My Anxiety Story -- Part 5 (The master of avoidance)

The first few months after my sister died and I was misdiagnosed with a blood clot in my lung were pretty rough. I lived in a constant and perpetual state of fear. Every moment of every day was consumed with a giant "what if". All of the things I enjoyed before (singing, going for drives, going out to eat, drinking with my friends) were now things I dreaded and avoided. In some ways it was lucky I had decided to leave my band because I honestly don't think I could've gotten up on stage at that point. It was that quick. I had been performing twice a week for a year and after my panic attacks started, I couldn't even think about getting up in front of people without having a panic attack. For a long time, if Trevor and I went for a drive it had to be within a twenty mile radius of Zanesville, (the place where the hospital was). Ironically, I didn't trust a single doctor that worked there, after all they misdiagnosed me, released me with no real answers, and then sent me a $3,000 doctor bill that I had to pay off. Still, somehow, my own feeling of security revolved around being able to get back to that hospital if I needed to.

If you know me, you know that my favorite thing in the world to do is go out to a restaurant and eat. I LOVE food. It's my "thang". Going to a restaurant when you have panic attacks is not my idea of fun. I would have to have a seat as close to the exit as possible in case I needed to escape. (You know how scary mashed potatoes and gravy can be at times.) The whole meal would revolve around me analyzing how I felt. "Did I just feel dizzy?" "Why did that guy just look at me?" "Am I allergic to this?". It was a nightmare. In October of 2004, 7 months after my sister died, I found out I was pregnant with Emma. Trevor and I were so excited. A couple of months later Trevor's work permit finally came through and we decided (well, mostly he decided) he should get a job. He got a job working in Lancaster. Lancaster is where my sister died. Lancaster is where I worked as well (but at the time I was working from home). Lancaster and I had issues. I was afraid to go there. I didn't want Trevor to go there because (wait for it....) "what if something bad happened to him? Those Lancaster paramedics killed my sister. They laughed at her while she died."  That's how I saw it. I'd be lying if I said I didn't still see it that way to some degree. I couldn't stand the thought of him driving all the way to Lancaster while I stayed home, so I asked my boss if I could come in to the office and work on the days when Trevor was working, and work from home the other times. He, of course said yes, because he was a really nice boss. On the days Trevor had to work during normal office hours at my office, I'd go into work and sit and do my job, with tremendous anxiety and effort. On the days that Trevor had to work late evenings or weekends, I would go to the mall where he worked and sit on the bench out front of his job for 8 hours and wait for him to finish. That carried on for three months. People at the mall probably thought I was the biggest weirdo ever, but I felt safer there than I did at home alone. I also felt bored, and ashamed, and dependent....and the list goes on. Sometimes, if my aunt wasn't busy on a Saturday, I'd go spend the day with her while Trevor worked. I felt safe there too, but she wasn't always home when Trevor had to work and  eventually, as I got more pregnant, the thought of sitting on that bench became less appealing. Instead of trying to stay home by myself while Trevor went to work like "normal" people do, I begged him to quit. So he did.  I carried on working from home, but even that became stressful. I worked in a mental health office. I had to type notes about people who had mental problems, from Bi-Polar, to anxiety, to depression, to schizophrenia. On the more severe cases, I'd sit and obsess if I would ever be like that. When I'd type notes about people with anxiety it made me panic because I was one of them. Everything I heard in those little head phones seemed to add to my problems. I couldn't just do my job without obsessing and analyzing everything I heard and typed. When Emma was born, my anxiety got better to some degree. I was forced to focus on something other than my "what if's" for once. I still couldn't be alone though, and I didn't dare let Trevor take Emma anywhere without me. Basically I just got new "what if" thoughts that included her. I started singing again and was fine as long as Trevor was with me. He was my "safe person". When Emma was born we decided we would eventually move to Australia. We put our house up for sale and when it finally sold, I was excited. I was ready to move. I saw it as a chance to escape my anxiety. Unfortunately, it didn't really stay behind as I had hoped. I created it, so it came with me. It was a lot better at first after we moved here. Well, I'm not sure if that statement is really true or not. I mean, Trevor was able to go get a job, and I was fine about that....but my mom came over with us and stayed for six months, so it's not like I was really alone. My anxiety was pretty good for that first six months. My mom, and Emma, and I walked over to the shops each day and I started taking Emma to story time at the library and a play group. After my mom went back, I had a few set backs, panicking when I would take Emma places. I ended up getting a cell phone so I could call Trevor whenever I wanted, and buying a car of my own so I didn't have to walk everywhere. It wasn't hard to adjust to driving on the wrong side of the road because I hadn't driven in 4 years! I made some friends and started inviting people around for "morning tea". I started taking Emma to kindergym and kept busy. Emma and I had a very busy social life.

To be continued...

My Anxiety Story -- Part 4 (The moment everything else revolves around)

A year after my dad died, I moved back home, well technically I moved to an apartment where my mom had just moved as well. It was right next door to where she worked (remember she doesn't drive) so it was easier for her to be closer to work. We still had our house, but we never lived there again. I continued to work weaving baskets, driving an hour everyday. On the 5th of October that year, (my dad's birthday) I didn't really feel like going in to work. I decided since I worked night shift, I'd stay up all night and randomly chat with people online. I was talking to this guy named Herman out in California when another person popped up and asked me a silly question about my profile. At first I thought he was weird, but then I started chatting to him and ended up chatting to him for hours that night. We then started emailing regularly and calling each other. Eventually we both sent videos to each other. After ten months of chatting, he flew over to meet me. I went to the airport by myself, really hoping that he wasn't a serial killer. Turns out he probably isn't one, either that or he's very slow. He stayed for nine days and it was wonderful. Then I decided I'd go see him. I'd never been on a plane before, but I got my passport and booked my tickets. Then September 11th happened and I thought for sure I'd chicken out, but less than a month later I was Sydney, Australia bound. Of course I'd picked a 20 hour flight for my very first time on a plane. People at home took bets on how long I'd be gone, whether I'd get to the airport in Texas and turn around and come back, or whether I'd make it the three months I was booked. Flying was AMAZING. I loved it. I made it there and stayed for six months instead of three.  When I got home I found a new job doing transcription in a mental health office. I loved it! Six months later, my mystery man moved to America, four months later we were engaged, and three months after that we were married. I'm still pretty sure Trevor isn't a serial killer. ;) We bought our first home in Ohio and had Christmas there that year. My sister, Carla came to our house for Christmas and we watched some home videos and she made fun of how absolutely ridiculous Trevor and I can be. It was great. I had been singing in a band for a year prior to this and had decided after Christmas that it was time to leave. My last day with the band was to be March 20th. On the 29th of March in the evening my mother-in-law called, she'd had a "bad feeling" and wanted to call us. After we got off the phone with her, I thought about calling my sister as I hadn't talked to her for a couple of weeks. For whatever reason, I didn't do it, probably thinking my mother-in-law is full of shit and there's no need to go calling everyone in case her bad feeling about something turned out to be true. The next morning I got up and went down to the office to start work (I was now working from home doing the transcription). At exactly 8:32 a.m. the phone rang, on the other end was someone from my mom's office at work. I immediately got panicky thinking something was wrong with her, but then she went on to say that my sister's best friend had called and that that Carla's heart had stopped and the EMT's were working on her. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach with a sledgehammer, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. I ran up the stairs yelling for Trevor to wake up and we drove to the dentist office to get my mom on the way to the hospital. The hospital was about 25 or 30 minutes drive and all the way I prayed that she would be okay, that her heart hadn't stopped, that if it had they'd got it going again. I remember saying out loud that everything was going to be okay, trying to calm my mom down. I was so sure we'd get to the hospital and Carla would be sitting up in a bed and apologize for scaring us all half to death. When we got there this nurse took us into a tiny room. I knew what that meant. I'd been in a room like this before. She was gone. We walked in and her best friend was sitting there and she confirmed what I already knew. My sister, the person whom I grew up with, and fought with, and told my secrets to, my 28-year-old sister was dead. My mom went outside, she couldn't stand to be in that little room. I asked Jackie (my sister's best friend) how it had happened and she said that Carla had called her out of breath and needed help and Jackie called an ambulance and then headed to her house. She sat there not being able to breathe while the EMT's rolled their eyes at her and told her she was hyperventilating and all she needed was a paper bag. She sat there scared wondering why they weren't helping her. She sat there not being able to breathe, until her heart stopped. The doctors said she had had a pulmonary embolism -- a blood clot in her lung. The funeral was hard. I just wanted to be alone to think, or cry, or both, but every time I'd try to get away, someone else would find me and come and talk to me. A week and a half after she died I was sitting down helping my mom make out thank you cards for the people who had sent flowers or food, and Jackie called. She had more information about how the EMT's had treated Carla. I felt shaky after that phone call and couldn't finish the cards. The next day Trevor took our dog for a walk and when he was gone I just started feeling weird. I can't really describe it any other way, just weird. When he got home I said I wanted to go get a cold drink from the shop down the road, water didn't sound good, I had to have Coke. On the way, all I could think of was how Jackie had mentioned that Carla said she had felt weird leading up to when she died. We went in to get the Coke out of the fountain, I took a drink and left it there and said "I've got to go to the hospital NOW". We drove to the ER and I told the doctor what had happened to her and how I felt really weird, so he did a blood test that will tell you if you have a clot or not. It came back I didn't and he gave me a prescription for some dizzy pills. I felt a lot better after I left. A few evenings later my mom was over at our house to finish up the thank you cards, as I sat down to do them I started feeling "funny" again. I was getting really dizzy and hot, my arms felt like they were on fire. I immediately jumped up and told Trevor and my mom that I needed to go to the ER, that something was terribly wrong with me. We got there and my heart was pounding so hard that when they put those little EKG stickers on me, I could feel them pulsating like they were jumping off of me. They gave me some Ativan to calm me down and then took me for a CT Scan. I had the same doctor that I had had a few days before and he wanted to just double check that there was nothing obvious. I calmed down after that, and then he came into the room and said "It's a blood clot in your lung". That was it. The pivotal moment. They kept me there for a week, doing every test they could think of. Every time someone would come into my room my heart rate would sky rocket, not just doctors, friends as well....everyone but Trevor and my mom. The blood doctor came in to talk to me and said I'd have to be on blood thinners for the rest of my life and I'd probably not be able to have children. I was on a full information overload. My sister had died of the same thing two weeks before, and now they're telling me I can't have children? At the end of that week, after exhausting every other test, including a drug test, they did another CT Scan. There was nothing there. They told me the first one was a "shadow on the scan". They kept me there for a week, all the while I"m on bed rest afraid to move a muscle for fear that this clot is going to move and kill me, and all th while there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with me. Before they released me, I asked the doctor, "Could this be an anxiety thing?" I knew about anxiety, I worked in a mental health clinic, I wanted him to say yes. I wanted that to be the end of it, but he said "I don't like to say things are anxiety and the symptoms don't really fit". That started the thinking, of "if it's not anxiety, what is it?"  I left the hospital and my heart rate would just randomly go up. I used to make Trevor take me to the hospital parking lot and play cards with me until I felt calm enough to go home. We were there outside that ER nightly for months. I couldn't drive anymore. He couldn't go anywhere without me or I would panic. I remember one time he had to go to an immigration interview by himself and I was home alone. I panicked as soon as his car was out of site. I had all of those feelings I had had in the hospital, so I called my mom and drove (very uncomfortably) to pick her up and bring her to my house. I could not be alone. I couldn't even think about being alone without feeling all of those scary body feelings -- dizziness, fast heart beat, being out of breath, feeling spacey. But still, I had no idea what was wrong with me. The doctor had said it didn't "fit" in with anxiety and so I certainly must have something wrong with my heart, or a brain tumor, or ovarian cancer, or.....the list went on. I was now a hypochondriac, analyzing every body symptom and making it into a new disease, something, anything to explain why I felt like this. I used to have Trevor check my pulse constantly. He had to say it was "real good" or I'd panic. If he said it was a little bit high, I would panic. I couldn't check it myself because as soon as I'd try, my heart rate would go up. One of my favorite things used to be going for drives, I didn't really like driving, but I loved riding in the car. Trevor and I used to go for drives in the country to try to get lost before the panic attacks started. After that, I was afraid to go very far from a hospital. As we drove, I'd obsess about "what if" this and "what if" that and if we would go into places, I'd plan my escape route. Suddenly, everything in my life revolved around being able to get to the hospital if I needed to. On the same token, I was afraid to actually go in the hospital because "what if they said I have a blood clot or heart condition and they're wrong", or even worse "what if they're right this time?"  I couldn't even go to the grocery store. I'd get in there and the fluorescent lights were too bright, looking at things on the shelves made me feel dizzy, and with every step I'd take toward those last aisles farthest away from the door, I was feeling more out of control -- "what if I pass out?" "What if I have a heart attack?" "What if it wasn't a shadow on the scan and I really do have a blood clot?" And so it went like that for months. Trevor would go and do the shopping, but I had to come too, and sit the car. If he took too long, I'd start to panic. We started reading things online about anxiety and panic attacks and found that I had every symptom, but in the back of my mind I heard that doctor say that my symptoms didn't "fit" with anxiety. I second guessed everything I read, everything I heard, everything I did.  I couldn't exercise, even going for a walk or walking up stairs was an impossible task -- back then it was because it made my heart rate go up, which made me think of that first panic attack that sent me to the ER, and I was also afraid of having a heart attack like my dad did.

This is where I'll leave it for now.

My Anxiety Story -- Part 3 (More ways my negative thinking did me no favors)

It would be really easy to jump the gun and just go straight to that first panic attack, the one that essentially started the cycle, but I feel like it's pretty important to give a bit of back story -- not necessarily for people who may read this, but for myself. This whole blog idea isn't really about coming clean to the world about the whole anxiety thing (although that is part of it to some degree) it's more about not hiding behind it anymore. I can remember the first time I felt panicky (not having a panic attack). It was when I was on the high dose of prednisone and one of the side effects was anxiety. I remember walking out into my dining room and on this one particular place on the floor it felt really hot. I remember yelling for my mom to come quick that I thought the basement was on fire. That's the first time I remember over reacting to something and feeling really fearful. What it actually was, was I was standing right over the hot water heater and I could feel the heat through the floor. I remember as a child feeling quite fearful of the end of the world. It seemed like every other month someone was predicting the world would end and it alway scared me. I don't really remember feeling anything other than a normal amount of anxiety until my best friend and I were in a car accident. I was in 11th grade and we were hit by a logging truck. I remember we were out job hunting during school hours, (with our parents permission). The night before my mom said it was fine, but that morning she said she didn't really want me to go, she had already written the note for me to leave school early, so I didn't listen to her and went anyway (I was a teenager, it happens. lol) We left school and headed out of town. We got to a four way stop and were trying to decide where to go for lunch and where to go to look for jobs. I suggested we go to McConnesville McDonalds, which had a little pier type thing on the river to sit and eat your food. We were driving and joking around that the car behind us was the principal coming to take us back to school. Then up ahead we saw this huge logging truck (minus the logs) and his trailer came on to our side of the road. He was obviously speeding. I remember saying something like "Oh shit" with a sigh of relief as it went back on to it's own side of the road. Unfortunately for us, it came back on our side again this time taking my friend's car with it. We flew into the air and landed in a field. My glasses flew off and I was pretty blind. I knew enough to know that I should really get out of the car in case it blew up. My door was jammed so I climbed over my friend and out his door which was pretty much hanging off after the impact. I tried to wake him up, but he wouldn't wake up. I lightly smacked him in the face and yelled his name (he used to joke that that is why he broke so many bones in his face). I ran for help and verbally abused who I thought was the driver. I remember not feeling any pain at all, but just not understanding why there were so many cars around and not one single person in those cars came to help him. Luckily there was a nursing home nearby and some of the nurses came down and stayed with him while I called our mom's. He spent a couple of weeks in the hospital and had some really bad injuries, but luckily he was fine. I had some chipped teeth, and pretty bad bruises, but nothing was broken. But as I got home and worried about whether my best friend was going to be okay, the guilt started in. "Why did I leave school when my mom had told me she had changed her mind and didn't want me to go?" "Why did I choose to go to McConnesville?" "If only I had chose to go somewhere else none of this would've happened" And so began a few months of blaming myself for the whole thing. If I had just stayed at school, he would never have been on that road and wouldn't have had to spend so long in the hospital, or walk on crutches, or have these horrible bruises on his face. Never once did I blame the idiot driver who was driving with tires that he knew had been flat for three hours, and brakes that had been disconnected which he also knew about. It was never my fault, but at the time -- for days, and weeks, and months I was convinced I was this horrible person who had nearly killed my friend. Again, it's that negative thinking pattern coming into play. I also developed a bit of a phobia of trucks. Earlier that school year in my life planning class, I had to make a book about what job I was going to have after school, strangely enough I wanted to be a trucker driver. Needless to say, getting hit by one changed my mind. I couldn't drive comfortably near trucks for a while, I'd always worry that they would hit my car. Eventually, it got easier to drive past trucks and it didn't phase me anymore.

After I graduated from high school, I eventually changed jobs (I should mention my friend and I decided we'd stay at the place we worked). I met a really good friend at my new job and we used to go out a lot...and drink (not legally as I was only 18 and in America the legal age is 21). We actually decided we'd move out of our homes and find an apartment to be closer to the bar....a very lame reason, but like I said, I was 18. So, we found a good apartment. It was hard moving out, but also exciting. I'd never really been away from home, other than a school trip to Washington DC in eighth grade, and a very short trip on a Greyhound bus to Florida with my soon to be roommate. My dad and I were very close, to the point that if he was home on the weekends, I wouldn't make plans to go anywhere with my friends, or my boyfriend because I'd rather spend time with him. I was a tomboy and loved doing outdoor things and going places on the weekends with him. My dad helped me move in to the apartment on February 28th. It was a Sunday. He bought me a new bed and helped me put it together. I noticed that he seemed to get quite sweaty as he was putting the bed together. It's very cold in February and I remember asking if he was okay and he (of course) said he was fine. (The man's answer to everything). We didn't have a phone at the apartment but that night both my roommate and I were feeling homesick so we drove to a payphone to call home, she talked to her mom, but the line at my parents house was busy (my dad was on the internet). I had to work the next day (March 1st), so I didn't get a chance to call home or stop in before my dad left for work. On the next day (March 2nd), I had an interview for a new job in Dresden, which was about an hour away from my house. When I got home I remember getting a piece of pizza out of the fridge and just starting to eat it when my Aunt and mom pulled into the driveway. I immediately knew something had to be wrong. They said something was wrong with my dad and we had to go to the hospital. We went and they put us in this tiny room and then they told us that he had died and that he was already at the funeral home and had never actually made it to the hospital. They had our doctor (who was also the coroner) call us while we sat in that tiny room and he told me that my dad had had a massive heart attack a couple of hours before, after stopping at the store on his way to work. He had went in and bought coffee and came back out and got in his truck and hadn't even put the keys in the ignition when it happened. Someone found him an hour and a half later. I remember it not sinking in. I just couldn't comprehend that he was gone. My mom was a mess and I was in shock, so I took it upon myself to call my sister and tell her, and then calling one of my other half sisters and telling her. I will never forget those phone calls. Soon after, the guilt started -- "If I would've stayed at home and not moved out this never would've happened" , "Why didn't I make him go to the doctor when he got sweaty putting that stupid bed together?" "Why did I move out to be close to a stupid bar?" When my dad died and the initial shock and guilt wore off, I was left with anger. I was beyond angry, not at my dad, at myself, at the world. I have never felt anger like that in my life. I literally felt like I could just go out and stab people.... I didn't obviously, but man did I feel like going on the attack. At the same time, I developed a very over protective feeling towards my mom. I've always loved my mom, but we were never as close while I was growing up as me and my dad. After dad died, I found myself calling my mom to talk and if she wouldn't answer, I'd freak out thinking something was wrong with her. My mom didn't have a driver's license, so it's not like she'd really be going anywhere. If she didn't answer, I'd drive all the way to New Lex to make sure she was okay. She always was, but it didn't stop the obsession. It got to the point that if I'd call her and her line was busy, I'd call other people who she might be talking to to make sure she was actually just talking to someone on the phone. (My fear was that something was wrong and she went to call for help and didn't make it, so the line was just busy because the phone was off the hook). Eventually the anger went away, and I was able to cope with my dad's death better. I still had my weird thing about my mom answering the phone though. I still didn't have panic attacks, just a very uneasy feeling of needing to make sure she was safe. I remember sometimes at work ( I worked night shift), I'd have this overwhelming urge to call and make sure she was okay, and sometimes the phone would wake her up, and other times she'd sleep through it. I'd have a hard time getting my work done if she didn't answer, constantly worrying something bad had happened. I've never had problems with my imagination. It's always worked a little too well.

Next up, Part 4 --- the lead up to the anxiety that has plagued me for the last nearly 8 years.

My Anxiety Story -- Part 2 (When the low self esteem started)

I thought before I delve into the root of that first panic attack, I'd start a bit earlier with how I came to have low self esteem. I was always a pretty outgoing kid. I had lots of friends through the first six years of my schooling. In fifth grade I auditioned for a class play and I made sure I auditioned for (and got) the lead. I liked to be seen and heard. Public speaking was no big deal at all. The summer after fifth grade, I started getting sick. I was losing weight and the doctors didn't know why. Eventually, my doctor admitted me to the hospital where I was poked and prodded and starved half to death on liquid diets, but my spirits remained high. I was a jokester and I often had the nurses laughing, even when I felt really really awful. Soon, the doctors were pretty sure I had Crohn's Disease. They sent me off to Children's Hospital for a colonoscopy when I was eleven and the results were, in fact, Crohn's. Being told you have a disease at eleven, when "disease" was such a scary word, would be enough to shake anyones confidence, but I wasn't worried. I was carefree and silly and the word didn't really scare me that much. But what happened next changed my life (as I knew it) and I believe, it contributed to some of the anxiety issues, and trust issues I have to this day. My doctor put me on the steroid, Prednisone. I felt GREAT! I had so much energy that I was cleaning my house from top to bottom, scrubbing floors, making noodles from scratch, and constantly doing something. It was wonderful. Unfortunately though, the dose she put me on was extremely high --- 50mg and it was a long term thing. I started sixth grade, still super skinny and bony but feeling great on this medicine that was making me feel well again, no longer having horrible stomach pains and vomiting every time I tried to eat. Within a few weeks though, the side effects kicked in -- I gained water weight and my face ballooned up (facial mooning they called it....mine was bigger than any moon I'd ever seen). The teasing started instantly. I definitely found out who my true friends were and let me tell you, there weren't many. I went from being well known and liked by most people, to having a circle of about three friends. Kids constantly stared and pointed and would make comments about me looking like a chipmunk. That's when my self esteem went from pretty high to virtually non-existent. My grades didn't suffer at all, but my personality did. I went from loving the limelight to hiding behind everyone, hoping not to be noticed for fear that the teasing would continue. That old saying about sticks and stones definitely doesn't apply when you are eleven. When I started seventh grade, it was all much the same, only now there were more kids to make fun of me. Eventually, I was taken off the prednisone and my face came back to a more normal size, but the damage was done. I had already been teased relentlessly and had no desire to talk to most of the people I went to school with, even those who didn't make fun of me. I still had my small circle of friends but for the most part, I am pretty sure quite a few people don't even know I went to the same school as them, because I faded into the background and gladly accepted that label of "shy". I floated through high school, never trying to make new friends, not putting myself out there for anything, not playing sports, or joining anything that would require me to ever be put into focus. I wasn't happy, mind you, I still watched the beautiful people and longed to be one of them. I still wanted to fit in, but I didn't try to. I'm sure some people could just get over the teasing and get back to a place where they were comfortable, make new friends, and all of that, but I couldn't or didn't for whatever reason. To me, that year, that event, losing all of my friends because of how I looked, is really what set me up for my future problems with anxiety. I listened to what the kids said about me being fat and ugly, I believed it and I took it with me into everything I did. It became my excuse not to do things, not to put myself out there, because "what if" people made fun of me again. "What If" is the anxious person's catch phrase. Although, I didn't have panic attacks then, the events of that year, or more likely the way I dealt with (or didn't deal with) those events is what set me up to start second guessing myself by starting things with "What If". I desperately wanted to be in Drama Club and sing in front of people and be in plays, but the negative thought cycle started "what if I'm not pretty enough?", "what if I'm not good enough and I don't get a part in the play?", "What if people laugh at me?", "What if I'm not a very good singer?" So, I never tried. I let my thoughts take the lead and I didn't even try. I guess I'm starting to see that maybe the low self esteem came first and started my negative thought patterns which eventually led to my problems with Anxiety.

My Anxiety Story -- Part 1 (Why you didn't suspect I was anxious)

Many people reading this (assuming I actually go public) probably don't realize that I have Anxiety Disorder. It's not really something I share freely with people. The reason for that is, that once upon a time not so long ago, after I moved to the land of Oz, I did share it with someone while I was having a particularly embarrassing public (as in, someone other than my hubby witnessed it) panic attack in front of said person, and not long after that I was dropped from that social circle, never to be called or invited to things again. That was a tough pill to swallow. It was exactly the kind of reaction I feared the most -- having anxiety made me undesirable to be around. I haven't always had problems with anxiety. (In "Part 2", I'll explain more where my anxiety started.) I used to think people who were depressed and/or anxious were just self centered and generally unhappy. I didn't understand depression at all. I thought people should just "snap out of it". It made no sense to me that people could be so miserable all of the time. I used to feel like those people had a "choice" and they were "choosing" to be unhappy. Obviously now I know how wrong I was. But, I wasn't alone in that thinking. I couldn't have been because it was was obvious the instant that aforementioned "friend" witnessed by moment of panic, that she thought I was an insane head case. I've had good friends whom I've told about my anxiety laugh in my face when I said I wasn't able to go into the shop to buy bread because I had a panic attack, which is another reason I keep it under wraps.  I don't tell people because I want people to like me. That sounds kind of stupid when I admit it out loud. I'm not in high school anymore so the time for caring if the perfectly plastic Barbie doll types like me has long since passed. Unfortunately, with anxiety comes horribly low self esteem -- or maybe the low self esteem comes first. Either way, I find myself constantly dissecting conversations and over analyzing what I said or what I did or what they said and did, or did I say the right thing or did I say something that might make them think something bad about me. It's exhausting and lately I've come to realize that not everyone is going to like me and if they don't, that's okay! The most important thing I've realized lately though, is that by hiding my anxiety from people, I'm allowing it to stay with me and control me. I came along way with my anxiety when I moved to Australia. I think part of that was that I told myself I'd be better once I escaped my problems. (I ran away).  But lately, I've let it creep back in and become a problem again. I'm no longer willing to hide it away so people will like me. I'm nearly 32-years-old and I don't really care if the perfectly groomed school mother's, or the ones constantly bragging about their possessions, or how great their children are, or how much better they are than me at music, want to be my friend or not. So I'm here to tell you, I have Panic Attacks. It's my choice to say it out loud, and what you do with that information is your choice.

United States of Crystal?

Sometimes I feel like I've got all of these different people living inside me. No, I don't mean that I'm my own version of United States of Tara. I mean that I feel like I have all of these versions of myself that I share with different people. I have the "general public" me -- that's the one that will smile and say hello but then more than likely say nothing else because that me is "shy". That one is probably the least like the real "me". Then we have the "acquaintance me" -- pretty much the same as the general public me, but I may from time to time join in your conversation before running out of acceptable "acquaintance" things to say. We also have the "around people who are kind of my friends" me -- the humor starts to come out a bit more but I still have my guard up on the important topics. Next up is the "friends and family who don't live in my house" me -- This is the more fun version of me, it's the me that is reasonably close to the Crystal that I really am. When I'm with my real friends (by real, I mean people who I feel super comfortable with) I am able to be silly and goofy and not care so much about what other people are thinking of me. I'm able to talk about some in depth things, but mostly keep things light and humorous. (No, these different "me's" don't have names like "Buck" or "Alice" ) Then there's the "BFF's and Immediate Family" me -- This is the me that my closest friend(s) see. The me that can be funny, but also super serious. This is the version of myself that can include the best parts of me but also the very worst parts. Let's face it, we all share the worst parts of ourselves with the people we should be saving the best parts for. The truth is with my best friend(s) and husband, and mother I can share most everything. They know my darkest secrets, they see me at my best, and they see me at my very worst. You'd think that would be all the "me's" there are, right? Wrong. The two most important "me's" are left. We have the me that I am, the one that is wrapped up in my thoughts, the one that is all mine, the parts of me I don't share with anyone.The one that I struggle to change. Last but not least is the me I want to be -- the person who doesn't care what bad things people are thinking about me, the one who can be honest about every part of me, with every person I meet, the one that isn't afraid to take chances and try new things, the one that is content with just being. My hope is that this new blog will help bring all of those parts together into one, so when I go out I'm not battling with the different versions, I'm just ME. :-)