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.
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