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.

Group Therapy

 "Cheryl, your turn."

"My anxiety is a six, mood a five, no thoughts of suicide or self harm. I slept six hours, ate three meals, no physical activity, took all my meds, and I did achieve my goal. My goal for today is to practice mindfulness."

"Laura?"

My anxiety is an eight, my mood a two. Thoughts of self-harm, but not suicide. My safety plan is to stay by other people. Slept five hours, ate two meals (and threw up one), no physical activity, took all my meds, and achieved my goal. My goal for today is to get to the evening.

Somehow I did, though I panicked halfway though educational group and sat hyperventilating in a room alone, hoping someone would come find me and comfort me. But I waited at the curb and saw my grandparent's van approach, with a black-and-white fuzzball going crazy in the front seat. I piled in and got a lapful of hello hello so happy missed you love love so happy scratch my belly love love puppy dog.

I didn't hurt myself.

Love

"I want to be free," he said, and the wrappings blew away, all the lies and mummery, and I had lost everything - ten thousand pieces, every one of them a mess.

A Socially Acceptable Package

"Hey Miss Ella, do you have a moment?"

"Sure." My boss spun away from a pile of paperwork. "What's up?"

"I don't know how much you know about why I'm here..." she shook her head. "I have an anxiety disorder. It's why I left school. I'll probably have a doctor's appointment every week or so. I'll try to schedule them so they're not a problem. But I might also have to ask, if things are getting hectic, if I could just step out for a while..."

"Not a problem," she said with a smile. "All of us run into that. It's better in the summer when we can go outside and get away, but you just let me or another teacher know if you need a break."

I blessed my luck. She looked mildly curious, but not condescending or disapproving, as I had feared. I have an anxiety disorder. The words jerked off my tongue; I'm a failure, too weak, too stupid, not strong enough, was what it actually meant. Wrapped up in a socially acceptable package: I have an anxiety disorder.

I went back to the infant room and picked up Rae. "Hey little girl." She recognized me, and her face lit up with the biggest smile I've seen on anyone, ever. "Hi little love." I cuddled her close, and she tried to steal my glasses.

Fifty Nine Hundred

squeak squeak squick. Pause. A flash of light. squick squick squeak. I'm awake, though the shatter-proof glass shows no signs of dawn. The hard clanking darkness outside mutters nothing to see why aren't you asleep? should be asleep go to sleep.

There is no more sleeping. I push off the starchy sheets and don bed socks, sweatshirt, hat. The common room is dim and hushed, with the night staff laughing behind the counter. They smile at me - I shuffle out, owl-eyed, clutching my book, and bid a whispered "good morning."

"Good morning. How did you sleep?"

I shrug. Doesn't matter. The hour hand is just brushing five. I curl up as best I can in a stiff-backed chair and open my thirteenth book in the past four days, blocking the thoughts before they could wake up. My foot is twitching. The phone rings behind the desk and a nurse answers "Fifty-Nine Hundred."

The Beginning

"God damn son of a whore bitch FUCK." I sink down, feel the keys bite into my forehead. nnnnnnnnnnn, says my computer. N for NO LUCK, for NEVER, for N00B. I shift position - fffffffffffff. Failure. A floppy arm clicks the mouse, but all those nnnn's and fffff's haven't actually fixed my code. Damn. With a small sigh, I heave myself up, only to pool over the back of my chair. The pattern on the ceiling tile says FIGURE IT OUT.

Then my phone buzzes. Help, on the way?

Working in metals shop.

ffffffffffffffffffffffff

That Kind of Story

 This is a story about the ten thousand steps it'll take to get back to the beginning again.

So I guess, in the end, it's about love. Not the happily ever after kind, mind you, but the kind that mercilessly rips you up into ten thousand pieces, just so you can be whole again. It's the love that leaves stains on your pillow and a fire in your eyes; the kind that says I cannot die because I'm too much alive, and the kind that makes you want to.

It's that kind of love.

Yanno?