The In-between

You know what I mean. 

Those moments where you're a few days out from your most recent anxiety attack, and from all indications you're on your way to feeling almost normal again.  You can't fully relax, though, because you feel like you have to be cautious.  You have to be vigilant in what you watch on television, what you read, what types of conversations you participate in.  It's the proverbial eggshell you're walking on because you don't want to inadvertently trigger another panic attack, and you're not sure what insignificant word or feeling might bring on the anxiety again. 

That's where I've been since yesterday. After a horrible day-after hangover on Thursday, I woke up with the TGIF feeling, having slept soundly the night before. I decided to get out of the house with my mother, so we spent the day shopping and planning for an upcoming event with my daughters. I was able to converse and laugh with her, yet at the same time I kept the nagging thought that I must be SO careful to prevent another attack. 

I avoided reading the news, I didn't catch up on my guilty pleasure shows Pretty Little Liars and Ravenswood because if there ever were shows to cause anxiety, it's those two.  I focused all of my energy on being lighthearted and relaxed, yet felt the constant threat of a return. A momentarily stressful moment came late in the afternoon, and I almost held my breath in anticipation of the panic that would surely follow.  Fortunately my body didn't betray me, and I was able to force myself to relax and put the stress aside for the remainder of the night. I managed to go to bed at a reasonable hour and enjoyed a full night's sleep interruption-free. 

So today, yet another day out from the attack, I'm feeling more optimistic and cheerful, without having to force it. I'm looking forward to the long weekend with my girls thanks to the late Dr. King, some NFL football tomorrow and the pleasure of a clean house (for the moment). 

Here's to getting past the in-between and back to the normal. Or, normal for me. 

Mood Lifter

I read this scripture in my daily Bible reading and it made me smile. I thought I'd share it and maybe it would make someone else smile, as well. Happy Friday! 

I'm Fine

Those of us who deal with anxiety disorder know the Louis Vuitton collection of baggage that comes with those two seemingly insignificant words.  You know what I'm talking about.  The I'm not really fine but I don't want to try to explain anxiety and panic attacks for the one hundredth time to people who can't/won't understand what I mean, plus it's just better for everyone if I go on and act like all is well then maybe the anxiety will go away act we put on in front of our coworkers, friends, strangers at the grocery store, even our families and spouses. 

Sometimes it's easier than others to push the anxiety, the worry to the back shelf of our minds and focus on the distractions and daily aspects of life. Some days I'm in the middle of a completely perfect day when I suddenly realize that I have not had any anxiety-related thoughts or fears for hours, or even days or weeks.  Those moments fill me with a huge sense of appreciation and thanks to God for the brief vacation from crazy town (this is how I refer to my brain after/during panic attacks because I joke about things as a coping mechanism. Just go with it). 

Other times, especially after a significantly intense attack, I find myself struggling to be social with my family and friends. I contribute to the conversations and genuinely attempt to participate in whatever discussion is going on, but my mind refuses to relinquish the anxious thoughts, the worry, the sense of doom. As a result, my halfhearted efforts are usually noticed by one or more of my family/friends and then I have to pretend I'm tired or have a headache, etc., some believable reason as to why I'm not "my usual self." My usual self being the laid back, humorous goof who generally talks too much. I guess if I were naturally a shy, grumpy person it wouldn't be so difficult to mask the aftereffects of anxiety attacks.  It almost feels like an emotional, physical hangover.  My body still feels the physical responses of the attack, and my emotions are delicately balancing between "okay" and "I just might cry over a Hallmark commercial." It's a difficult act to put on, and today I found myself wondering why I work so hard to hide my anxiety from others. 

I know there is no longer the stigma surrounding anxiety and other mental/emotional disorders that existed just a few years ago. More people are educated about it, and many more people suffer from anxiety disorders now than we can even know. I'm almost positive several of my family members and friends deal with anxiety and/or depression, yet we never discuss it.  Are we afraid people will think we're crazy? Overdramatic? Attention-seekers? Do we think people will look at us differently if they know our secret? 

I've been trying to find ways to explain anxiety to people like my mother, who really makes an effort to understand it but simply cannot get that it's not some switch you can turn off and just "get over it" after a panic attack. She's also adamantly anti-medication about things like anxiety and depression. Then there are others, like my grandmother who is firmly set in her very old-school ways, and trying to explain panic attacks to her is like teaching an elephant to ride a tricycle. Ain't gonna happen. 

I'm sure my friends would be very understanding and supportive, because like me, many of them have family who suffer with similar disorders, and also because I surround myself with people who are open-minded and nonjudgmental.  Despite this, I still refrain from sharing my secret.  Sometimes I feel like logging into Facebook (the ultimate billboard) and just writing "Hey guys, just wanted to let y'all know, I have anxiety disorder.  Sometimes I have panic attacks and sometimes I don't.  For the most part, I'm A-OK.  Just wanted you to know.  Have a great day." Maybe then my friends would jump in with huge amounts of support and encouragement, and some would feel free to share that they, too, have anxiety/depression/etc. and we can all begin to help each other in the way friends should.  However, this is not a John Hughes film and I'm a pessimist (surprise, surprise).  So, for now, I'll just tell you wonderful people out here in Blog Land and dream of a day where Anxious Annies and Normal Neds can live in harmonious peace and support, with no judgment or misconceptions. 

You're not dying. Just breathe.

Sometimes this feels like my mantra.  As I'm forcing myself to take slow, deliberate breaths, trying to will myself to relax. You're not dying, I repeat again and again, just breathe. Easier said than done.  

Panic attacks have plagued me for the past eight years.  The first one came when I was 21, just after my best friend got married, my long-distance boyfriend was leaving town and my mother was going on a business trip. Too many things at once, is my only guess, and the anxiety I didn't even know I was feeling triggered the first terrifying experience of heart-pounding, chest-tightening, gasping for breath horror that had me convinced my heart was about to stop.  It was the single most frightening moment of my life - up to that point.  I had no idea what was wrong with me. 

The "hangover" of that first panic attack stayed with me for days.  I didn't want to be alone, but I didn't want to leave the house.  I was afraid to go to sleep, I was afraid to eat.  I had never in my life had these feelings and fears.  It was so foreign to me that I wondered if I was having some sort of mental breakdown.  Finally, thankfully, as days (or more accurately, two entire weeks) passed and my heart did not, in fact, suddenly stop, I began to come out of the strange fog I had been living in.  The sense of impending doom disappeared, and I was able to fully participate in conversations again.  I could eat, I could leave the house.  The relief that accompanied this release was so intense that I jumped right back into my busy social life, hoping it was a one-time experience that would never, EVER repeat itself. 

Unfortunately, I began to have these "episodes" (as my mother liked to call them) every few months.  Sometimes I could go two or three months without one, and other times I would have attacks very close together.  The attacks that came in groups physically exhausted me and would leave me feeling detached and depressed. When I met my husband, the attacks nearly disappeared as I was in such a constant state of euphoria throughout our dating, engagement and marriage. While pregnant with our first child, I surprisingly had not one single panic attack.  Once the baby was born, however, the attacks returned with a vengeance.  I lived in a constant state of fear that I would die suddenly and leave my child motherless.  Being a stay-at-home mother, I had very little to distract me from my irrational fears, so I fell into an antisocial, depressed state that began to take a toll on my marriage.  I had no desire to make love to my husband because I feared it would bring on a heart attack. I didn't want to go anywhere because I feared a car accident. What was so strange to me was that although I knew these fears were irrational, I could not make the fear go away. 

Concerned about my well-being and desperate to help me, my husband suggested I find a hobby, get a part-time job, or maybe go back to school.  Anything to distract me and give me something to think about other than the fear.  After much discussion and encouragement, I decided to enroll at my former university and finish my degree. As I planned and prepared to return to school, I worried about a sudden attack, but none came.  I adjusted quickly to being a college student again, and the distractions of academia tremendously helped me. While I still suffered attacks in moments of intense stress or sudden anxiety, I found that I could more easily fight off the irrational fears and distract myself until the feelings passed. 

School has been a life-saver for me in the most literal sense.  It helped me find myself again, and realize that I am more than a terrified, constantly worried woman. I could enjoy things again. I could be a mother who enjoyed raising my children instead of worrying constantly about tragedy lurking around every corner.  I could give my husband and my marriage the attention and devotion it needed, and our relationship blossomed into something more wonderful and fulfilling than I had ever imagined it could be. I felt like ME again.  

Unfortunately the honeymoon could not last forever, and suffering from anxiety is not something that has a quick fix or can magically disappear with distraction or medication.  It rears its ugly head at the most inconvenient moments and in the middle of the most joyous occasions.  Panic attacks hit me at the mere mention of a family friend suffering a heart attack or unexpected death.  Even commercials about strokes or heart medicine can bring on the threat of a panic attack.  Sometimes I find myself anxious about something and worry so much about it causing a panic attack that I think I bring it on myself.  Sometimes I'm anxious about things and didn't even realize it until the panic attack hits in full force.  

Like last night. 

I was having a fantastic day.  I had actually been to see my physician for a general checkup and all was well.  Spent a great afternoon with my kids, and a wonderful evening with the kids and my husband, just hanging out and enjoying each other's company.  I lay down to go to sleep and suddenly - BAM - I couldn't catch my breath.  My heart started pounding, my chest started hurting and I felt the panic hit me. I tried to take deep breaths to calm  myself.  I checked my pulse to make sure my heart wasn't actually beating as fast as it felt like it was. I coached myself. You're not dying, just breathe. But then the thoughts came.  What if I was actually having a heart attack? I'm only 29, but people have heart attacks young nowadays. What if I convinced myself I'm fine, and then I died in my sleep because I ignored the signs? What will happen to my kids if I die? My husband can't raise them alone. He would be devastated. These thoughts raced through my mind, increasing the panic and the fear. It got so bad that I was preparing to get dressed to make my husband take me to the ER when he came into the bedroom and saw my state.  

God bless him, he immediately began to console me, to speak gently to me that everything was fine, I was fine, nothing was wrong, just breath, it's okay, he's here. He stroked my hair and kissed my cheeks, constantly telling me calming things and trying to distract me with humor and suggestive comments. After I sobbed long enough to soak his t-shirt and my pillow, the panic and fear began to ebb. He left me long enough to grab some kleenex and then returned, continuing his valiant effort to help me break the grasp of the attack. He started talking about his boring hobby of collecting Star Wars memorabilia and his determination to convince me to go to a comic con with him this year. The man is so patient and understanding.  He didn't stop his efforts until my tears subsided and I sighed the sigh that lets him know the worst has passed. 

I finally fell asleep with him still stroking my hair and whispering endearments to me. I slept soundly all night, and woke feeling better but exhausted. Hubs was tender with me this morning, appraising my face for any signs of continued anxiety and hesitant to leave me for work. I assured him I was okay, and only after promising to take it easy today did he consent to leave. I got the kids dressed and off to school, then returned home, contemplating the reason for the unusually severe panic attack and why I can't seem to get a better grip on them lately.  Over the past month I have had many more attacks than usual, last night's being the most extreme attack since the very first one. Sure, the holidays can bring on added stress, so I blamed that for the previous ones. But now, the only culprit I can think of for last night's horror is my impending return to school next week.  

I'm excited about the return, as it's my second semester of graduate school, and I did very well last semester. I do have some apprehension about the professors, who I have heard are fairly difficult.  Maybe it's unconscious fear about my ability to do well.  I'm not sure at all.  Maybe there was another trigger and I'll never know.  Either way, I decided I have to do something to help myself fight these attacks.  I can't just stand by, waiting for the next one to hit me. Surely I can defend myself in some way.  Writing has always been an outlet for me, a way to clear my head of jumbled thoughts, let out emotions and make sense of things.  I thought to myself, maybe writing about my anxiety will help me fight it. 

Maybe keeping a running dialogue about my bad days - AND my good days - will help me to better understand what causes these attacks and learn how to manage the anxiety in a more functional way.  So here it is, my journal of sorts.  It is mostly just for me to get it all out, but maybe, hopefully, I will make some friends along the way who are also struggling in this war, this Panic War that never seems to end.  Maybe, together, we can win one battle at a time.