About a year ago I experienced what my doctor would eventually tell me was my first panic attack. I've only had two in my life. Hopefully those are the only two I'll ever have. I went 31 years without ever having one. I figure I'll opt for at least 70 something more years without any more of those beastly episodes. So far, so good.
The first happened in my car one night. I was parked outside the house I was living in at the time. There were four of us living there and this caused me tremendous stress. Not that the people themselves were stressful, I just didn't know I would be living with so many people at once in such close quarters. It had originally just been me and one housemate.
I was going through something very strange and foreign to me. I couldn't put words to it at the time. It had too many moving parts for me to get my head around back then. I didn't want spectators. I was falling apart and no matter how much denial my subconscious mind was trying to administer, I knew it was true. There had been a number of severe and abrupt changes that dropped into my life all at once, or in quick succession anyway. I had given my precious little doggy, Bella, to a family in order to move in with a friend and hopefully save some much needed money. I had just moved out of the apartment I'd lived in for two years with the same roommate and friend. Me and my boyfriend broke up after a series of discussions I'll call
"Getting Around to Life, and Making it Happen." Life kept not happening. We had to break up. This was more tragic for me than I had predicted and I took it harder than I had intended to. I was coping with the reality that I wasn't in charge of how much I cared about things, not even if certain things were in my better interest to leave behind.
Virtually all my stuff was in storage. I especially missed my books. Nothing felt familiar enough. All my comforts seemed ripped from the outside and inside of my life. Despite all this, I had to somehow "keep it together".
I was teaching and trying to continue to operate as Relief Society President of my ward, no relief in site yet for me. I had to keep my head above water. I wanted to be alone but I was surrounded at every turn. I felt simultaneously smothered and yet lonely; an odd coupling of emotions for me, born a people person. I looked alright on the outside. People always commented on how happy I was looking. What a joke. I was dying inside. I felt like black ink was swimming in my veins and anvils were attached to my eyes and my heart was all ash and ruin.
So, back to that night. It started with a thought,
you're going to be alone forever. It grew into an idea,
that's exactly what you deserve. It snowballed into a series of notions,
how many times do you need to learn the same lesson? You can't trust anyone. Everyone is out for himself. Others only see you as a means to an end. You're just a thing! Just a thing! And one day you might not be anyone's anything. Some people are capable of love, of trust. Other people, people like you, perhaps damaged in formative years and at pivotal times, can't hope to trust, to love, to let someone love them and to love in return. This describes you, Kristin. Deal with it. And with these cruel and twisted affirmations came the accelerated breathing, rapid heart beat, cold sweat...I wanted to scream and yet I wanted to disappear. I wanted someone to find me and help me and yet, in my shame, I wanted no one to see me in this condition.
How could this all be happening? To ME of all people?! I am the one who is always laughing! I'm the one who is serving other people who need help. Do I need help? DO I?! Why am I always in charge of everything? I'm so freaking tired! I wish I could just sleep! Hard and sweet like a baby, without worries waking me prematurely. Without wondering what I'd inevitably forgotten to do for the next day. Without wondering if I'd forgotten to become who I had one day meant to become. I am so TIIIIIIIIRED! My nose was running. Then I noticed, it was bleeding.
At some point I began to sob uncontrollably. I felt a jolt in my stomach like I'd soon have to throw up. I just tried to breathe it away. I noticed a tremendous pressure in my head, behind my eyes. I heard my heart beat inside my ears.
Somehow I was able to collect myself enough to leave my car, walk in the house, and go to my room. My hair was sticking to my head with sweat. It was cold. I had no concept of how much time had passed. Had it been ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? Two? I was aware of my shaking but puzzled about why I was powerless to stop it.
I had to admit it. Something was very wrong. I talked with a few trusted, old friends. I talked with my brother, the psychotherapist, and my aunt, the clinical social worker. They said to monitor my moods closely, slow down, relax, get a therapist, keep a journal, look into medicine. There were book recs, health tips, schedule ideas. I was grateful. The episode scared me out of my wits. Was this a manifestation of a serious condition? Did I need medication? Was this what preceded a "nervous breakdown"?
I moved into my own apartment. I had to distance myself from anything stressful. I had to work out some rough inner terrain and I had to do it shamelessly. This meant I had to sequester myself.
The inner landscape was completely foreign and totally treacherous. My sanguine, gregarious nature had to take a back seat as I explored the stretches of my own soul, so mired in denial, self doubt, mistrust, harsh self judgment, and seemingly endless amounts of insecurity. I really had no idea how sad I was. What had also escaped my attention was how all encompassing my anxiety was. I didn't give myself a break,
ever. There was always more I should be doing, things I should be doing better. I didn't seem to want to ask for help yet I knew the time would come when it would be my only healthy option.
Months passed. I left the singles congregation and with it my responsibilities as Relief Society President. I was a bit forlorn but mostly relieved. My life was really different now. Attending a family ward was such a welcome change. I loved the diversity of ages, situations, backgrounds, and abilities. I received my new calling within a week's time. I was called as the Young Women's Personal Progress Coordinator. I was thrilled to be with these superlative leaders and young women. They struck me as some of the more self-actualized individuals I'd been around in some time. I found their sincere confidence refreshing and very comforting. I craved the companionship of people who knew who they were and were unafraid of their individuality. These leaders and girls were just that sort; happily living the way they had covenanted to live, serving others and each other in amazing ways, expanding their talents and acquiring new abilities at remarkable rates and in various ways. And they loved each other! No one seemed affronted or put out by the beauty or talents of anyone else. How novel! How inspiring! Everyone was respected, honored, even cherished for being wonderful! I reveled in this. It went beyond age, interests, and incomes. These girls loved each other and it was obvious. It could be seen, heard, and most of all, felt. These associations began to heal me.
I was spending more time alone than I ever had in my entire life. Living alone was often lovely but more often torturous; lovely because I felt a lot of peace and had time to think and process things but torturous because I felt a lot of sorrow and had time to think about that, the causes of it, and my feelings of helplessness relating to the cure and prevention of said sorrows and those that may be forthcoming.
Maybe some people's lives just yield a disproportionate level of sorrows vs joys. No reason for it. Just the way it goes. You're one of the unlucky sort. No one to blame for it. Just the way it is. Ugh. Could it be? No order in the universe? No way to avoid it? No rhyme? No reason? Haphazard sorrows and joys thrown about in the cosmos landing on whomever for whatever whichever ever or never whatever? Could it be? Or was there a divine design? I had believed that once. Did I still?
Thoughts and feelings like this swam in my head whenever I had the chance to think. Up to then I hadn't had much time or energy to think about such things. My mind had always been preoccupied with teaching my students and addressing their diverse needs, my calling and the needs of my single sisters, grad school ideas and ambitions, my relationship and the oxymoranic way it kept manifesting itself in our lives, my doggy and her happiness and health, my family and the various emotions that ebb and flow there, and of course friends and all the things that can both thrill and tax you about maintaining those relationships. Suddenly a lot of this was gone. I still had my job, friends, and family but everything else had either changed or disappeared. Even certain friendships expired and fell away. I had time to consider myself, without all the trappings, under all the responsibility and what I found there scared me.
The realizations came in waves. First there was the fact that I wasn't as strong as I had previously thought. I was far more fragile and had wounds gaping that I thought had healed over nicely long ago. I thought I had forgive my ex-husband, for example. Then I realized there were a few barrels of bitterness yet to wade through. I thought I had resolved some issues from childhood. It only took a peek to realize this was far from actual. I took a look at my recent break up and discovered I could barely breathe while my brain hovered over that quagmire. Was it me? Was it the way I have to have life "just so"? Were my demands too great? Turns out that it
was true that I had to have life "just so." To me that meant having a partner who works full time, is formally educated, has health/dental insurance, and wants to gear up to support a family within the forthcoming decade. The hard evidence left so little to grasp onto. I had to get real, and I did, but I was ill prepared to deal with the sickening loss of the relationship, the companionship, his friends, and most of all his family. It was horrid for such a long time. The longing for my previous life was piercing and aching at intervals. I was quite literally ill over it for probably a year, maybe longer.
Then panic attack number two happened. Again, I was in my car, but this time I was driving. It was really scary. The snowball of thoughts was coming on again and then WHAM! There was the breathing thing again, heart pounding, ridiculous crying, nose threatening to bleed.
I'm gonna have to pull over! I can' t breathe! I was stopped at a red light. It was broad daylight. I was afraid to look around to see if anyone was looking at me. I prayed like never before,
help me, just please help me. By the time the light turned green I was okay and could drive home in whimpers instead of sobs and gasps, bloody nose, sweaty face, etc.
I read voraciously, per usual, on anything that might help me. I poured over self help, brain research, and health books of all shapes and kinds. I took seminars on healing, depression, and anxiety. I researched human behavior, studies on grief, and watched YouTube videos on human attachment and self mastery. I read my scriptures, wrote a lot in my journal, wrote a couple decent songs, and turned out my best poetry yet. I drew some decent human figures, painted some pretty mediocre flowers, and became obsessed with moving to Seattle.
The brain is a funny little organ. The minute you think you know the landscape, it changes. I was at the gym, lifting weights like I always do in Body Pump class, when the city skyline of Seattle moved through my brain like a helicopter full scan film shot. It was nighttime in the involuntary day dream. It was gorgeous. From that night on I simply could not get Seattle off my brain.
I began to research the city, the grad school programs, the demographics. I began several grad school applications, none of which I ever completed, and researched jobs. I called various entities asking about job availability, benefits, and living expenses. Every time I went on a date I would see something about Seattle on the TV at the bar in the restaurant. It was scary. I began noticing that I would see and hear things about Seattle all the time. On the radio, in magazines, on the news, on a bumper sticker. I was intrigued. I watched
Sleepless in Seattle. Seattle had to be the answer!
My mom thought I was going nuts. Most of my friends did, too. My dad was worried. My brother, Dave, concerned. I kept telling everyone, "It's just a feeling. I just feel like I should do this." Most people were really exasperated. Even I was starting to suspect my psyche was tricking itself into thinking that moving away would somehow fix everything and my whole life would fall into place if only I could manage to detach myself from everything I'd ever known and start afresh in a very wet, wet city far, far away on the other side of the country.
I continued my Seattle research with more or less enthusiasm, depending on the day, and booked a trip for Spring Break, but that was months away. Somewhere between Christmas and MLK Day I finally went to the doctor.
"What are your symptoms?" "Well, I cry a lot, like more than I should, pretty much as soon as I'm alone it just starts pouring out." "What do you suppose you might be crying about?" "I think I'm afraid a lot." "Of what?" "All kinds of things. Being alone. Not being alone. Never having kids. Having kids. Seattle." "Seattle?" "Yeah. Not worth an explanation at this point." "No, please explain." "Well, ok," I said, "I'm obsessed with moving to Seattle for some seemingly mystical reason. See? Ridiculous, right?" "Hmmm, when did this obsession start?" Then we talked about my break up and how I wasn't managing my pain over it very well and didn't seem to be able to get over it in a reasonable amount of time, etc.
Long story short: I got on meds. My doctor had determined that I was experiencing mild to moderate levels of depression and anxiety. One pill, a generic form of PAXIL, would help. Well, it did, and HOW!
The first two weeks were pretty strange. My head was in an annoying fog and I was sleepy all the time. After that I was amazed at how I felt. I was so even keeled. I felt energized, excited about life, grateful. I was able to focus on things more easily, problem solve effectively and quickly, and just enjoy things without worrying. The obsession with Seattle died off almost instantly. I was gleaning so much more satisfaction out of my job and my associations, my friendships and my stewardships. I was calm. It was a whole new world. I didn't care anymore if things were perfect or not. I didn't mind if someone was upset with me. I didn't feel hungry for anything. Instead I felt really, really full. I'm not referring to anything food related. I'm talking about life. It dawned on me, like it never had before, that life was really good.
With the help of an awesome therapist, a great doctor, a wonderful family, some elect friends, and a little purple pill, I became myself again. I noticed things like leaves on trees again. Many of you may remember when I noticed things like that all the time. Somehow I'd forgotten how to notice those types of things a few years ago. Well, I see them now. I listen to music I've heard a thousand times and I hear words and instruments I'd missed. I wonder about things I've never really dared to wonder about. I ask questions that have never occurred to me 'til now.
I've been wanting to write this post for a while but I was a little afraid to do so. I was afraid I'd be judged for turning to medication for my depression and anxiety. I was afraid of being labeled or unfairly treated or talked about. Maybe I'm still a little afraid of that. But I think the benefits of sharing outweigh the potential costs. If one of you reads this and finds hope or direction or even just sympathy, it was worth sharing.
"To life! To life! Lahiam!"
~Fiddler on the Roof
"I like life. Here and now. Life and I made a mutual vow. 'Til I die, life and I, we'll both try to be better somehow."
~Scrooge, the musical
