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.

The Ugly

If you're weak of heart or stomach, skip this one.

How do you write about the worst moment in your life?

Do you delve into the story, first person, locking the feelings on paper like a butterfly on a page? Do you show it from the outside, as if the audience was watching over your shoulder? How far back do you go to explain what exactly was happening? Why are you writing this at all?

This is the worst of it. This is the ugly bit.

I'm crying. Great, gulping, heaving sobs that sound more like a wet donkey than anything else. No restraint; I'm crying like you cry when your world's ended and no one can hear you.

I'm in the lobby of the busiest hospital in St. Paul.

The chair is standard waiting room fair. It's red. I'm wearing a red bandana, a faded blue sundress, tights, and battered converses. Glasses. Someone is talking to me from a safe distance. They're asking if they can call someone.

They don't get close. I'm covered in vomit.

I'm panicking, so far down that they almost send me to the ER, almost strap me to a gurney and take my shoes away, almost take me back to 5900. The two stolid shrinks from the outpatient program are called down - they talk to me softly, gently. I met them just this morning, sat through their program. Now I'm waiting for my dad to take me home, only I panicked with all the people, all the busy, and I threw up all over myself, sitting in the lobby of the busiest hospital in St. Paul.

I can't stop screaming his name in my head.

We broke up - he left - less than a week ago. Two days after I had gotten my shoes back. Six before I would start this program, and talk to any therapist. His loss is an unthinkable betrayal, except I deserve it for being so broken. I scream his name again and again, except I can't tell if it's a cry for help or a curse to the darkest circles of hell.

I think it's the former and I hate myself for it.

I can't hear the therapists. I can't hear anyone. I can't bear the look in my dad's eyes when he finds me like this. I can't bear the smell, can't bear the shame, can't bear hurting so much and being so alone.

This is the worst moment of my life. This is the ugliest part of my disease.

The Bad

We were curled up in a dorm room, in what would have been too close for comfort if there hadn't been booze. I don't remember what they were drinking, only that I couldn't have any. I was on a steady diet of depression, laced with self-blame, mock righteousness, and a helluva lota Stop Thinking And Chill Already.

The booze would have been much better, despite all the warning labels on my meds.

She was inches away, eyes dancing with the spark that only comes out of darkness. He was sprawled (except he never really sprawled, there was too much tension, too much power in his movements for him to sprawl. Say then, that he was relaxed) into her nearby desk chair.

It was the strangest triangle I had ever seen. She had asked him out - he refused, but they ended up being very good friends. I had asked him out, and had dated him for most of a year before he ended the relationship when I was two days out of the hospital. I had had a crush on her ever since the moment I first saw her, and recently told her this. She told me two things in return: the first was a secret, and none of your business, and the second was the excellent point that we were both too screwed up to date.

I still brought her a duct tape rose for Valentine's Day.

The point is that they were both making heavy inroads into tipsy, and I was stone-sober laughing and joking, teasing and prodding, all the while trying to hide that this was really really hard and I really really hurt and maybe I should please go and fall into the (frozen) Lyman Lakes so I could just stop feeling and hurting and being so alone.

And maybe I could patch up my heart with ice; it would at least minimize the bruising and keep the swelling down.

Anyway. I was on a tirade about something, you know how it is. I was too busy feeling to pay attention to what I was saying. Perhaps I was trying to argue that I was crazy, having been in the psych-ward and dropping out of school and all. I certainly wasn't pulling any punches. All I remember was this:

"...and you left me because I was crazy-"

"No!"

I stopped in my tracks because they had both answered.

"No?"

"No." he said, but I didn't believe him. I turned to her for confirmation, and she nodded, once.

"Then why did you leave me?"

He looked into his drink for a long, long time. "Because I realized I couldn't love you."

I snorted, mentally. Bull shit. I had heard him leave the instant I told him I wouldn't be coming back to Carleton for Winter term; but maybe that's just because I realized he couldn't love me that day we sat under the moon and I told him I didn't need saving, not from any God or Son-of-God, and he had looked at me with... well, I'll never forget his expression.

I left as soon as socially acceptable - or perhaps a bit earlier, remembering their surprised faces. I chatted about seeing other people, and she walked me out of the room, to the outside door. She asked if she could kiss me, and I said yes. Then I walked outside into the bitter February air and burst into tears.

The Good

I'm scared i'm scared i'm lost i'm scared help please help

"Laura."

please don't know what do to have to i'm sorry i'm sorry scared

"Laura, look at me."

so scared break broke i'm broken take me away gonna take me away

"Look at me."

take me away gonna take my shoes lock me up fail school never come back sorry so sorry so sorry so sor-

You know the magic kiss in the story, the one that breaks the evil spell? This wasn't like that. It was a bucket of cold water, a vial of smelling salts, a slap on the face.

Don't take me wrong, though, it wasn't a bad kiss. Quite the opposite - that's the point.

"You're okay. You're going to be okay."

Reality was a basement dorm room. Half was a huge, makeshift desk/workspace. Half was a mattress, clean green sheets, on the floor. I sat on the latter, blinking into the air. The neighbors were partying. The window was cracked open. The man in front of me was calm, steady. Firm.

"It's okay. You're going to make it through this."

I nodded and tried to take his hand. I already had it. He wouldn't let me let go.

"I'm here." He tucked my hair behind my ear. I studied his hand intently. Rough with calluses. Strong. Warm. Here.

"You're okay."

"Okay" was two days behind me and three months in front of me. "Okay" was just passed hell, then back again. It would take a long, hard road before I found "okay" again. But for a moment, then a minute, then an hour? I believed him.

Meditations with Coffee

How do I tell about God? I wondered, staring idly out of the church window. Outside, the clouds were sneezing a cold, dreary mist onto a world waiting for spring. The choir was practicing in the background, slightly off key, and my mind kept wandering away. My crotchety gray cat climbed out of my imagination and curled up on my lap, twitching an ear in annoyance.

How do you keep a wave upon the sand? Just as impossible to pin down. Do I have to? Not particularly. I sighed, curling around my coffee cup. The gray cat muttered as I settled again. Faith was complicated, unable to be stuck down by pretty little words. Ah well.

I wasn't too fussed about it. I knew about my faith, even if I couldn't define it. But did I need it for the story? "What do you think?" I asked the gray cat but he was asleep, or pretending. This is the story of the ten thousand steps it takes to get back again, and God has a part in there. But how to tell it? I thought of my bumbling, clumsy attempts to explain my thoughts to a Christian boyfriend, and exactly how well that went (read, not at all). Part of me doesn't want to tell anybody anything, because the story's too long and the words just don't fit.

Part of me just doesn't want to get hurt again for being different. Therefore, I shall sneak up on the subject slowly, come upon it sideways. The gray cat purred his content, for he has a place in the story too.

How A Superhero Saved My Sanity

"Except you're making that face you make when someone breaks one of your ribs."

"And you know what that looks like, alright. Is there something wrong with us?"

"Yes."

"I thought so."

I snorted in amusement as I pulled into a spot, then turned off iPod, radio converter, and car. Grab bag, get out, lock up, keys in pockets, check for phone, wallet, keys (again), iPod, go. The building was an unassuming square brick of office space, except the people coming out usually wouldn't meet each other's eyes. Cute. First left, fourth right, two doors down, and a fire engine careened towards me, sirens blazing. I hopped over it, winked at an ambitious four year old and his apologetic mom, and sauntered in.

"Hi Laura!" The receptionist waved at me, absentmindedly. "Take a seat, I'll tell him you're here."

"Sounds good." I plunked down and leafed through magazines, listening to a pair of kindergarteners argue about how exactly the block-fort had gotten blown up. My shrink shared office space with some kid/family behavioral therapists, meaning the waiting room always had something in one state of explosion or another.

My shrink - or as he referred to himself, "that crazy bastard," - popped out of the hallway and disappeared into a small room behind the desk. I stretched my legs, gathered my thoughts, and met him as he reemerged, taking a piece of paper from his hand. We walked down the hall in sync. He peeled off to get some coffee and I plunked down on the couch in the end office, reading.

This was a 50 min individual therapy appointment with Laura to address anxiety. She appeared pleasant but anxious, and did not report any feelings of suicidality... She has done a good job of identifying automatic thoughts, distortions, and rational responses... We also identified some core beliefs that seem to be operating underneath her distress-request for positive regard - possibly admiration from the people in her life.

Assessment: panic disorder with agoraphobia, generalized anxiety disorter, likely histrionic personality traits.

(While writing this, I had to look up what histrionic means. I burst out laughing.)

"Didja take a look at that?" He settled into the chair next to me, cradling a cup of coffee in slightly gnarled hands. "Our delusions from last week match up?"

"Hyup." They had this week, although there was a point of contention in the beginning when he had described me as a dark blonde.

"Good. Now howya doin'?"

"Tired." As if to illustrate my point, I slouched back in the soft leather and yawned. "I haven't been hanging out with anybody. I just go to work, come home, eat, shower, sleep. Rinse and repeat."

"Is that bad?"

"I feel like I should-"

He shook his head, cutting me off. "Feelings are emotions. One word - happy, sad, angry, anxious. More that one, it's a belief."

I glared under half-lidded eyes. "I believe that I should... could-" should was a swear word in his office "-could be getting together with more of my friends... aww, fuck."

He never called me out for the real swear words. "Good. So you feel..."

"Anxious, because I believe that if I don't see my friends more, they will all get mad at me and stop loving me and I'll be all alone for ever and ever. I feel like - fuck, I believe - I'm not worthy of love because I can't do everything and always let somebody down sometime so I must be a horrible person, and why would anybody love me?"

"And?"

I hate this man. "There are several cognitive distortions in there. Fallacy of control - I believe I have power over how others feel, when really it's their interpretations of my actions that control their emotions, and such things are outside of my control. Implied shoulds - I should be better than I am, I should spend lots of time with all my friends, I should be able to do everything. Mind reading - I'm deciding what others will think of me, ie be mad at me, when in actuality I have no clue."

"So?"

"So there is no evidence to back up these delusions except for more delusions. My friends have been super cool about me bailing a lot or being scarce. They love me for who I am, not who I'm trying to be, and failure to reach my own ridiculously high expectations for myself will lead to improved mental health instead of the end of the world."

He sat back with a smile, and raised his coffee cup in salute. I glared back. Never trust a man with a ponytail.

I tugged a lock of my own hair in frustration. "Now I only have to do that ten thousand more times before it finally sticks."

Then we got to work.

After an hour, I waved good-bye to the receptionist, trudged out to my car, and sat in the sun-warmed interior for a minute or five. Then I turned the key, plugged the converter-tape into the stereo, and hit play.

"And now, Decoder Ring Theatre presents the continuing adventures of Canada's greatest superhero, that scourge of the Underworld, hunter of those who prey upon the innocent, that marvelous masked mystery man known only as... THE RED PANDA."

This Is Your Brain On Anxiety

Senario: It's a Saturday night, and I'm wiped. However, I have plans - gaming, dancing, visiting school, whatever. I don't want to go.

Conflicting Truths:

I don't want to go

vs

I have to go.

Train of Thought:

I have to go, I've been ducking out of so many things lately, everyone will be disappointed that I didn't show again, and they'll get all mad at me and won't want to hang out with me and I'll lose all my friends because I'm stupid and tired and no one will like me because I don't want to hang out (and I should hang out or else I'm a Bad Friend) and if I'm a Bad Friend no one will love me and I'll be anxious and go back in the hospital and no one will come see me I'll be all alone and I'll never get better and they'll commit me 'cause I'm too crazy and I'll go to Abbot, they'll lock me up forever and I'll be alone and die.

No shit, Every Single Time I feel like I'm failing someone in some way, I get anxious. I've had this train of thought in my head a hundred, a thousand, a million times. It's part of the software in my head, my Operating System, if you will. Most of the work I do in therapy is, in essence, reprogramming the buggy parts of my OS. And believe me, it's just as hard as it sounds.

The Shoed Are God

They took my shoes.

Well, technically, they took my shoelaces - but converses don't stay on without laces, so I gave them up too. My socks were thin, tan, and had little rubbery things on the bottom to prevent sliding. If I wore the socks upside-down, I could glide across the whole kitchen.

Not that it was big, mind you, but it was fun.

One hundred and forty-four laps around the common room made one mile, except everyone else got annoyed at ten, and you went bonkers from boredom at fifteen.

"Cut it out, or you're going to drive me crazy!" Gallows humor in the psych ward.

"I'm afraid I'll be in here forever," I told my shrink gravely. Tim had been in thirty-nine days and counting. Jenna was at three months. It was enough to terrify me - though, to be honest, that wasn't hard, even after three days of heavy tranqs. "There's no one like me in fifty-nine hundred."

"Well a' course there's no one like you." My shrink had an irish accent, red hair, and a terrible taste in clothing. "An' that's the reason you won't be here forever. People with anxiety problems get out fast. Ya just need some time to normalize a bit, and we'll get you out quick as that." His smile was genuine. I almost believed him.

Journal Entry: 10/5/10

I'm writing now.

I forgot.

Funny, how you forget the most important things. I forgot everything, and now I'm relearning. It is very hard.

Everything is very hard. That's why I keep the little victories. Each one is a little pearl, sapphire, diamond, a little glint of light I can roll around in my hand. Bless them, they don't look at me like I'm mad.

I'm only half way mad. I think.

These are the treasures that I got today:

I woke up.

I ate breakfast.

I took a shower. (This one was very hard; I almost couldn't but I did)

I went grocery shopping.

I got medicine.

I ate lunch.

I read in the sunshine.

I was hungry. (This one is very important too, I haven't been hungry in a week or more)

When I was hungry, I got up and I went inside. I got carrots, and an apple, and water, and milk, and finally toast-with-pumpkin butter. Then I went back outside, and I ate everything.

Tomorrow, I will go to Northfield.

Tomorrow, I will do some homework. (This is terrifying, but it's just reading; I can do just reading).

Maybe I will go to coffee. Maybe I will make it to folk. Maybe I will see him.

Tomorrow is not so bad. There's plenty of time.

I will write, I need to remember to write. I can't close off the doors in my head, not forever.

One.

Two.

Skip these three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Maybe I am mad; I've always been. Maybe we all are.

Escape

Want to go dancing tonight?

God yes.

It took three cars to spill us in front of an unassuming black door named GROUND ZERO. We piled inside, swearing bitterly at the arctic wind, the snow-covered sidewalks, and the lack of parking. My hands marred by thick black Xs, we all crammed into a booth near the S&M show. Caffeine and booze made the rounds, and the club slowly filled.

I loved watching the people here. Everything was shaded black, from the man in the kilt and the ruffled shirt, to the couple straight from a vampire Victorian ball. The first person on the dance floor, swathed in tight leather, was either completely wasted or really couldn't dance - I guessed some of both. The bass was a siren call, pounding under my breast bone and in the soles of my feet. I held out for twenty minutes - half an hour? - before giving in.

Imagine you've been walking in a desert for months and you fall into an ice water bath. Imagine you've been flying forever, caught in a hurricane and blown off course, and you finally spot a bit of land. Imagine you've been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and you discover a way to turn off your brain.

This was more than all of that.

Thump thump thump

it's the sound of the bass

it's the sound of the beat

it's the sound of your heart

the music is your blood

the music is your bones

all you have to do is

be.

Please Yell If You Are Paying Attention

 General Anxiety Disorder (GAD)
 
A lot of us worry about things—a test, our bills, meeting new people, or making a speech. But people with general anxiety disorder have to deal with intense worry and tension nearly all the time. About 4 million Americans have GAD; twice as many women as men are diagnosed with it. The worry GAD causes brings about physical symptoms like fatigue, headaches, muscle tension and aches, trouble swallowing, trembling, twitching, irritability, sweating, and hot flashes (and difficulty sleeping along with loss of appetite). Mild GAD lets people function fairly well in everyday life, but more severe cases can overwhelm a person and cause serious difficulties. There's a variety of treatment and support options that can be effective including psychotherapy, medications, and support groups...

(http://www.whatadifference.samhsa.gov/learn.asp?nav=nav01_2e&content=1_2_5_sad)

What do you do if a friend has an anxiety disorder?

~*~

A Post That Was Supposed To Be About God But Isn't (Explicitly)

"THIS ISN'T FAIR!" I roar at the sky. "GIVE IT BACK!"

The sky doesn't answer, as usual. I glower at the low-hanging blanket of clouds. "GIVE IT BACK!" Still nothing. Someone jogs by, pretending not to see me. I stomp along the path, muttering to myself.

"Gods damn son of a whore bitch harlot, fuckin' hell, goats spawn mangy pox-ridden..."

Somebody falls in step beside me. I don't turn to look.

"Go away."

Nothing.

"I think I hate you," I inform the air in front of me.

The mud turns to gravel, then to pavement. I plunk down on a bench, engraved with countless names, and look over the place I love most in the world.

"What do you want?" I almost don't hear, I'm thinking so loud.

"This," I grump, flapping a hand at the view. "Everything I lost. My school, my classes, my boyfriend, my friends, my self-esteem, my sanity, my ability to get up and take a shower in the morning-"

"You shower at night."

"I hate you." But I don't mean it, and I never really have. School's not a sunken crater in the ground - it's waiting. Classes will come around again. My friends still love me, even when I'm afraid they're losing patience with me. My self-esteem only has one or two major holes in it, all fixable, and I never really went totally bonkers.

I'll become functional again, sooner or later.

"I miss him," I tell the wind, and the wind leads me back through the forest. There's a steep hill, slick with mud, covered in rocks. A single line of footprints winds up and up. It looks like the person slipped here, grabbed onto a tree there, hit a rock there - but made it in the end.

The path is narrow; two people trying to go up at the same time would have just tripped over each other until both were bruised, battered, muddy, and nowhere.

One person, by themselves, made it.

I study a footprint in front of me and carefully step onto it, like Cinderella into the glass slipper.

Or like the stepsister.

~*~

Shame

 "When you have a panic disorder, you can do everything you used to do." She pulled her feet up on the couch beside me, warming them on fake coals. "You just have to relearn how to do it."

I nodded, chin on my knees. "Showering's the hardest. When I got out, I wouldn't shower until I absolutely had to. Even now, I can only manage every other day."

"It's really common. I think because you're alone and vulnerable. Try playing happy music to sing along to, get your mind off it."

A long moment. I blew out a sigh - and a confession.

"I'm also really anxious about going back to school."

"Then don't go."

"What?" What? But everyone's expecting me to. I told people I'd be back for spring.

"Don't go. You have to do this for your schedule, not anyone else's."

"But my schedule says I should have been better ages ago." And my little book says the opposite: Let time pass. Don't look at a calendar. Don't look at a clock. Heal at your own pace.

"But you're not."

"No." My heart was still pounding. Face. Accept. Float. Let time pass. "But all my friends who are seniors... this is their last term. I don't want my anxiety to rob me of the time I have left with them.

"So go down and visit them."

"I already do."

"So?"

So I should be BETTER. I should have FIXED this, I'm stupid, weak, pathetic, broken. A burden on everyone.

I let my hair spill over my face. The glow of the space heater blurred. "So maybe I'm not ready to go back."

Interlude

Hey all! A few things before we bounce back into our dashing adventure filled with laughs, gasps, and daring-do;

Thing One - This is rough stuff. It wasn't easy to go through, and I know it isn't peaches and cream to read. So thank you for sticking with me, despite that.

Thing Two - What do you say to someone who has gone through this? Hell if I know! None of you are shrinks (I think?) so you are all dissolved of the responsibility to say something meaningful/useful/heroic and life saving that'll make all of this go away. If you feel you want to show support, but have no idea how to do it, a simple "Love." or "<3" or "You go girl!" works wonders.

Thing Three - All names have been changed (except mine).

Thing Four - I will (and am) taking creative license, in an effort to show the truth as elegantly and poignantly as possible.

Thing Five - Most of these are memories. Some of them are actual journal entries I wrote at the time. I will rarely post a snapshot of what I'm going up against right this very second.

Thing Six - This is a story about the past few months. I'm writing it to set down who I am and what I've been through. For me, it's a set of directions; a roadmap that shows where I've been, so I can start to extrapolate where I'm going.

I'm posting it on the world wide internets for a couple of reasons:

1. When I mentioned I was writing this stuff down, one of my best friends said "I'd like to read it some day." Muffinsquire, it's all your fault.

2. There are SO MANY PEOPLE in the world who struggle with these sorts of problems. I'm not the last one you'll run into, believe me. I want to spread awareness of anxiety-related issues, because the fear of fear is the thing that'll kick your teeth into next Wednesday, no apologies.

3. Everybody needs more melodrama in their lives. ^_~

I am NOT looking for:

-pity

-validation of my innumerable merits

-psychoanalysis

-more pity

Thing Seven - I will announce updates via Facebook. They will follow the most whimsical schedule I can think of at the time.