Really Trying

I'm giving it my best effort this week to get past this anxious phase and start living in the normal world again. I got up and showered before 8:30, I only allowed myself 25 minutes of computer time in bed after showering, I put on my makeup, had a glass of milk, and walked the dogs. As soon as I got home I went to work in the yard, edging and weeding the garden area around the air conditioner. Yesterday I worked off and on doing the same to the garden that surrounds the back patio. I haven't done any real physical labor in quite some time, and while I'm working the anxiety seems to take a back seat. When I finish and sit down to rest is when it starts back up again. Like now. I spent 45 minutes working outside, feeling pretty good, staying in the shade for the most part. The weather is cool and breezy, birds singing, all that. I got the job done, plus another little area that was in the sun. It looks nice. But now, here I sit, feeling those old feelings, not motivated to do anything. I made a list last night so that I would keep busy. Not hard stuff for the most part, but chores that need to be done. I don't have it in me to even look at the list, let alone do anything on it. Maybe, if I relax for a bit, the motivation will return.

It doesn't help that I'm going to be alone all day. On weekends I'm seldom alone. My husband comes home from his job that keeps him gone all week, so I have a body in the house. That is a comfort. Mondays my daughter babysits a half hour away, leaving at 8:30 and not returning until around 4. I have only one friend locally that I call. She has anxiety as well but is trying to be positive and I'm afraid when I call her constantly with my negative feelings, I'll bring her down.

I'm wearing a rubberband around my wrist, the idea being that when a negative or fearful thought pops into my head, I am to snap that rubberband and shout "stop" in my head and redirect my thoughts to a positives.

So see, I am trying. Yet still, even the smallest chore on my list seems insurmountable right now. Still in hell, but damn my gardens are looking great!

Phobic Waters Run Deep

So here's the thing. I have acid reflux. I've had it for about a month. I didn't know what it was at first, but last weekend it got so bad that I went to the emergency room and found out. Anyway, I was given Mylanta and a prescription for Protonix, an acid reducer. Now I may have mentioned this before but I'm a medicine phobic. Its bad. Its very bad. I can't take anything. The Mylanta was a stretch. The only reason I was able to take it was because I was in the hospital when they gave me my first serving and I survived. I've been taking it for a week now but it just takes the edge off the acid feeling in my throat, chest and back. I've had the Protonix for a week and haven't gotten up the courage to put one of the damned things in my mouth. So tonight, after suffering needlessly for a week, I took one. Its only been about 5 minutes. I'm trying not to freak out about it. Its going to be a long night, though. To give you an idea how phobic I am of not just afraid of meds but of anything that goes into my body. We have a water cooler in our house. I can only drink water from that cooler, and if a new bottle goes in, I have to wait until other people have safely drank from it before I can comfortably drink from it. Well, its needed replacing since Monday, so I've started drinking water from the hospital cafeteria since I work in the hospital. Now that water is safe. Knowing that I was going to have to take this pill, and knowing that I had to take it with water, I made a special trip to the hospital to get this water! So here I sit, my special water beside me, waiting for the pill to take effect. Yes, I cried when I took it. I still feel like crying but it makes the acid feeling in my throat even worse. But I cleaned my house this week, so the view from where I sit in my hell is lovely.

Sigh

My hell continues. It's been lovely out, low humidity, sunny, not unbearably hot. The vegetation is lush, flowering things flowering, green things growing. And here I am, still suffering in my self-contained hell. My demons threaten me at every turn, they grab me by the throat, eat me from within, terrorize my days and nights. This is, indeed, a very bad time. I want so badly to feel good again. I want to live at peace within my body and mind. Is that asking too much? Does every minute have to be a struggle for sanity? Can the simple act of taking a walk not be just a pleasant outing instead of a dreaded ordeal that may end in disaster? Sigh...not today.

Me in a Good Phase

I'm not always anxious. I have phases where anxiety does not consume my life. When I'm there I'm a happier person, obviously. I usually work when I'm in a good phase and quit when I get bad. I've had a variety of jobs. A long, LONG time ago, before anxiety was in my vocabulary, I worked in nursing homes and food service. In college I was a pizza delivery person for Vino's Pizza at Purdue. Best pizza in the world! Once I graduated, I got married and we moved to Norfolk, Virginia where I first worked for a grocery corporate office as a file clerk, then quit and worked for a ship builder as a draftsman. Shortly after we moved to Waukegan, Illinois. There I worked at a Blood Bank as a bookkeeper/receptionist for a year.

From there we moved to Indiana, I got pregnant, and began my life as an anxiety sufferer. The pregnancy did not end well, which left me with anxiety and severe depression. I didn't work for a few years, then started feeling well enough to work as a product designer for Deflecto Corp. I remember walking through the factory trying my best to keep from running out from the panic. I never had to, but boy it was tough. I was laid off from there and went to work for a drafting company in downtown Indianapolis. I was strictly a manual draftsman, but they were starting to get into computer aided design, which was a killer at first - much more difficult when it first came out. I quit that job when I became pregnant again, wanting to be sure nothing happened to foil this attempt. She was born on time and healthy. I did the mommy thing, did some writing for U.S. Kids Magazine (I did the Puzzle Squad), did some other writing, and had another baby. We moved from Indy to Maryland when I was 8 months pregnant with child number 2. That was an adventure! We lived in a Quality Inn for 2 months and I gave birth to her while we were living there. Not a bad way to go - no cooking, no cleaning, staff to visit with when I was bored! No wonder the wealthy enjoy that lifestyle! From there we moved to Texarkana (ugh) for 6 months, then back to Maryland for a year, and then back to Indiana. I took a job as a file clerk for an insurance company until I figured out that the cost of child care equaled the wages I made. I quit and did more writing, got involved in the kid's school when they started, taught a little art in exchange for tuition.

We stayed put for 5 years, then moved to Kentucky for 10. When we got there I kept busy volunteering at a Free Clinic. That eventually turned into a real, paying job. I was in charge of their pharmacy. While I was there I also got a job at a real pharmacy as a tech. I must have been feeling very well indeed because I also had a job as a cashier at Office Max! I quit the cashier job after about 6 months as it wasn't very fun and I never saw my family. I quit the pharmacy after a year because the anxiety was returning. And I left the Free Clinic after about 5 years because of a disagreement with the director. So I had time on my hands again and did more writing. I started teaching violin after that, just a few students at first, but eventually got up to around 18. I felt more confident again and found a job at a funeral home doing accounting and making memorial videos. Was laid off after a year, as were all the hourly employees. I continued teaching until we moved to Indiana 2 years ago. I was in too bad of shape when we move here to even think about work - until last September. Then I went on the hunt again and found a job at a grocery store in the deli. I was in charge of the salad bar. It was probably the worst job I've ever had! Very hard work, and the women I worked with...very difficult to get along with! So I quit right before Christmas. In February I started looking again and found the job I have right now. I work for a gastroenterologist office in the local hospital. I'm the receptionist. I only work 3 days a week for 3 or 4 hours in the afternoon. Most of the time I do nothing. When a patient comes in, I check them in. When they leave, I check them out. The rest of the time is mine! Not bad, eh?

Well, that about wraps up my work history. I feel like I've just written a draft for an all-inclusive resume! But it was nice thinking back on all I've done. Makes me feel like someday I will feel normal again.

Hell hath no fury...

...like a body engulfed in anxiety. Bad morning. I woke up in near panic, sweating, feeling like electricity was flowing through my veins. I did something I've never done and taken my jeans into the bathroom to go pee, just in case I had to rush to the emergency room. I wear just a top and undies to bed, and the possibility of being found like that seems too humiliating, hence the pants. When I'm feeling really bad at bed time I'll go to bed fully dressed, just in case. I'm wondering how in the hell I'm going to shower this morning. I don't feel brave enough. This is a very bad phase.

I haven't been this bad for 2 years. We'd sold our house in Kentucky and were in the process of moving up here. I had to get an apartment in Kentucky until we found a house in Indiana. Apartments there were hard to come by, and ones that accepted 2 dogs and 2 cats were even harder. The one I found was a piece of crap, but I figured I could survive for 6 or 7 months until I had a real house again. I was wrong. I'd moved from a 2000 square foot beautiful home in a nice, safe neighborhood, one that was quiet at night and had room to move around. The apartment was 700 square feet of dark brown and tan. There were 2 bedrooms and a kitchen/living room. It was about a mile away from a railroad track that was busy day and night! It was me and my daughter living there with all those animals. And it was on the "bad" side of town. I heard a lot of sirens and kept my door locked. I couldn't just let the dogs out to potty, I had to walk them across the street to a wooded area. To add to the anxiety and lack of control over my life, my daughter needed to have her tonsils out. Her doctor was in Indiana. We stayed at my parents house for about 3 weeks while she had the surgery and recovery. It was just the two of us for the most part, with my husband coming up for the surgury, as my parents were in Florida for a month. This was all too much of a change for me, and my body revolted. When we got back to Kentucky I was panicking daily and many a night I drove myself to the emergency room parking lot to just sit and wait for the feeling to pass or get worse. I finally could not take it another minute and packed my bag and drove 5 hours to my parents in Indiana again so that someone could help me and take care of me. I left my daughter there alone with the pets. I felt so bad about that, but she was 18 and loved having her own place. Back home with my parents I felt no better, but had a therapist close by, so started seeing him again. It was hard on my parents to see me like that. Going to the grocery was like being sent into a den of hungry lions. The anxiety threatened to rip my heart out and stomp it into the linoleum flooring. When the anxiety shouted, "Get out, GET OUT!," I had to grab onto the shopping cart and mumble back, "no. I have to stay." And eventually, being in the grocery wasn't such a horror. Same way with taking a walk, or driving, or showering. It was a long, hard journey back from the depths of hell, but I made it back to a functioning world.

After a month we found a house and moved in. From there I began to get better. My therapist was a 30 minute drive, and those first trips were made on the phone sobbing to my husband because I was panicking. Fortunately there are two hospitals on the way, so I knew I could pull in if I could make it that far. I, of course, never needed to, but its just knowing they're there that is the salvation.

Now the feeling has returned. It's not as bad as it was then most of the time, but I know it could easily return to that. That is no way to live. The way I am now is no way to live either. I must find my way back to normalcy. It was wonderful waking up and looking forward to my day, no matter how routine it was. I looked forward to cleaning my house so that I could enjoy its serenity. I looked forward to walking the dogs, to see them happily sniffing out old dog pee. I looked forward to spending hours in the grocery, finding bargains and using my coupons. And I looked forward to relaxing in bed at night, unwinding, sleeping, knowing there would be another day in the morning. I want so desperately to get back to that part of me. There is fear that it will never return. But return it must. I can't stay like this. I just can't.

I must go brave the shower now. I can't let it defeat me. It's only a shower. It's only a shower. It's only a shower..........

Adaptation

I like to be in control. At least of things that concern me. When I was young I was cunning enough to get what I wanted or do what I wanted, even when it wasn't necessarily what I deserved. Perhaps its a survival thing. I recall being a very maudlin child. When I was unhappy I would mope and pout and be very unpleasant to be around. I held grudges for much longer than I should have, but if I felt I had been treated unfairly, that was my only recourse. I couldn't get angry and shout and demand justice because I was too shy and too much of a people pleaser. I remember a vacation to Colorado (I think) with my family. I was probably 10 or so. Something displeased me. We stopped to sight see or some such thing and I was bored and probably wanted to do something that no one else wanted, so I sulked and was miserable. Now I'm thinking it wasn't so much a control thing as an unadaptibility issue. Without the skills to express my desires or reasons for not wanting to do something, I resorted to withdrawing and being uncommunicative. It did not serve me well for most of my childhood, so as a teenager I began to adapt and learn other ways to get what I wanted without ever learning to come out and ask for it. If I was having trouble with a subject in school, rather than go to the teacher for help, I would cheat. I was quite good at it. It made me feel good about myself, that I had beaten the system, that I emerged triumphant. I didn't see it as anything wrong. So what if I didn't memorize formulas or learn to say "Which way to the library" in German. I was smart enough. I learned basic care and maintenance of my car from my father so that I'd never have to ask anyone to change my oil or replace a flat tire. I never wanted to be a bother, never wanted to have to depend on anyone for my basic needs because that would mean asking for help and that was not something I'd learned to do. In college it was the same. I learned more survival techniques. I majored in Industrial design which included making models of all our projects, so I learned to use all the shop equipment, the elements of building, power tools, finishing work. I got quite good at it after 4 years. I couldn't cheat in my design classes, so if a project was less than perfect or not quite on time, I learned to be cute and needy and ever-so sweet. It didn't hurt that the instructer was a man, and that he was there for the whole 4 years. Our class was small, maybe 8 of us, so we all got to know each other very well.

Right after college I got married. Let's just that was not the wisest thing I've ever done. I had never planned on getting married. It was not in the scheme of my life. I was going to move to California, have my own design business, and own lots of cats. I was a loner at heart. Or maybe I just wasn't very popular with guys and so my dating stats were way down. When I met the man I married, I was unskilled at adult relationships and so, was easy prey. He wooed me, convinced me we were meant to be together, and married me 3 months later. I didn't know how to stop it. I didn't know how to tell him what I wanted, and I didn't really know myself what that was. He was in the Navy, so we moved to Norfolk, Virginia, were married, and he left for duty in Maine. I used what skills I had and built us a bed and dresser. I figured this was the best of both worlds - being supported financially and still able to be on my own and do what I wanted. And I adopted 2 cats.

This is getting longer and more involved that I had planned. I'll continue later.

It's HOT

It's way too early in the year for the weather to be like this! In fact this entire year has been a disappointment in the weather department. Winter seemed to go on and on. May, usually a very pleasant month, was cold. There were maybe two weeks of nice Spring weather, then BAM! Heat and humidity! I'm not a fan of extreme weather, and my tolerance lesses with each year. My old body doesn't like shivering or sweating. And, of course, extreme temps increase my anxiety (what doesn't these days!). Apparently there is nothing I can do about the weather. I've tried complaining to no avail, I've tried anger - still no help. Wishing, hoping, visualization - all ineffective in changing the weather. For someone who likes to be in control, this is frustrating. I know, I know, no one can manipulate the weather. Mother Nature is who she is and doesn't play around. So I suppose I must accept that when its hot, its hot, and when its cold, its cold, and when its nice out, enjoy the hell out of it because it won't be around long.

Me, the Early Years

Enough about anxiety for a while. Let's go back to where I began to be. I was born in Detroit, Michigan, the second of 3 children. I was named after a chicken farmer that my parents were friends with, Janie Bennett. We moved back and forth between Detroit and Cleveland with my dad's job, then in 1969 we came to Indianapolis, Indiana, and that's where we stayed. I don't have a lot of memories of those years. One I do remember is walking home from grade school one dark and stormy afternoon with my brother. I don't know if this was our first day of school, or just the first time we walked home, but we got lost. I would have been in first or second grade and I can remember the feeling of hopelessness, like I'd never see my family again. And my brother, being only a year and a half older than me, was no comfort. Obviously we did make it home (I think my mom came to rescue us), but It was a memorable event in my life.

I can only remember one of my teachers from those years, and only because she smelled weird. I've come to recall that smell now as powdered old lady crotch, not unpleasant particularly, but distinct. Her name, I believe, was Mrs. O'Clock, or at least that's what I called her. It was in her class that I had my first public crying spell. Someone's mom had brought cupcakes and handed them out to everyone but me! I'm sure it was an oversight, but I was painfully shy back then and would never have mentioned that I didn't have one. So I had my own little pity party, sobbing quietly at my desk.

I have good memories, too. We had a swingset that we moved from house to house. I think we moved 5 times from the time I was born to when I turned 10 (that may explain why I have trouble making friends). Anyway, I remember a lot of fun times on and around that swingset. One afternoon the 3 of us were playing and my sister (2 years younger) was on the cross bar of the swingset, probably 4 feet off the ground or so (it was a big swingset, or at least it seemed big back then.) Anyway, a wasp landed on her cheek while she was up there. She was, of course, quite upset by it. My parents told her to just hold still and it would leave. They were mistaken. It stung her on the cheek! She now has a rabid aversion to wasps.

I had (and still have) a doll called Baby Coos (because if you squeeze her chest she coos). That doll was my favorite. It had a soft body and life-like arms and legs and head. I had cut her hair at one point, so she wasn't pretty, but I still loved her. Never gave her a real name. It was always Baby Coos. One day on the swing set her arm got caught in the swing chain (you really had to cram her little arms in there to make her hold on). It cut her "skin", leaving an inch long gash. For years she had to wear a bandaid on that arm. Once I figured out that it would never heal, I learned how to get all that sticky stuff off with alcohol, my first scientific discovery. I later learned that baby oil worked better.

Each of us kids had a cat back then. Mine was named Mittens because she had white mittens. Not an accurate name as she was white all over with gray patches, probably a 50/50 ratio of gray to white. I wasn't terribly creative with names back then. She was the perfect cat. She played well, snuggled well, behaved well. Gosh, I loved that cat. My brother's cat was named Mimzi. She was Siamese. She was like a dog. If you went outside, she'd follow you around. Once she had her ear bitten by a bird she was harrassing, leaving a knick in her perfect little ear. My parents cat was also a Siamese. Her name was Missy and she was mean! She loved to bite and scratch and terrorize guests. I think my sister had a cat but I don't really remember. I know she later had a white German Shepherd named Heidi. Maybe it was a striped cat named Tiger. Who knows.

We also had gerbils who liked to reproduce. I do recall having gerbils brought to up by cats now and then. I don't think we kept the cage very secure! My brother had a white rat named Bonnie. She was a very nice rat as rats go. He'd carry her around on his shoulder.

Anyway, that is a glimpse of my early years, before hell.

Obsession: Not Just a Fragrance

Obsession is an unreasonable fixation and compulsion is what follows. Anxiety has opened a whole new world for me in the area of obsession/compulsion. I used to be afraid of nothing. I would eat, drink, breathe, travel, do whatever I pleased, without thinking about what the consequence might be. But with anxiety is a special thing called a "trigger’ – a feeling associated with a situation, a food, anything really. For example, if someone with an anxiety disorder (me, perhaps?) ate a peanut butter sandwich and shortly afterward had an anxiety attack, peanut butter becomes a trigger and must be avoided. As the illogical mind continues to churn out obsessive thoughts, it can veer off into any food that people might be allergic to – shell fish, strawberries, bananas – or any food that the sufferer is unfamiliar with or hasn’t had in a while – sushi, Indiana food, the list is infinite. I’m at the point now that I won’t eat anything that anyone in the history of mankind has ever been allergic to, even though I’ve never had any food allergies in my life.

Then it moves into foods that don’t taste "right." I’ve bought a gallon of milk and, even though everyone who tried it said it was fine, it just didn’t taste "right" so I couldn’t drink it. If I’ve eaten something that changes the way I taste, like onion or garlic, even though I KNOW its because of the other taste in my mouth, if the next thing I eat doesn’t taste "right" I won’t eat it.
Sometimes there is no logic involved in the illogical obsession/compulsion. For instance, I won’t drink water from any other source besides my water cooler and certain restaurants. To go one step further, I won’t drink the water from a new bottle in my water cooler until someone else has drunk it first! I won’t drink any water from a portable bottle unless I empty out the water that comes in it and refill it with my pre-tested cooler water!!

I’m even worse with smells. I can’t be around anyone who is wearing perfume or any kind of scent. Stores filled with scented things are also on me to-be-avoided list. And if I’m driving and smell something like fresh cut grass or diesel fuel, I roll up my windows and turn off the heat/AC, even though I always have it set on recycling the interior air. I don’t want to take any chances. Why would smells be a problem? Because I’m afraid it will give me an asthma attack or stop me breathing, even though I don’t have asthma or any lung problems!

And drugs! Don’t even get me started on them. I can’t take anything. No Tums, no Tylenol, no antibiotics, no sedatives which might actually make me feel less anxious. I had a bad reaction to a drug I was prescribed in college, compesine, which made my muscles tense up, my eyes roll back in my head…it was horrid. Oddly enough, that didn’t make me stop using drugs (legal, prescribed or OTC). It wasn’t until I started trying anti-depressants for my anxiety that the fear began. I tried 3 different ones and each one made the anxiety so much worse that I got to the point that suicide seemed the only relief. After that, no drug was going into my body no matter what. Even though I’d taken Xanax for many years, I couldn’t take it after that. Even though nobody has a problem with Tylenol, I can’t put it in my mouth. I tried some Tums the other day to see if it would settle my stomach, and I had such anxiety from it that I won’t do it again. I had hand surgery this year and coped with the pain by using ice packs and elevation alone! I just hope I never have any illness that requires medicine. I don’t even want to think about that.

These are, I know, irrational thoughts. I know in the logical side of my brain that none of these things will hurt me. But my illogical side is so much more powerful than the logical one that I’m stuck listening to it alone.

So there you have it. Another view from inside my hell.

170

170. That's how high I counted in the shower this morning. 1675. That's how many steps one way as I walked the dogs. 94. My heart-rate just now. Counting is a coping mechanism for this hellish disorder. If there isn't something actively going on in my brain, the overwhelming anxiety swells into panic. So I count. If I have to drive a long distance, sometimes the entire trip is counted. Music doesn't help, watching the scenery doesn't help, only counting. And if counting fails me, I have to make it more complicated, really engage the mind. Count by two's. No, too easy. Count by 3's or 4's, 6's, 7's, 8's or 9's. I've gotten quite good at those, but on a day when I can't concentrate, they will suffice. In really trying times, multiplication.

Its all about distraction. If I'm in an anxious phase, like now, I can't just sit and relax, shut down my brain. I can't even read unless its an anxiety self-help book, and even then the act of reading alone isn't enough to quiet the turmoil torturing my body. When I read anxiety books, I also type them as I read. I've got a growing computer library of my favorites, mostly Claire Weekes, the pioneer in anxiety therapy. Also a program by Lucinda Bassett. I was in group therapy years ago and we were given copies of her workbook. They were very poorly copied so I had to retyped mine. I even went as far as learning Braille so that when I close my eyes in darkness at night I can occupy my mind decifering the dots!

I have a place that I do find some peace. On my back patio I have a porch swing. Its got a canopy over it to shade me from the sun, so I can go there during the day and swing. The swinging motion is so soothing. If its unpleasant out, I can sit in my rocker and rock, but it doesn't have as much effect as swinging. Where we moved from I had a great porch swing, eight feel high with a beautiful wooden swing that I drove all over in search of. I could do some real swinging there. The one I have now is only 5 feet tall, but it does all right.

I really need to get moving. I'm on cat sitting duty as my daughter left for a road trip today and her critters need feeding. My anxiety is rough today. I so hate this disorder! All the coping techniques in the world don't diminish that fact!

Mornings

Mornings are especially hard. I don't know what it is about waking up that brings on the anxiety and dread, but when I'm in a bad phase, like now, mornings are hellish. Its Tuesday, 9 a.m. Like the mornings over the past month or so I'm lying in bed trying to calm the demons so that I can get up and shower without panicking. I get on the computer, check mail, go to my anxiety support site, and now here.

I love going to bed at night. Usually by late afternoon or evening I feel fairly normal. By bedtime I'm feeling wonderful. I lie in bed and play solitaire on the computer until I can't stay awake any longer. I don't want to go to sleep because I want to continue to feel the happy feelings of no anxiety. But sleep must inevitably come, just as waking in the morning must come, and that is what I dread. I have no explanation as to why mornings are so bad, but I know I'm not alone.

My morning anxiety is a barometer to my anxiety phase. When I wake in the morning feeling normal, I know I'm doing well again. Unfortunately there doesn't seem to be any logical or repeatable actions to get me to such a place, just as there isn't a recognizable pattern that brings me to the bad place. Anxiety disorders are frustrating that way. What works one time may not work the next.

So here I lay, struggling to get the courage to leave my bed and face the shower, and then ultimately, the whole rest of the day. Perhaps that is where the dread originates - knowing that ahead of me lies an entire day of uncertainty. Will I have a panic attack if I venture out, what new aches and pains will pop up and fill my head with thoughts of fatal illness, will the price of gas jump to $5 a gallon? Things like this constantly run through my head.

I must get up. I will shower and dress, even put on makeup. Another day in hell.