Happily Ever... nevermind

Well, I did it.

I think.

I packed all my bags, had the Great Detective help me haul them down to a not-so-tiny room with a bricked over fireplace and a library down the hall. I put up my posters and hung up my clothes and slowly learned how to eat and shower and function in this place, with all this stress around me.

I turned 21 in a tidal wave of anger, humiliation, and grief. An improvement - I turned twenty in maelstrom of fear and anxiety, a harbinger of the worst year of my life. Anger seemed a distinct improvement. But that's not the story, or even the point.

I wanted this post - my first after returning to college - to be triumphant. A celebration of everything I had worked so hard to become. A whole year of my life devoted to this thing, this anxiety disorder, and I wanted this post to be a frabjous triumph. Look! I've done it! Now my life can Continue As Planned.

Yep, I did it. 

...but you think I'd know better than to expect a Happily Ever After. Guess I read too many storybooks.

Panic at Carleton is rough; I'm scared that every flash will set me so far behind on schoolwork that I'll never catch up. Which makes me more anxious, which makes me panic again - bad cycle. I've averaged three good meals in the past four days, lost my long nails, gained a scar, and worried both my sainted mother and the heroic Detective out of their ever-living minds.

I've been able to kidnap the Great Detective (who is the aforementioned boy I was flirting with, and is now the Boyfriend Of Super Duper Awesome Amazing Yes, otherwise known as the Great Detective, Sunshine, or Ducky.)  Before that, my sainted mother hauled her over-worked self down to Northfield to sit on the couch and watch mostly nothing with me for a day. I tried ferociously to convince myself that this wasn't The End, and I could bounce back from this and not have to go to the hospital, fall behind on schoolwork, and drop out of school for Once And For All.

I didn't start believing myself until yesterday, and maybe a little bit today if I'm lucky.

So the point is, I did it, but I didn't do it, do you see? I fought the good fight, made it through, turned twenty-one, but everything's just gotten harder. Not only do I still have these panics and high anxiety, I have them at Carleton where they're even more of a problem!

This is, I think, what we call Supreme Unfairness. Also known as life.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

This blog is written in the past tense for a reason - it's about the things that happened to me, not the stuff I'm going through. Writing it about the here-and-now is too personal, too whiny - for me, at least. But the Great Wide Internet deserves a little information now and again.

Not unexpectedly, the immanent Return to College Land has brought its own wave of anxiety into my nice, fairly settled life. Unexpectedly, I learned something new: a year of therapy has done wonders for my ability to deal with mild, moderate, and fairly bad anxiety.

My ability to deal with very extreme anxiety is still pretty shitty.

The short and long of it is that I spent two days in the hospital due to extreme anxiety and suicidal thinking; I am now on a new regiment of drugs that will (hopefully) help me control my anxiety to an extent that I will return to school in a mildly-sane state.

In essence, Life's a Bitch and Then You Die.

But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger!

Better

I'm scared I'm scared I'm lost I'm scared I'm lost-

"Laura."

I'm scared I'm scared I'm lost I'm-

"Laura!"

I'm scared I'm lost I'm lost AND scared oh no woe is me everything is ruined forever~

I snorted, amused. When the overly-melodramatic part of my brain made fun of itself for being overly-melodramatic, I knew things weren't that bad. This was my first anxiety/panic attack in a while - and the first I had had in front of this cute boy I had been seeing recently. 

"I'm having a panic attack," I told him frankly. "Or maybe it's an anxiety attack, I've never really been able to figure out the two because in a panic attack you're supposed to be worried about something right now like dying or losing control or something where in anxiety you're worried about the future and both really suck but I like panic attacks better because you know they'll end but heightened levels of anxiety can last for a really long time..."

He nodded, smiling a little in the corners of his eyes. I kept rambling.

"See the first thing I have to do is hear my thoughts and know what I'm thinking but I can't hear them, it's like a river, or white noise or static, just too many things too fast all at once, GOD I feel weird."

This was a weird one - it had started with a thick, smothering blanket of unreality, with healthy doses of dizziness, desensitization, and shaking - atypical enough that it had taken me a panicked while to figure out what the fuck was going on. Knowing it was only a panic attack helped - I was scared, but I wasn't lost. Not anymore, not ever again.

"Would it help if I talked for a while?" He asked. "I could tell you about when my mom had a panic...?"

I thought about it, then nodded my assent. He tucked an arm around me - comforting but not constraining - and started talking. I listened, relieved, and my thoughts slowed to a mere torrent. I could work with a torrent.

When his story was done, I told him, "I'm going to talk for a while. Is that okay? I need to identify the thoughts, find the distortions, and contradict them using evidence to the contrary."

He thought for a moment. "Would you like me to answer back to you, or just listen?"

"Just listen." I looked at him and touched the corner of his eye, where a smile still lingered. He wasn't worried that this was happening. More like he was happy to watch me handle it so well. Okay, that's mind reading and another distortion, but whatever the reason, he was an old hat at panic and anxiety. It was awesome to have someone around who was calm... but what was even better was the fact that I still had a grip on myself. Unlike all the other times, I knew what was happening. I could do this.

So I started talking, which sometimes morphed into rambling or ranting, but I kept myself mainly on track. What was I thinking? What was the paradox that formed panic? Where were the absolutes? What was the evidence to the contrary? 

The answers took shape, slowly: I was worried because the new insurance people wouldn't cover my meds; I needed a refill, and if they didn't hash it out with the doctor's in time, I would be going out of town for a whole week without my meds. Cold turkey. What a way to fuck a vacation. That was worth a panic or two, but it wasn't going to happen - worse case, I would just go and pay the $130 for my meds and fuck insurance. Pricey, but worth it. Okay. What else?

Work - I was supposed to be there in six hours but I was panicking and short on sleep already; I wouldn't be functioning in six hours, not well enough to take care of children. They were short on people so I had to go - no, I didn't have to go. I'd be more of a liability, going in like this, and they'd be able to play the numbers game to get it to work. That still made me freak out a bit.

More? Yep. I wasn't at home, and totally didn't trust myself to drive like this. What could I do? Stay the night? I knew I was welcome but I didn't have any contact stuff or any sleep meds, like the ones I had been taking. If I took out my contacts to sleep without solution, I wouldn't be able to drive home in the morning. And in this wound up state, I had a snowball's chance in hell of getting to sleep without any chemical help. Shorting myself on sleep would just make me even more fucked over.

So I talked and I talked until the immediate problems were clear; then I went about solving them. I called into work and said I was sick; I called Mom to let her know I was okay but not going to be home that night. Then the cute boy and I walked Grand Avenue in the witching hour to the 24 hour Super America for Advil PM, a contacts kit, some doughnuts and a pint of ice cream.

We took the ice cream up to the roof and sat under the stars in the middle of a heated discussion about the ego versus the id when discussing the soul, and the lovecraftian idea that hell was to glimpse something beyond the ken of mankind.

Back inside, I fell asleep when he was showing me a beautifully creepy video game called Limbo. I remember rolling over to make room for him beside me, then reaching out to hold his hand - only to find that he was reaching for my hand too.

The Care and Feeding of an Anxious Person

So far, this blog has covered a few rough basics on what it's like to be anxious - or rather, what it's like for ME to be anxious. However, I know a lot of you reading (wow, there are so many of you reading o_O) have an anxious person in your life and would like to know how to help them. Here are some basic, basic tips that can help - feel free to use them or ignore them as seems appropriate to your situation.

So, in no particular order, here are helpful hints on the Care and Feeding of Anxious Persons.

Educate yourself.

This is perhaps the most important thing you can do for the anxious person in your life - go learn. Read books, search the internet, talk to doctors, talk to other anxious people, absorb what you learn. Try to find out specifically what your friend is suffering from - I, for example, have GAD or Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), which is different from Panic Disorder, which is different from PTSD, which is different from having phobias, which is different from OCD, although all can have the same symptoms.

So go out and learn about what exactly this person you care for is going through. That'll give you a good starting point.

For those with anxiety and/or panic disorders, I love Claire Weeks' Hope and Help for Your Nerves. Claire Weeks wrote this book in the 1970s - there are no fancy, convoluted terms or theories. I don't think she ever mentions the word "anxiety." But her simple, kind, no-nonsense approach leads you step by step through the horrible unknowns of panic and anxiety. It's written in short, concise chapters, specifically for someone who is as wound as a top. It's also really awesome for friends and family too!

Be supportive

Don't only ask, "What can I do to help?" but more concrete offers too. "Wanna come over for pizza?," if your friend has trouble cooking, or "Wanna hang out on Saturday?" if you know they have trouble being alone. Be there. Be patient. Try not to be offended if the person says no or doesn't return your calls - they're lost in their own, personal nightmare. They do hear you, though. It does help.

Anxious People are Human Too

Don't treat them like an invalid. Don't offer to help with the things you know they can still do. Respect their right to not talk about their disease. Keep laughing as much as you possibly can.

In the Event of Panic...

Panic attacks are fuck-off scary for anyone within a 50 foot radius. Here are some Helpful Hints.

-Don't leave them alone. Don't overcrowd.

-Don't be afraid to ask for help.

-Don't dismiss their fears, however silly they may seem to you.

-Change location, even by just a room.

-Remember it will, eventually, end on its own.

You're a Person Too

Having an anxious person in your life is hard. End of story. Remember to take care of yourself as well as your friend; remember that this is really hard on you, too.

Resources

The best book on anxiety, ever.  - Dr Claire Weeks' Hope and Help For Your Nerves

An article on the effects of anxiety in relationships. 

What Not To Do if your friend has anxiety.

Keep in mind that several thousand books have been written on this topic, so this is just the beginning of the beginning about anxiety. If you have a specific question, or want me to elaborate on a specific topic, please contact me via the comments, a Private Message on Facebook, or email!

Interoceptive Exposure

Sometimes, I walk around with a sly, secret smile. "I know something you don't know." I wonder why I don't get smacked silly. I'm laughing because nobody knows - nobody can tell.

I can hide how scared I am.

It's easy, in a worrisome sort of way. A certain little flaunt, a certain little twinkle in the eye and "Oh god oh god I'm scared," comes off as a flirty bravado.

Lately I've been scared all the time.

It started, as many things do, with That Crazy Bastard, my shrink. He looked at me and furrowed his crinkled, wise-man brow and told me I must search out the things that scared me. That I must create them.

I hate That Crazy Bastard.

It's called Interoceptive Exposure, and it's a right bitch. What you do is, in a safe environment, create the feelings of panic. Call them up at will, plunge yourself into the brink on fucking purpose. Spin around in a chair until you feel dizzy and nauseated, run around until your heart is racing, stare at a wall until you're numb, until you can't feel anything anymore. Interoceptive Exposure. I ran into it by accident once; got mildly carsick and had a panic attack because it reminded me of the fear.

This is what anxiety feels like. It's my new mantra. It's an acceptance rather than a fight: instead of calm down oh god calm down relax relax it's okay ohgod calm down, you just say Yes. Yes, this is what anxiety feels like. My pulse is racing, my hands are shaky, I'm sick to my stomach, and it's not going to hurt me. It's anxiety; this is what anxiety feels like.

I fucking hate it.

"I want to be done!" I keep shouting, "I want to be better!" But slowly I realize that I'm never going to get better. Not ever, not EVER. I can learn to live with the fear, but that's the best I can do.

I'm going to be like this for the rest of my life.

So I'm not going to let it rule me.

Every day, every single fucking day I have to go and find the scariest, most anxious thing, and kick it in the balls. I went to a party. I started recording my anxiety. I talk to people who I haven't talked to in a while, even though I think they'll be mad at me. I trusted someone.

I wrote this.

Ghost Story

Carleton is haunted, you know. That's why it's so hard for me to go down there.

Now there are ghosts, and there are ghosts. This is one of the latter kind.

It's a girl. She has black eyes, long hair, and a soft white dress.

She used to live in Watson, but she doesn't anymore.

When I see her, smell her, feel her eyes in the back of my head, I can't stand it. I try to avoid the places where she went - the dining hall, that bench in the arb, the sunny spot near the lakes where she waited for her lover. Basement Norse, where he lived.

And now her ghost walks Carleton's campus.

I look in the mirror and I see her. Her eyes are so brown they're almost black; her hair is long, and she wears the white dress I wear in my dreams. She's so damn happy, so full of life and love and hope. She's done it, done everything and found the life she always wished for. She's home, there in that place. A home where she finally, truly, honestly belongs. Naive and young and full of fire - she can do anything.

And now my ghost walks Carleton's campus.

I worked so hard to be that girl, and now she's gone. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her, to the life I always dreamed of. The life I worked so god damned hard for. And now, every time I try to go back, I'm haunted by that girl that I once was.

I'd do all this a thousand times if I could just be her again.

The Sweetest Kiss I Ever Had

Enough angst for now. Here is a story for you:

It starts with a boy. I know this isn't a very unusual beginning, but bear with me: he's shy, with a dusting of blond hair and soft blue eyes. He laughs a lot, looks good in hats, and comes up to my waist.

He's two. Two and some change to be exact, and he's in the classroom down the hall from mine, five days a week. I'll call him Neil, just for this story, but I'll probably call him something different if he shows up again.

I've changed all the names except for mine, just so you know.

Neil is almost painfully shy when it comes to new people. The first few times I was the aide in his room, he always managed to be as far away from me as possible - not scared, mind you, or crying, just making a point to play not-by-Miss-Laura. I was warned by his other teachers to NOT touch him at nap time. He rarely goes to sleep, but just lays quietly on his cot. Any hint of the normal back-rubbing that we use to soothe tired, high-strung children is met by screaming on his part.

Leave Neil be at nap. Got it!

Sadly, to his dismay, Neil's the second oldest in his room. This means when we're playing the Numbers Game (dear lord, I hate the Numbers Game), he's at risk of being bumped up to the preschool room.

A tangent on the Numbers Game: at a daycare, we have to keep to Very Strict teacher/children ratios. Babies are four to one, toddlers seven to one, and preschool ten to one. So say preschool has thirteen kids that day, and toddlers have eight. If there are only three teachers for the two rooms, an older toddler would go visit preschool: this would mean that the preschool room had fourteen kids and two teachers, while the toddler room had seven kids and one teacher.

This is a very simple senario. I hate the Numbers Game.

Returning to the point, one day during the Numbers Game, Neil and one of the other toddlers were moved up to the preschool room. The other kid was fine. Neil, however, is terrified of the preschool teacher (not surprising; while the preschool teacher is very nice, she has a bad habit of yelling when stressed. Also, preschoolers have a LOT more rules to follow than toddlers).

I was working in the preschool room that day. We had a lot a lot a LOT of children. Hundreds. Billions of children. Why they gave us two more, I dunno, but it was what the Numbers Game had said. Neil, who is as yet unfamiliar with the concept of getting in line, was getting more freaked out by the minute. When the preschool teacher (in not one of her finest moments) told him to get in line and stay there, he burst into tears. When she tried to hug him in apology, he cowered away from her and bawled.

We managed to corral our zillion-plus preschoolers back into the classroom just in time for lunch. Lunch fixes everything, which is why we were astounded when Neil just kept crying. This wasn't the gloopy, gooey sort of sobbing that is the main reason for me having to do laundry far too often. He was terrified.

I was fairly new at the daycare, just learning that yes, I actually knew what to do with kids and yes, they do like me. Therefore it was with trepidation that I approached this terrified, panicking kid I had never interacted with. Th' hell was I supposed to do?

"Neil?" I said softly, turning his chair towards me. He hadn't moved since sitting down at the lunch table, his tray untouched. "Neil, do you remember me? I'm Miss Laura; I've been in your room a few times..." I talked to him softly, gently, about nothing in particular. He was scared, he was alone, he was afraid, he was stuck, he couldn't get out and go back to his teacher, he didn't know what to do, and he had been crying so hard he didn't remember how to stop.

I had been in the same place, less than two months ago. Oh God.

I held out my arms, heart overflowing, barely hoping, and he reached out to me in return. I swooped him up in the biggest, bestest, "you're okay you're not alone I'm here and I love you" hug I've ever given. We got out of there.

I found a lonely couch to curl up on, Neil tucked safely in my arms. He cried for twenty minutes - half an hour? - as I held him, singing softly. Once he was calmer, I read him countless books from the church's kids library. My coworker came to find me - "we need you!" - and he sat perched on my hip or holding my hand as I helped his classmates file to the bathroom before nap.

The first words I coaxed out of his mouth were a quiet, "I want Jenn." So I went to talk to the director Very Firmly and we played the Numbers Game until I could hand an exhausted Neil back to Jenn, his old teacher.

I ended the day with a headache and a quart of black coffee.

A handful of days later, I was put on Toddler Duty, back in Neil's room. It had been a long day (again) so I plonked down on the cheerful carpeted floor and said plaintively "Miss Laura needs a hug."

I love this part about my job - within a count of three, I was being hugged from all sides by no less than four or five laughing toddlers. I gave out six return hugs, four tickles, and one kiss to a finger with an owie.

I turned around and, before I could blink, Neil ran over, gave me a quick kiss, and retreated back into the kitchen. He was smiling sheepishly.

Now, whenever I linger too long at the toddler room, Neil runs up to the gate and yells "Go 'way Laura!", smiling like a goofy idiot. I, smiling in return, yell "No way!" and tickle him until he shrieks with laughter.

And that, my friends, was the story of the sweetest kiss I ever had.