I have anxiety. I am not talking about right this very second, (although, I am anxious... but that's not the point) I am talking about in general. It's probably apparent to those of you who frequent this blog, but I don't honestly know how many people know about it. I am so ashamed and embarrassed by it that I tend to keep it hush-hush.
But after a particularly bad week, full of high anxiety and stress, I just have this sudden urge to document it. Maybe open up a little bit. Perhaps even find that I am not alone--or a freak...
I have had anxiety from the time I was a baby (or so they tell me). Apparently I refused to allow anyone to hold me other than my mom from the time I was an infant. My poor dad--his first born cried every single time he held her. I wish I could go back and change that, but I was a baby... it wasn't my fault. Right?
I don't think my parents recognized my clinginess to my mom and my fears of new situations as anxiety when I was really little, but by the time I was in elementary it was pretty apparent. I couldn't have sleepovers with friends or family without coming home in the middle of the night. I had major freakouts when my parents went on vacations and left me and my siblings with babysitters (sorry Debbie, Amie, Deana, Heidi, Grandma...) Most of the times these issues were resolved as soon as my parents got home, so I think my parents just thought I was a mommy's girl.
However, when I was in third grade my anxiety took a turn for the worse.
It was the beginning of the school year and my mom was going to be going to girl's camp during my first week of third grade. It was a new school year, which is pretty anxiety causing in and of itself, but my mom was going to be gone. And the teacher seemed very unsympathetic to my illness.
I say illness because anxiety is something physical. For me, during bad anxiety moments, I throw up, shake, cry, and feel like I am being tortured. I tend to rock back and forth and not eat (I don't have much of an appetite) and plead for somebody--anybody--to make it stop. Why don't I take medication, you ask? More on that later.
Anyway, back to third grade. I think the first day of my mom being gone went ok, but I could be wrong. I know that by the middle of the week my anxiety was so bad that I just had to get home. As an 8-year-old, my teacher didn't allow me to call home unless she felt that I was physically sick. My solution was to go throw up in the bathroom (in which she said I had to prove it and show her the throw up before she would let me call home). This teacher frustrates me because I was clearly not ok. I was crying and rocking back and forth and she just thought I was looking for attention. I wasn't.
Back in the bathroom, I found that I couldn't throw up. So I stuck my finger in my throat and made myself. The teacher had followed me into the bathroom and was watching me over the stall door (I didn't find out until I turned around) and it was by the skin of my teeth that she let me call my dad. Luckily he came and got me. Unfortunately, that little stint went on my permanent record and for the rest of elementary teachers thought I was bulimic. Wrong.
I never went back to that class again and my parents realized that I wasn't "normal."
In fifth grade I had a similar experience, but I don't know what triggered it. I was terrified that my mom was going to die while I was at school and at the beginning of the school year I lost it. My fifth grade teacher wasn't very patient with my anxiety (I don't think she understood either) and after a few school counseling sessions and then a child-psychiatry session, it was determined that we needed to change teachers.
Luckily teacher number two worked well with my anxiety. He was very patient and he allowed me to call home during every recess to check on my mom. My mom also came down during lunch to prove she was alive. (What would I do without my mom? Seriously.) She had to drop me off at the school office every morning and every day a secretary would walk (drag) me to class, kicking and screaming. Oh anxiety. It was a nasty thing for a child to deal with.
This is the first point of the story in which medication comes into play. My parents prayerfully decided against it and found other means to work through my anxiety. They forced me to face my problems head on, but were always by my side helping me work through the anxiety. If they (particularly my mom) hadn't spent so much time helping me face my demons and helping me work through my fears, I would never have returned to public school after fifth grade. I would have missed out on so much.
I guess this is the point where I tell you my anxieties. I have really bad separation anxiety. I have it with a few people. My BFFFF, My sister, and my Mom. I also fear going to stores alone, new situations, driving, not being in control, large crowds of people--among other things. I have done well working through the things I need to in order to have a "normal" life. (I can drive and be in control of my anxiety, and I figured out school.) But I really try to avoid the things that cause me anxiety that I don't HAVE to do. (Shopping alone, for one). I am glad that I was able to take control of my anxiety.
Throughout junior high and high school my anxiety was always present, but this is the point in which I became fairly good at controlling it. I had moments, but for the most part I learned what worked for me. Even college turned out to be ok. the beginning of new things always sends me for a loop, but after the repetition of new school year or job, I tend to figure it out. I am not saying there weren't setbacks or hard times, but I have learned how to handle them.
My anxiety took a turn for the worse when HE came into my life and figured out how exactly he could make me anxious and then "fix" me. Getting through that mess was the hardest thing I have done in my life so far, but it also brought up the question of medication again.When we broke up I was so devastated that I experienced anxiety/anxiety attacks unlike any I have ever had before. So much so that I asked for medication. The doctor I went to prescribed a depressant to calm my nerves, but it just made me numb to any feeling other than depression.
Since that time I have avoided becoming medicated. I am not saying medicine doesn't work for some people. But for me, the choice to deal with my anxiety with my family and a few close friends makes it all the more sweeter when I can overcome. When I get through a particularly rough patch I feel accomplishment. And I feel like I am a stronger person. I am not saying it doesn't suck during the anxiety. But the end is so much more sweet if I can say I overcame.
Currently I am going through some personal trials that have left my anxiety worse than it has been in a long time. It is hard to sleep and I haven't eaten more than a bite or two of ice cream and a soda in more than 72 hours. But I am living for the moments where I can catch my breath and I am very blessed to not be working right now.
I have recently started researching my condition(s) and I am learning that a lot more people in this world suffer from anxiety disorders than I thought. And I am learning new strategies to help me.
I know this was a long post, but I wanted to end by thanking my parents. My mom has always understood and treated my like I was normal. She has helped me through so much. And my dad has always been so calm and reassuring. I don't think I could have become so strong in this if I didn't have them.
It's also a shout-out to all the great teachers and friends who have helped me through the years. I never would have made it to here, a college graduate and happy adult, if it weren't for you.
