The One Where I Bare My Soul

In honor of Mother’s Day, I have decided to bare my soul. This is a difficult subject, and I usually only speak about it with certain people.

Women are expected to be and do so much. That expectation can be crippling for some, which is one of the reasons I wanted to write this.

If you learn nothing else, I hope you learn that there is always more to the story. Always more to the woman. There is ALWAYS something you don’t know. It is unfair to judge when you don’t know all of the facts.

I am so guilty of this. I accuse and excuse for different people and myself all day long, but the reality is that anytime people make a judgment about me, I want to stand up and yell that they don’t know enough to say anything. By the same token, I need to keep my thoughts kind and my trap shut, because I am just as ignorant of the personal details of their lives.

Maybe we should talk more. Not so we can more appropriately judge with adequate information, but so we can be more compassionate. More information should mean more understanding, because we’ve all been in a dark place at different times.

This post focuses on my experiences with anxiety. Sure, it sounds like a made up condition… but it isn’t. If it isn’t something you experience, I hope it helps you to think of the people you know who may struggle. If it is something you experience, I hope it helps you feel more normal and less alone. No matter who you are, I hope it inspires some sense of self-love. We are all amazing humans.

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I’ve always been a touch skeptical about the effectiveness of drugs, and no, it has nothing to do with Big Pharma conspiracies. It’s more of a shaky disbelief that something as simple as a liquid dose, pill, or tablet can address symptoms of illness. Witchcraft, the lot of it. Of course, I was raised by my mother, whose basic philosophy entailed the notion that medicine only gets involved if an ailment can’t be cured with water, sleep, or a solid threat against our lives and privileges.

Several years ago, I was introduced to Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. It was not the first time I had heard of it, obviously, but it was the first time I got a real look at a real condition. I felt so much compassion, which contrasted entirely with my so-called previous experience: the “over-diagnosed” kids at school who proudly declared themselves victims who could not help themselves. I hated those kids. As an adult, I can look back and see kids who sincerely could not help themselves, and I’m not only referring to the symptoms of their conditions. How on earth is a child supposed to cope maturely with a mental illness, especially in the face of adolescent scrutiny? I guess we all wished we could blame ourselves on something.

Anyway, the symptoms of ADD and ADHD resonated with me. Honestly, it made me emotional as I researched. I began to wonder if maybe I had an undiagnosed disorder, so I made an appointment to discuss it with my doctor.

The appointment was less than satisfactory.

It would seem that my age, gender, and circumstances in life ruled out the likelihood that I was being serious. My doctor, who I’m sure meant well, basically told me that a lot of college kids like me wanted to get their hands of ADHD drugs for heightened performance. I protested that I was not one of those kids, but he was firm. Instead, he diagnosed me with “anxiety” and sent me home with a prescription for an anti-anxiety pill.

Oh, please. You can’t seriously think I’m delusional, doc. Whatever “anxiety” is, I guess you can take medicine for it. It sounded like a load of garbage, but I gave it a chance.

I began taking the medicine. I did notice that I was emotionally calmer about the class I was taking at the time (a very intense summer Pathophysiology course). However, the side effects of the drug were terrible for me, so I quit taking it after a few weeks and rationalized that I had coped for so long, I could just keep on the same way.

I have been coping for years.

In the time since, my anxiety has intensified. Or maybe life has intensified, and I am just better able to recognize the symptoms. Whatever the case may be, it is particularly terrible during pregnancy.

Flashback: Late Summer, 2014. I am a stay-at-home-mom with a 16 month old daughter and a 1 year old puppy. I am expecting a baby, due January 2015. Also, I am angry ALL. THE. TIME. Well, maybe not all the time, but fits of uncontrollable rage were lurking around every corner. Who might you guess received the brunt of my aggression? Yup. The poor dog. He was a big boy, and I honestly probably never actually hurt him because I know I don’t hit very hard. But ANY little thing he did… knock my baby over with his tail, chew a rag to shreds, pee on the floor, hit the back door too much trying to tell me he wanted back inside when I let him out… anything. I was furious. If he was within range, I would smack his back near his tail. He was never aggressive in return. He always just looked at me like I had hurt his feelings. I wonder now if that look was also meant to say that he knew I was hurting. Dogs are intuitive like that.

It wasn’t long before I knew he couldn’t stay. He deserved a home where his family would love him enough to treat him right. We were struggling financially at the time (when aren’t we though? #moneyisstupid), so it was fairly easy to play it off that we couldn’t afford to feed him anymore. I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, admit to anyone that my main reason for rehoming him was that I couldn’t control my temper, that his very presence stressed me out, and that it felt good to hit him. I am not ashamed of finding him a loving new home, but I miss him every single day. I’d like to apologize to him again for being such a tyrant.

Back to present day: Late Spring, 2016. Again, I am expecting a baby, this time in November. I have a beautiful 3 year old daughter and a 16 month old son. And again, I am angry…so much of the time. I want so badly to control it when it happens that my best attempts look like some manic plea to myself to not be overwhelmed. My words make no sense. For example, I could ask my daughter to do something and be met with a sassy, “No”. My response will be to yell, like a crazy person, that she better do what I say. Then, she’s in tears. I respond with a calmer voice asking her to do it again. Then I yell. Then I apologize. Then I bite my tongue and try not to speak. And then I yell again.

All while she’s just standing there and crying.

Ask me if I think that’s healthy. Go ahead. Ask me.

I had my first prenatal appointment a couple of weeks ago and made absolutely certain to ask if there were any options for treatment for anxiety during pregnancy. I was afraid to come right out and ask for medicine, because who wants to be that person? Besides, I had already been shut down by one doctor who thought I was looking for an easy hit. Blessed woman that she it, my doctor immediately asked me how I was feeling, what my thoughts were about the causes of my anxiety, and proposed a few different drug options. I took my first dose that night.

I was not expecting to notice a difference for at least 2-3 weeks. But then, I missed a dose. And then another.

Two missed doses. That’s all it took for Armageddon to rain down on my mind, my willpower, my soul, my children, my husband, and my home.

I knew within 10 minutes of waking this past Monday that is was going to be a very hard day. I could feel the little person who lives in my mind trying so hard to grab the wheel and regain control. It was veering wildly off course. My children ate their breakfast at the table (after getting yelled at by me to “get out of my way”, “get out of the kitchen”, “hush already”, and “quit whining”. I ate my breakfast on the kitchen floor, directly on the other side of the wall from the table. I needed the space. And they seemed to know it…

One child was extra hungry for attention in the form of crying every. single. time. I left his presence. 

The other child let me know how much she cared by challenging my authority at every turn while simultaneously insisting that I hold her and snuggle all day.

I know what makes me feel better! Accomplishment. So I quickly tidied up the living room, wiped the table, swept, and stacked the overflowing laundry baskets on the couch. It felt good to accomplish something, and I mentally closed down my to-do list for the day since I had already exceeded expectations.

Except my mind still didn’t have control of the wheel.

I yelled at my kids all day. I forced my daughter down for a nap with virtually zero affection. I was an angry robot with zero feeling. I felt empty inside. The only emotion I felt was guilt for how I was treating my kids every time they irritated me.

I pushed them out the door that afternoon for a quick trip to the grocery store with my husband. I thought a little bit of time to myself would reset the day. I even caught a little nap. SURELY I could enjoy the rest of the day with my family… WRONG.

I was losing my mind. Everything set me off. Everything that needed to be done felt like an anvil settling deeper on whatever part of the brain controls motivation. I could not function.

Thankfully, I was able to escape for the evening with a friend and blow off some steam while we spoke about the many horrible things we had been thinking all day long about our kids—the kinds of things you don’t admit to thinking about if you don’t want CPS knocking on your door. She gets me though. And I get her. We really don’t hate our kids. We love them too much, and there doesn’t seem to be enough brain capacity to compute that into our mental struggles. That’s my technical description, anyway.

At a glance, this is basically what it looks like for me during any or all episodes:

·        Sudden rage

·        Sudden emotional tantrums/mood swings

·        Lost sleep as I lay there agonizing over every word spoken and every social exchange from the previous day

·        Difficulty counting my blessings or acknowledging the good parts of life. My focus shifts heavily toward the negative, and it is hard to reign it in.

·        A debilitating lack of motivation to accomplish tasks around my house, run errands, or fulfill obligations

·        A severe dislike for answering the phone, making phone calls, and often, returning texts. I will usually procrastinate until the point is moot.

·        Intense loneliness that leads me to wonder if anyone actually likes me for who I am because I have a hard time being completely myself when I’m with others.

·        A conflicting desire to simultaneously be social and hide in my house and never see anyone.

·        Rabbit holes. My thoughts take worrisome journeys they ought not to take, and the way back is long and trippy.

I am back on the medicine again. It doesn’t make life perfect and rainbowy, but it establishes a basis of normal for me. It helps me to not turn into a raging lunatic whenever anything amiss takes place.

This morning, my husband was proposing a couple of different options for silencing our noisy and mischievous son. His deadpan delivery was intended to be humorous, and before I even had time to chuckle, the baby boy managed to reach his sister’s cup on the counter and pour water all over his head, body, and the floor.

I laughed. And then I cleaned it up.

I did not yell. I did not cry. I did not hit the wall because life is so unfair.

I laughed.

I do not like to refer to anxiety as a mental illness. I know that it technically is, but the stigma is still a thing, and I don’t like to label myself as ill. I prefer to consider it an opportunity to improve my mental health, which is something that everyone can do for themselves in some way or another. It isn’t even that I don’t believe in invisible illnesses. Heaven knows I have plenty of experience with Ulcerative Colitis. The only time anyone knows I’m feeling bad with that is if they happen to be present when I run through the house screaming, “I need to poop NOW!”. Lucky them.

I think my reluctance stems from coping without self-awareness or help for so long. I can reflect on my life experiences and identify red flags, but seriously, I just dealt with it. I thought it was just my personality. Part of me still wants to just deal with it. I don’t want people to think I am a hypochondriac. I don’t want people to think I’m a whiner. I don’t want people to think I can’t deal with life.

It’s hard to not care what people think about me.

Don’t think for a moment that I don’t love myself. I adore myself. But I am hard to live with, and sometimes I wish I could live in someone else’s head for a while so that I could have better company up there. ;) But that being said, I don’t believe in trading trials. My trials are mine, and they are meant to help me grow into the daughter Heavenly Father wants me to be. My best self will be achieved on the backs of these challenges, and I am aiming high.

My purpose for writing this was mostly therapeutic, however, I’m not convinced there is enough conversation about this. For so long I excused my symptoms as personality quirks and defects. I didn’t realize they could be helped. I most definitely do not write to justify anything. I’m not even a little bit ashamed of taking medicine. The word I would use is astonishment—it is hard to believe the difference in my quality of life. Or maybe it’s a confession. This is why I’m a horrible friend. But there I go justifying things.

If you suspect AT ALL that you are regularly experiencing symptoms of anxiety, I encourage you to seek help.

I read an interesting analogy the other day. Drugs for certain mental health issues are frequently referred to by some naysayers as a “crutch” for the patient. This implies that if the patient would just get it together, they could learn to “walk” without it. The analogy basically states: “Would you rather drag your leg through the dirt, bloody and broken, or would you accept the help of a crutch?”

The correct answer for me is: Yes. Yes I would. I need it so that I can truly give every day my best shot. It certainly doesn’t turn me into Mary Poppins (would that it could!), but if I am going to try to be my very best self for myself—and for my family—I have to accept the help being offered by my little, white, round, crutch.

The little driver who lives in my head thanks me.

“When He says to the poor in spirit, “Come unto me”, He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up.”
Jeffery R. Holland