer the door. Then another time, he tracked me to my parents' house and I answered the door not realizing it could be him. There were sirens outside and he was seeking refuge from something, a ploy to convince me to let him in. I turned him away at the front door only to find he tried to get in around back. I saw him cross the deck and disappear into the dark backyard. The police later showed up because they were trying to find him. Because he was after me. Then, at a party at some house that my mind built, he arrived, uninvited, but finally able to get close enough to me because the hostess didn't know the danger I did. I was trapped. Although no one else seemed to know what was happening, he had me hostage and I couldn't leave. I remained strong and calm and unbreakable. Then he went after my daughter. Once he had her, I shattered completely and I succumbed. He released her and I told my terrified, tiny child to run. "Run into the woods and don't come out. Do not come back here. Mommy loves you"
I woke up then, without knowing what was to happen to me or my little girl. Did she get away? Did I? Was she too brave or frightened to leave her mommy? Was I doing the right thing by giving myself in her place? Could I have saved us both? ....Was she better off without me and the terror that follows me?
And that's what has stayed with me for the waking hours today. Time will pass and suddenly I'll get a wave of complete terror. Almost the opposite of foreboding, like I KNOW something bad has already happened. Even as I type, I feel creepily outside of my own body. I can't shake the feeling that something important and terrible has happened, and then I remember my dream and realize that I'm just carrying that ugliness into my day without even realizing it. I've spent time thinking about what the dream means, and I like it no better rationalized than I did subconsciously. I feel stalked, exposed and trapped. I agonize that my children will suffer. I am afraid.
While I want to believe that things will continue to get better with time, and I will apply the coping skills I have learned, I also know that my mind is relentless. From the minute I wake up until the minute I fall asleep, my demons circle around in my head, and even when I can't recognize the individual thoughts, the emotions are clear. Fear, sadness, hopelessness, worry...they're almost never naturally inclined toward something positive. Then, when I need to be free from myself the most, I sleep, only to be chased by those emotions, personified by the villains in my dreams. It leaves a person tired. So tired.
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