Secrets

I'm barely 5'2", and I seem to weigh 104 lbs whether I have nachos for dinner or eat healthy. So, although I would say I have some nice curves, essentially I'm petite. When I started on meds for anxiety, it took us 3 tries before we found the one that worked for me. The first one made me feel giddy and high for exactly half an hour and then did nothing to alleviate my symptoms. The second took away my symptoms, but it took away all emotion and capacity for joy as well. I literally felt numb, robotic, and dead inside. The third one just works. It just feels like me, only minus the physical symptoms-- the sweating, shaking, racing heartbeat, trembling, dizziness-- and many of the emotional ones, such as the irrational fear I had about entering a room full of people even though I am naturally warm, chatty (to a fault, according to friends :) and enjoy being with people.

The reason why I mention being petite is because I think it may have had something to do with my being started on the minimum possible dose of medication. That worked fine for me for a few months, but then, when I began to experience a high level of stress at work, and at the same time started a significant relationship that put new demands on me, I found the lowest dose wasn't enough. So last week when I saw my psychiatric nurse, she agreed to double the dose for awhile.

It's been helping. It took about two days, but now I feel more ready to move forward and try to handle some of the practical aspects of the challenges I've been faced with lately.

This is a good thing, because before my nurse-- I'm going to call her Joyce-- upped my meds, I spent last Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday in my bedroom, missing work, watching movies through iTunes to avoid dealing with reality-- my fears about losing my job, my fears about my relationship. I was paralyzed emotionally and just wanted to hide. I was taking Benadryls to put myself to sleep because when I was asleep I didn't have to think or feel anything. Then a couple of times a day, when my mind would break through the bullshit and tell me "Hey, get up, go to work, there's a problem here," I'd have a panic attack. No hyperventilating exactly bc of the meds, but I'd just roll over onto my stomach, hug two stuffed animals-- a cute puppy from my boyfriend, and my stuffed penguin that I've had forever-- and just sort of shudder til I could make myself fall asleep again. I had nightmares about being raped, which I'd never had before. I had all kinds of weird dreams. Mostly I'd wake up shaking and terrified, and it took me a couple minutes to calm down before I could get out of bed. Once I woke up with blood on my face from a scratch, and the pillow was on the floor. That's the only time I'd ever had that happen in my life. What I'm trying to convey is, last week was not a typical week, even for me. It was very difficult.

I am so incredibly thankful to be feeling better now and to have some new ideas about how to move forward, not just about meds, that I feel lucky. I don't know how to describe it. Every step I take on this road to managing these issues better is of value. Incredible value. I want to have a life and a family. I want to be happy.

Joyce told me last night that recovery is very serious. I used to take it mostly or sort of seriously. Like, yes, I have problems, but they are not life or death. The most difficult issues, with the exception of about two or three sessions, I hid from my therapist, Julianne. I did this without consciously realizing it. It's what I've done since I was about nine years old. It's a survival technique. Certain things-- it's like turning over fresh earth to plant a garden. When you rip a hole in the grass and look at what's underneath, it's not all pretty. And ripping a BandAid off a really old wound in yourself is terrifying. The amount of pain and unsettling emotions has a ripple effect throughout your life. That scared me. I know that's the idea. But as I say, old habits die hard, especially when we don't pursue them consciously. It's obvious to me now that my defense mechanism has been shooting me in the foot for decades. However, it's been all I had. And I didn't ever think about it. I just stuck with it.

I put a sign on my bedroom door. It covers an old one that, for me, did not end up working. It is much simpler than that affirmation was, and much more direct. It says: KEEP. MOVING. FORWARD. Sometimes the most superficial things, like getting dressed, putting on makeup, and going to work even if you aren't there exactly when you are supposed to be or you need to change your hours, is the most important thing in the world. One of my biggest secrets from Julianne was that I have no desire to really take care of myself. I love taking care of others. It makes me happy. But me, no-- I don't know how, and I do not want to. Lately, though, I've been thinking. I feel more like a shark than somebody hiding in bed all day. Like I've got to keep moving to stay healthy. I hate sharks, but I feel like I get them a little more now than I used to. Am I anthropomorphizing? Prolly, but I don't give a fuck. It's helping me right now. It helps me to picture that shark. It reminds me to keep going with this new thing.

Getting in the habit of consistently caring for myself, no matter how imperfectly, is my real job. To anyone reading this, that probably sounds simple. To me it's going to be the one of hardest things I've ever had to learn.