Anxiety, routines, and why I like running.

Depression is easy explain.  Everyone, at some point, has been in that horrible dark place where they just feel hopeless and can't go on.  Most people don't stay there for long - but that's the place where people with depression spend MOST of their time.

But anxiety is something different all together.  It's an abstract that's difficult to explain to people if they've never experienced it.  People who suffer from anxiety usually have a hard time with the idea of letting their mind 'just being still' because there's always noise, but the anxiety itself is different for every person that deals with it - so I can only wrap my brain around how it affects me.

At any point in the day, my brain is a hot mess. There's a million different thoughts going in a million different directions, at a million different speeds.  For the most part, it's just 'white noise', and it's something I've learned to deal with over the years.  I've stopped fighting it, and have found that it's easier to just let my mind drift from one thing to the next to the next, because that casual lack of focus on quieting all the noise is something I've never really been able to do.

Yep...the right side of this picture is just about how my brain is in comparison to yours.

However, more often than not, that casual unfocused drift gets stuck in a loop, and by the time I become aware of it, my body has already started physically reacting to it with a panic attack.  My heart beats hard,  my hands sweat, I get light headed....so my body tries to counter it by fidgeting.  I bounce my leg, or my foot shakes, or my fingers tap.  My breathing becomes more labored, sometimes my chest hurts...and then the feeling of helplessness and terror sets in, because I can't control what's going on, and BAM.  I'm in full meltdown mode, and there's little I can do to stop it other than ride it out.

Anxiety/panic attacks make me want to hide, or cry, or yell.  But mostly, I want to run away from wherever I am, and find a safe place (usually my house), so I can ride the storm out alone.

Sometimes my panic attacks can last for just a few minutes, sometimes they can last for hours, but since I've had them just about all my life, I've learned to function pretty normally around folks - even when I'm in the middle of one.  Most people never even know that I'm quietly melting down inside.  The closest most folks get is a feeling that I'm not really listening 100%...because, well...I'm not.  

I didn't even really know that they weren't normal, until they started getting REALLY bad about 12 - 14 months ago.

When they started getting worse, I could no longer function when a really bad one hit - and that hasn't changed.  Drugs have helped, and so has therapy, because I've learned what SOME of my triggers are, as well as how to recognize the signs of an oncoming episode.  Even if my husband can see panic start to creep into my eyes, he goes into 'emergency management' mode...checking to see if I have my meds with me, making sure I take some, or maybe even getting me out of the environment I'm in so I can feel more safe.  He's gotten so good, that sometimes he can tell that I'm about to have an attack even before I can.

However, I still get violently bad panic attacks that render me nearly useless until I can calm my mind down, and that's where routine comes in.  

See, as much as pushing myself out of my comfort zone and trying new things is good for my depression and lack of self-esteem, it's bad for my anxiety.  I have to live a delicate balance in order not to tip myself too much in one direction, especially since my anxiety can be triggered by (seemingly) nothing at all sometimes.  I actually find a lot of ironic humor in that because I'm a Libra anyhow...but I feel that even the smallest change in tare fucks me up more than a 'normal' person.

If I start to feel like I'm overwhelmed, I start tasking myself.  I do it in my job(s) and I do it at home.  That thought out rhythm of one foot in front of the other when it comes to 'this is how we do these things' helps calm my brain faster than any amount of chemical can...because once I'm to a point I need to take a pill, it's already too late.

Tasking myself puts me into a routine...which is something familiar to my head.  I don't have to think - i just focus on doing. Cleaning is a good example of how I work through my anxiety sometimes, because it helps.  It's something I can control.  It's something I can see an immediate result with.  It's something that has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  It's reliable.  It's a routine.

Now, I'm not talking OCD level of routine...I'm not someone who has to count how many times I wipe the counter, or do things in a particular order...it just has to get done....and usually done uninterrupted.  It's a process I'm focusing on because the noise in my head has gotten too loud for me to function.

So I have routines in my life that I follow, because they're a place of safety to me, and I find the less I have to "think" (or even let my brain wander), the less the anxiety wins.

But this poses a challenge, because the noise is still there, I'm just focusing on one channel a little louder than the others.  I'm still thinking about all of that other shit, but when I'm tasking, thinking about all that other shit becomes an ancillary process.  It still doesn't make the noise go away.

That's why I like running, which is funny coming from a fat chick.  (I don't exactly run...I kind of fast shuffle...and lord knows I look silly with everything shaking at once...but I don't care.)  When I get on the treadmill, my brain stops.  The only thing my brain thinks about is putting one foot in front of the other.  It will occasionally tell me that I need to stop and get a drink of water, but for the most part, there's nothing else going on in my cabeza.  The only reason I listen to music is for help with my rhythmic coordination, since I've got two left feet.  I will occasionally read the news (close captioning), but usually, when I'm staring at the tv...there's literally nothing processing in my brain.  Not a goddamned thing.

And I love it.  I love that I've finally found something that turns my brain off, even if it's just for 20 minutes in the morning.  That 20 minutes sometimes leaves me feeling more rested than an entire night of fitful sleep.  (My anxiety causes some bad nightmares sometimes).

Even more of an upside?  I'm losing weight in the process.  I'm strengthening my heart and improving my endurance.  The endorphins from working out have also been proven to help ease the symptoms of depression, so it's a win-win-win situation all around.

So...yeah. Running.  :)

The Island of Misfit Toys

This is the first year I've been able to say "I don't like the holidays" and understand why.  For most of my life, it's just been a general 'bleh' I get this time of year - and the more people got festive around me, the worse I got.

From about the end of October through the New Year, every day was a steeper uphill battle than the day before.  I never wanted to drag anyone down with me, so every year, I put on an extra festive mask and pretend that I was just as happy as everyone else when I just wanted to go to sleep until it was over.

I'd cherish those moments I was alone just so I was able to let down my guard and breathe, even for just a few seconds.

I'm not a Grinch or a Scrooge, and I don't wish ill will on anyone who celebrates, I just don't 'get' it.  There's zero connection I have with it.

Growing up, my family never had any 'traditions'.  We never went to get a tree together, never went and saw a movie on a particular day, never really put up decorations, never had a specific type of food we ate.  Sure, we'd "celebrate" Thanksgiving day and Christmas day...but I use the word celebrate in the way you don't understand.  There was some sort of big dinner, but it was fraught with fights and unspoken angst towards one another.  We could never manage to put what was going on at that moment on hold long enough to even go around the table to talk about what we were thankful for, or just enjoy being together.  On occasion we'd get together with the family of a friend my mom had at the time, but that didn't last long once they had a falling out.  

When I was REALLY young, my parents did do decorations and lights, but those faded over time.  Little by little, those things most families did started to disappear.  My mom told me every year that the only reason they did a lot of those little 'traditions' was because of the kids.  As we got older, and grew out of being kids, it was a natural progression that the little touches that make the holidays...well...the holidays...disappeared.  I can't even remember the last time my parents put a Christmas tree up in the house.  It was just 'too much work'.

The holidays, for me, were just a yearly reminder of the discomfort and animosity my family had for one another, or whatever situations in our lives we were dealing with at the time.  On top of that, there were constant reminders about what a burden the holidays were because of all the things they did 'for the kids'.

I always felt a lot like Charlie Brown during this time of year.

Charlie Brown: I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus.  Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy.  I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel.  I just don't understand Christmas, I guess.  I like getting presents and sending Christmas cards and decorating trees and all that, but I'm still not happy.  I always end up feeling depressed.
Linus: Charlie Brown, you're the only person I know who can take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem.  Maybe Lucy's right.  Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest.

So, as I carried these scars into adulthood, I also carried the lack of tradition and the memories of loneliness I experienced every holiday season.  I watched everyone around me, full of family and good cheer, and I had - well - nothing.  I never had that wellspring of love in my life, or that sense of belonging...and I felt it especially during the holiday season. 

I mean, grew up in a family where sending an email is an acceptable form of well wishing for the holidays, and where we were taught 'Birthdays just mean you're one more year closer to death".

I didn't know any different.

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When I got married 10 years ago, I joined a HUGE family.  And, as with most large and close-knit families, comes lots of holiday celebrations and traditions and gatherings.  Needless to say, I was thrust into this crazy celebratory environment  and every year, the closer I got to all of that commotion, the more fearful and panicked I got.  We'd all pack into one house and I wouldn't sleep.  I'd wake up sweating and sometimes in full blown anxiety mode.  I was uncomfortable. I was ashamed.  I was disappointed that I didn't want to be there; dreading the crazy afternoon of too many people in such a small space trying to eat and talk and open presents; which would then lead to me telling myself what an awful person I was, and thus the circle continued.

Most of that comes from the fact that I don't know what a loving family relationship looks like, and I certainly don't know what an extended family Christmas or Thanksgiving gathering looks like.  So the weight to even appear and 'deliver' what they are used to w/in their own family traditions is enough to terrify the shit out of me.  I was never really given a free pass to opt-out of my spouse's family gatherings, so I would sit, uncomfortably, at the table or in their living room - 10 seconds away from bursting into terrified tears at any single moment.  I would shake and fidget, and clam up...unable to make eye contact...scrutinize every word I said when I DID talk...but (basically) doing anything I could to shrink away and make myself as unnoticeable as I possibly could.  And then I would start to worry that someone would see how incredibly uncomfortable I was, and then take offense that I would try to slip away for a moment to myself, which they did.

"Where's your wife?  Doesn't she want to have pie with us?  Is everything ok with you two?"

Up until this year, I don't think my husband even knew the fear and angst and anxiety I had stirring just under the surface.  He just took it at face value that "I don't like this time of year".

Only once since we've been married have we gone to my parent's house for the holidays.  My mom wanted to try to get us together 'because she may not be along for much longer and wanted to try to be a family'.  The invitation that was dripping in guilt should of been enough of a warning flag for me NOT to buy into it, but I was hopeful.  In the end, the dinner was just like being yanked back into my childhood experiences and holiday misery...full of one-up-man-ship from my sister (and her then husband), backhanded compliments from my mother, and a distant father.  Even when I tried to compliment how nice the dinner was and how much we appreciated being invited, I was shot down in a hail of negative comments about why I don't come around more often, or that it wasn't good because the lobster was overcooked (oooooh, the power of denial and the power of deflection).  I felt ill all the way home and angry that I was stupid enough to think anything could be different than how it's always been.

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At some point, I'd like to start my own traditions, away from family pressures...and with people I choose to have in my life by design, but I don't know where to even start.  I don't want my seasonal happiness to depend on everyone else, I want it to be on my terms.  I thought this could be the year, but I waited too long out of fear of failure, and pure lack of understanding.  I mean, how do you explain the color green to someone who's never seen it?  How do you explain what this holiday is about to someone who's never felt that 'magic' everyone talks about?

I really can't say that I'm ever going to enjoy this time of year, unfortunately, but if I can - somehow - take some of it back and make it mine, I may not be as miserable.  Of course, that remains to be seen.

They don't need to know something's wrong with you...

By definition, I'm "mentally ill".  I've got a diagnosis on file, I see a doctor, I am on medication to help regulate me, and I've got a long history of therapy.

I own this fact...it's part of who I am.  I try - every day - to not let it define me.  My disease, this 'mental illness' isn't who I am.  It's just part of what makes me...me.  It doesn't make me a monster, and it doesn't make me less than a person.

Unfortunately, mental illness is a taboo.  People hesitate to admit that they go to therapy, let alone take medications, if they even bother to seek help at all.  I remember being a kid and seeing my first doctor.  My mother urged me to not tell anyone I was seeing a behavioral specialist.  "People don't need to know something's wrong with you" she said.  And those words stuck with me - and still do to this day.

"Something's wrong with me".

I've always known that 'something was wrong with me'.  I knew when I would have panic attacks while doing the most routine things.  I  knew when I struggled making friends.  I knew when I would want to spend weeks in bed doing nothing more than crying for no reason at all.  I knew during my darkest times, when I clutched fists-full of pain pills, wishing the pain would just go away forever.

Intermittent visits to child psychologists, coupled with people that would tell me 'it's just a phase' and to 'cheer up' ceased my search to fix myself for years.  I didn't want people to know I was damaged.  I didn't want people to think I was one step away from going over the edge.  So I struggled and made excuses for myself and my actions.

It was YEARS before I had the courage to talk about it, and when I did, it was one of the most vulnerable moments in my life.

But it's that silence, that stigma, that a lot of people like me struggle with.  The fear that - if people found out - I'd be looked at differently.  That I'd lose my job.  That I'd lose my friends....or my family....or worse.  I'd be locked up for something I have no control over.

People don't understand because we simply don't talk about mental illness in regular conversations.  It's always in hushed whispers.  "Well...you know she's in therapy...right?  Something's wrong with her."

Now, keep in mind, I'm a functioning person.  I operate quite fine despite my illness.  Depression and anxiety can be easy to treat once you find the right methods that help/work, but that's only if you seek help for it...and that's only if you have the means to do so on top of that AND a supportive network of people you can surround yourself with.

But for every person like me that wants to take control back, there are so many  people that simply won't.  The fear of "what if people find out" outweighs the fact that they should seek help to get better.

We've been all raised to think that therapy, and meds to help a mental challenges, show weakness, and it's something to be ashamed of.

That's bullshit.

Even insurance companies don't take mental health seriously.  Some insurance plans don't even cover it, and if you're lucky enough to have a plan that does offer some sort of co-pay for mental health specialists, it's usually an outrageous amount.  For instance - Every time I see my doctor, it's $40 just to walk in the door.  That doesn't account for the cost of my meds - which can range from $10 - $50 each...per month...even for generics.  So here's some quick math.  3 visits a month (conservative) = $120 a month, $1440 a year.  Monthly meds average around $50...so that's another $600 a year.  That's $2040 a year, on insurance.  That's just for normal maintenance.  That doesn't include any emergencies, or possible changes in medical regimens that might yield better results, and help me get that much closer to feeling normal.   

But I'm lucky.  We're well off enough at the moment that we can afford that, and that insurance offers some sort of coverage.  Yes, I could go to a general practitioner and save some money - I've done that in the past.  The problem with that is that they're not trained in mental health.  I go to a specialist because that's what they've studied.  I go to a specialist because they've got a better chance at helping me.  I go to a specialist because that's their field of expertise.

But what if I lost my job?  What if I couldn't afford to see my therapist?  What if I couldn't afford my meds anymore?  What would I do?

Do you know how many people in this country are in that situation?

This past weekend, I've been shocked and horrified to see people that I know make these broad and sweeping statements about 'mental illness'.  It scares me to no end too, because I make no secret about my struggles, nor should I.  As I said before, this is part of me.

Those of us that need a little extra help shouldn't have to hide.  We shouldn't be ashamed of who we are, or our struggles.  Mental illness should be an open discussion in families that are affected by it.  The health of those that you love goes far beyond the physical and SHOULD include the mental.

Why do we continue to ignore that?

It's the little things.

I found out today that it's nearly impossible to be sad when there is an otter balancing on a ball.

Drowning in the sound of the crowd

Today, we've got a house full of people over since it's game day.  It's not something I tend to participate in...I've tried in the past, but I just can't wrap my brain around the books and rules and dice rolls and all that.

Everyone is having such a good time...everyone is laughing.  I feel like such the odd man out.  

I feel so alone even though my living room is full of people laughing and carrying on.

It's days like this I wish I was everything everyone else was....I wish I was anyone but me.