Saying to myself, “Nobody is going to care about this. Everyone has their own problems. You’re being selfish and burdensome.
Frustration to the point of physically hurting myself.
Convincing myself that my problems aren’t problems; that the story I’ve contrived lacks merit despite it being a hurdle I cannot overcome alone.
Sitting for hours, expressionless and despondent, for no reason.
Being a prisoner in my own mind, unable to clearly or concisely express my thoughts to anyone, or even myself.
Welcome to my life.
I went to a psychologist, actually two psychologists, three years ago. I was tired of feeling worthless. I wanted to figure out why I felt like, no matter what anyone said to me, I didn’t matter. After several appointments with the first psychologist, it became glaringly apparent that she, despite her best efforts, wasn’t going to be any help to me because she wanted to focus on my relationship, or lack thereof, with my father. Her assessment wasn’t incorrect, though I felt it was too much focus on the past and not enough focus on the present. What is it about me now that I can’t stand? What is it about my present self that makes me miserable? I wasn’t looking for an easy answer because I knew that whatever was going on in my head wasn’t going to be identified, bandaged, and healed overnight.
I decided to go to the psychologist at Tri-C as I was a student there at the time. I was nervous about meeting the doctor but when am I not nervous?
As I type this blog, my foot is tapping. I’ve picked up this mannerism in recent years due to my constant fear of…whatever the hell it is I’m afraid of: failure, family members dying, money, if my cat fell out the window, if the wheels of my car will fall off on the drive home, if my significant other is content with our relationship and remaining faithful, if I’ll have another kidney stone at some point in my life, if I’ll fall and chip a tooth while climbing the stairs in my entryway when I get home tonight, if I’ll ever find a career that fits me…you get the idea.
As soon as the doctor invited me into her office, I felt a rush of relief. I was finally going to talk to someone and hopefully figure out what the hell is wrong with me. If nothing else, perhaps she’ll point me in the right direction so I can find my way out of this fog. When she asked me what brought me into her office, I started to cry. I had planned for this but I still wasn’t ready for it. In recent years, I cry more freely than I ever have, as evidenced by my many “OMG THE FLUFFY KITTEN LOOKED AT ME!” *SOBS* type Facebook posts. I explained to her that I never felt right, that there is always some feeling of inadequacy looming overhead. I have semi-frequent panic attacks. I don’t find joy in the things that I did previously. I break into stress-induced hives. I’m always tired, despite changes in diet or exercise habits. I’m overly emotional and usually at the wrong time. I’m constantly riddled with self-doubt. I spend hours agonizing over decisions I’ve made in the past or have to make in the future, no matter how big or small the decision is. She asked numerous questions and listened intently as I described myself and what I’m struggling with, and her evaluation was this: I have an anxiety disorder. Anyone with a machine capable of going to WebMD can pretty well figure out that an anxiety disorder was exactly the condition with which I’m dealing.
A “condition.” I just made it sound like I’m an 87 year-old person with osteoporosis and a gimp knee.
This disorder has robbed me of countless hours of life. It has affected me in ways I never imaged possible. I’ve thought things that nobody should ever think.
I’ve had days where I simply wanted to die.
Panic.
Inability to sit still.
I went to a psychologist, actually two psychologists, three years ago. I was tired of feeling worthless. I wanted to figure out why I felt like, no matter what anyone said to me, I didn’t matter. After several appointments with the first psychologist, it became glaringly apparent that she, despite her best efforts, wasn’t going to be any help to me because she wanted to focus on my relationship, or lack thereof, with my father. Her assessment wasn’t incorrect, though I felt it was too much focus on the past and not enough focus on the present. What is it about me now that I can’t stand? What is it about my present self that makes me miserable? I wasn’t looking for an easy answer because I knew that whatever was going on in my head wasn’t going to be identified, bandaged, and healed overnight.
I decided to go to the psychologist at Tri-C as I was a student there at the time. I was nervous about meeting the doctor but when am I not nervous?
As I type this blog, my foot is tapping. I’ve picked up this mannerism in recent years due to my constant fear of…whatever the hell it is I’m afraid of: failure, family members dying, money, if my cat fell out the window, if the wheels of my car will fall off on the drive home, if my significant other is content with our relationship and remaining faithful, if I’ll have another kidney stone at some point in my life, if I’ll fall and chip a tooth while climbing the stairs in my entryway when I get home tonight, if I’ll ever find a career that fits me…you get the idea.
As soon as the doctor invited me into her office, I felt a rush of relief. I was finally going to talk to someone and hopefully figure out what the hell is wrong with me. If nothing else, perhaps she’ll point me in the right direction so I can find my way out of this fog. When she asked me what brought me into her office, I started to cry. I had planned for this but I still wasn’t ready for it. In recent years, I cry more freely than I ever have, as evidenced by my many “OMG THE FLUFFY KITTEN LOOKED AT ME!” *SOBS* type Facebook posts. I explained to her that I never felt right, that there is always some feeling of inadequacy looming overhead. I have semi-frequent panic attacks. I don’t find joy in the things that I did previously. I break into stress-induced hives. I’m always tired, despite changes in diet or exercise habits. I’m overly emotional and usually at the wrong time. I’m constantly riddled with self-doubt. I spend hours agonizing over decisions I’ve made in the past or have to make in the future, no matter how big or small the decision is. She asked numerous questions and listened intently as I described myself and what I’m struggling with, and her evaluation was this: I have an anxiety disorder. Anyone with a machine capable of going to WebMD can pretty well figure out that an anxiety disorder was exactly the condition with which I’m dealing.
A “condition.” I just made it sound like I’m an 87 year-old person with osteoporosis and a gimp knee.
This disorder has robbed me of countless hours of life. It has affected me in ways I never imaged possible. I’ve thought things that nobody should ever think.
I’ve had days where I simply wanted to die.
Panic.
Inability to sit still.
Tension.
Palpitations.
Problems sleeping.
Palpitations.
Problems sleeping.
Tunnel vision.
My mind is playing a constant game of “what if?” I start to think of things, scenarios that are completely made up, things that could happen but probably never will, and I feel it happening. It starts as a warm sensation in my core. My heart starts beating faster. My hands become shaky. My sense of hearing diminishes. I lose peripheral vision; everything except what’s exactly in front of me is lost in a sea of black. My body is hot. Tears start freely flowing from my eyes. My brain wants to shut off but I know that the only way to stop this from becoming a full blown panic attack is to talk to myself. I have to pull myself out of this before it gets to the point where I lose an hour because I’ve blacked out. My go-to method is breathing. If I can calm myself down enough with deep breaths and repeating something like, “everything is cool” or even something completely random like “bees have wings”, I can typically talk my way out of a full-blown panic attack. Repetition helps. However, immediately following even the slightest attack, I’m physically and mentally exhausted and all I want to do is sleep.
Sleep. This has become a favorite coping mechanism in recent years. Stressed? Take a nap. Bogged down with things to do? Sleep instead. Feeling worthless and incapable of succeeding in life? Bed time. The times that I am in a stress-induced sleep, I never wake up well-rested. If anything, I’m typically more tired and more pressed for time because I’ve slept through my self-imposed deadline.
I always thought that mental illnesses like anxiety or depression were made-up things that people used as a cop out. You’re anxious? Yeah, well so am I but you don’t see me taking medication for it. Having dealt with anxiety for the past 10 years, I no longer see mental illnesses as made-up, pseudo-science, or a way of accommodating laziness. I bust my ass to provide for myself and Princess Meowmix; I’m not lazy. I’m smart, witty, compassionate, and capable. Regardless of my victories, I’m still defeated on many occasions. “I’m not smart enough to go back to school for that.” “Nobody thinks I’m funny.” “I don’t have what it takes to help others.” “I’m not good enough.” Those thoughts, among many other ridiculous thoughts, impose themselves upon me on a daily basis and to say that the struggle is real is an understatement. Some days it takes every ounce of mental strength to get out of bed. Some days I’m not successful in that venture so I lay in bed all day, feeling miserable that I couldn’t bring myself to be a functional member of society.
Today was one of those days, though I did manage to make it out of bed, thanks to Eloise. Had it not been for Fluffy Tail’s annoying “let’s see what happens when I scratch the bedside table until mom throws something at me” game, I probably would have called off work to lay in bed and hate myself. Anxiety is a bitch. What’s there to be anxious about? For me, the more appropriate question is what ISN’T there to be anxious about?
My mind is playing a constant game of “what if?” I start to think of things, scenarios that are completely made up, things that could happen but probably never will, and I feel it happening. It starts as a warm sensation in my core. My heart starts beating faster. My hands become shaky. My sense of hearing diminishes. I lose peripheral vision; everything except what’s exactly in front of me is lost in a sea of black. My body is hot. Tears start freely flowing from my eyes. My brain wants to shut off but I know that the only way to stop this from becoming a full blown panic attack is to talk to myself. I have to pull myself out of this before it gets to the point where I lose an hour because I’ve blacked out. My go-to method is breathing. If I can calm myself down enough with deep breaths and repeating something like, “everything is cool” or even something completely random like “bees have wings”, I can typically talk my way out of a full-blown panic attack. Repetition helps. However, immediately following even the slightest attack, I’m physically and mentally exhausted and all I want to do is sleep.
Sleep. This has become a favorite coping mechanism in recent years. Stressed? Take a nap. Bogged down with things to do? Sleep instead. Feeling worthless and incapable of succeeding in life? Bed time. The times that I am in a stress-induced sleep, I never wake up well-rested. If anything, I’m typically more tired and more pressed for time because I’ve slept through my self-imposed deadline.
I always thought that mental illnesses like anxiety or depression were made-up things that people used as a cop out. You’re anxious? Yeah, well so am I but you don’t see me taking medication for it. Having dealt with anxiety for the past 10 years, I no longer see mental illnesses as made-up, pseudo-science, or a way of accommodating laziness. I bust my ass to provide for myself and Princess Meowmix; I’m not lazy. I’m smart, witty, compassionate, and capable. Regardless of my victories, I’m still defeated on many occasions. “I’m not smart enough to go back to school for that.” “Nobody thinks I’m funny.” “I don’t have what it takes to help others.” “I’m not good enough.” Those thoughts, among many other ridiculous thoughts, impose themselves upon me on a daily basis and to say that the struggle is real is an understatement. Some days it takes every ounce of mental strength to get out of bed. Some days I’m not successful in that venture so I lay in bed all day, feeling miserable that I couldn’t bring myself to be a functional member of society.
Today was one of those days, though I did manage to make it out of bed, thanks to Eloise. Had it not been for Fluffy Tail’s annoying “let’s see what happens when I scratch the bedside table until mom throws something at me” game, I probably would have called off work to lay in bed and hate myself. Anxiety is a bitch. What’s there to be anxious about? For me, the more appropriate question is what ISN’T there to be anxious about?
I'm writing this as a way to let others know what it’s like to live with anxiety. Please know that saying things like, “Just don’t worry about it!” do not help. If I was able to “just not worry” about things, I’d be fine but anxiety doesn’t afford you that luxury. You’re constantly thinking of the what ifs, everything that can catastrophically go wrong but probably won’t, or some variation of the two.
My brain is a mess; my thoughts are generally not succinct. I never know how to adequately express what I'm feeling or thinking. It's hard for me to talk about this with anyone because I don't know what to say. How do you explain that you know something is wrong but don't know exactly what's wrong?
I struggle. I fail a lot. My victories are sweet but sometimes few and far between. Sometimes I don’t feel worthy of those victories, so even in my successes I am defeated. I try to remember that my family loves me, that my cat doesn’t hate me, that the earthquake of the century isn’t going to happen while I drive over this bridge, and that I’m a human being that is allowed to be imperfect. I’m allowed to have faults, issues, and hard times. What I decide to do with those is up to me. Do I float, sink, or swim?
My brain is a mess; my thoughts are generally not succinct. I never know how to adequately express what I'm feeling or thinking. It's hard for me to talk about this with anyone because I don't know what to say. How do you explain that you know something is wrong but don't know exactly what's wrong?
I struggle. I fail a lot. My victories are sweet but sometimes few and far between. Sometimes I don’t feel worthy of those victories, so even in my successes I am defeated. I try to remember that my family loves me, that my cat doesn’t hate me, that the earthquake of the century isn’t going to happen while I drive over this bridge, and that I’m a human being that is allowed to be imperfect. I’m allowed to have faults, issues, and hard times. What I decide to do with those is up to me. Do I float, sink, or swim?
For now, just call me bob.
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