As per before, I want to start this post with saying, if you think this is fake, cruel, crass or insensitive, please don't read on and don't leave nasty comments. Please.
I had gotten to the point where my parents were obviously noticing a change. I had begun wearing a rubber band around my wrist, snapping it back against my skin whenever I thought about the anxiety. I lied through my teeth to my mother, told her I was fine and just feeling a little overwhelmed. I promptly left the room because I knew if I stayed, I was going to explode from nerves and tell her everything, why I wasn't sleeping, what I was scared of and what I was thinking about doing. I went to my room and instantly just burst into tears. This was too big for me. I couldn't handle it on my own. I had been snapping the rubber band so much lately there were red welts on my wrist. I was aware that this one step up from biting my nails and one step closer to cutting.
I waited until after my dad had gone to bed, only because I didnt feel like he would understand. My mom and I have a special bond. My dad worked alot when I was a kid and we spent several weekends together when I was little. I knew I could tell her literally anything. But this, this was something I didnt know how to talk about, because I had never really even let myself think it through. We sat down and I simply stared at the couch, errantly pulling the rubber band on my wrist. Finally I blurted it out.
"Mom I think there's something wrong with me." Her face changed instantly and I was waiting for her to answer me, but knowing just what to do, she simply sat there and waited for me to explain further. Know the feeling where you can't get enough air? Like there is literally someone just pressing on your chest, and your mouth is so dry you can't even imagine talking. I took a few deep breaths and started to cry again, hard sobs this time and everything came out, whether it was understandable or not. I waited again for her to write it off, call me crazy, or be severely disappointed. But she wasn't. In fact, I'll never forget her reply. She simply blinked, because seeing me cry had made her tear up and said, "Okay. What are we going to do about it?" The fact that she had said we, not me, not you, we, made me feel a fraction better. First of all, she took the dreaded rubber band and threw it out. Then we started talking. Why I was overwhelmed. Where had I heard about cutting? Was I scared and that answer was a very resolute 'Hell Yes!' she nodded again and let me tell her all about how terrified i had been for the past month and she didnt say anything. She didnt have to.
She let me stay home from school the next day and called my doctor through the emergency line. After assuring the man on the phone that I was not dying, nor suicidal, he directed her to a therapist I could talk to and we were on our way. I was actually more scared of telling the therapist than I had been of my mom. I'm very private. I was afraid she was going to judge me. Judge my thoughts and think I was a mentally disturbed teenager. Instead she gave me a quiz. A depression quiz she called it and made me rate my answers one to five depending on how strongly or weakly these things applied to me. I tried to answer as honestly as possible and waited for her to tell me something. She finished the test and wrote a few more words down on the paper and then turned to me. The test had given her nothing she said, I was right in the middle, neither depressed nor one hundred percent mentally sound. Telling that to a terrified teenage girl, who has issues controlling things, wasn't exactly the smartest ideas. What came next though was worst. She gave me a list. A pamphlet more like and it listed all of the signs of teenage depresion. ALLLLL of the signs. As in lack of focus, lack of appetite, suicidal thoughts, drawing away from friends. (I was losing my friends as it were at this time, we were growing apart, one of them too pushy and one of them too focused on her studies to notice what was going on) She told me to take the pamphlet home and hang it up somewhere. If I ever found myself slipping into any of these behaviors, I was supposed to call her and leave a message. (What was a message supposed to do?) And then made an appointment with my mom two weeks later, saying I wasnt so bad that I would need immediate help and two weeks was the best she could do.
I think, I was expecting some kind of automatic gratification after speaking to the therapist. I assumed it would just get better because of the therapist, but for some reason I had to throw the damn pamphlet away.
The week before, when I was trying to get out of this phase I had signed up to collect charity money at a basketball game that night. It was for my school's National Honor Society and if you shirk a duty you had previously signed up for without a written cause, you would recieve a demerit. At this point, it felt like this was the only thing I could control and I was adamant about going. I was almost ravenous in need to do what people expected because I didn't feel like I was anything special. My grades were good, but my friend was number one in our class. I had been a cute kid, but was in the late awkward stage where you start getting curves and boobs and a butt, and I was scandalized with the extra fat my body suddenly had. Plus, I just couldnt seem to make myself date. I couldnt see myself with anyone yet, and it made me feel like I was wrong in a way, because I didnt want to be with someone. So by doing what people expected, it made me, reliable I guess, and I wasn't going to let that go. So I go. And I suddenly realize i had made a big mistake. Like i had said before, my class is small, but with everyone there, it was hot, loud and overbearing. It was the middle of December and yet I could feel myself sweating under my hoodie.
There was a police man standing by the door to keep people from pushing and shoving out and in the doors. A single thing popped into my head and it terrifed me. I saw myself just going crazy, jumping over the table and grabbing his gun. I dropped my charity bucket and felt myself go into full out panic mode. Had I really just??? Wasn't that one of the things on the list??? My friend could see that I had gone stark white, and asked me if I was okay. I was able to shake my head and then run to the bathroom before puking up my dinner. After that, I went outside, straight into the December cold without a jacket and just started to cry. I knew I had to compose myself though, because I was collecting for another hour. Reliable. I had to stay reliable. So I put a smile on my face, wiped my cheeks and walked back into the school.
If you are reading this, thank you. I hope it can help you like it is helping me.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Welcome All
Hey computer screens out there!
Have you heard of the word ANXIETY? In a dictionary it is defined as: A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. If you've ever suffered from anxiety attacks though, it feels a lot worse than the textbook definition. Trust me, I know. In 2010, I began suffering from severe, severe anxiety and panic attacks. This is a type of closure for me; to get it all out there, and hopefully if anyone comes across this and it helps them with their own anxiety issues, than that's awesome! I'm going to be putting in some of my worst attacks, what brought them on and how I look at them now. If anyone thinks I am being crass or cruel or insensitive, I'm sorry. This is how I handle. Without further ado: The Trials (my friend so aptly named the time period of my life because I'm a huge history dork. 1692?)
I was and still am, a painfully shy person. I grew up an only child, but with a huge, often loud extended family. Which meant, if you weren't outgoing, you didn't speak until you were about six or seven when you learned to yell. I was never a temper tantrum type of child, but with that came a crippling nervousness that hit me whenever I was unsure of myself (Which was a lot!!!). However, I was able to deal with it and throw it off a lot of the time. I went to a small school, with a graduating class of just over sixty, the type where you've known everybody since you were about seven. It's hard to stay a lonely in a class that small so I had a little group of people I hung out with.
The fall of 2010 was when It started. It was simple enough. It was the first time I'd really been stressed, thinking about college, life, grades and the fact that I was still single. I wasn't sleeping well. I'd fall asleep and toss and turn, waking up every couple of hours for no reason. This was manageable. I started drinking chammomile tea before bed and that helped for awhile. Then, I began to get shaky. Just in my hands, and slight enough that I could shake them out and be fine. It started creeping up though, to where it felt like I had creepy crawlies on my wrists and lower arms. I continued to try and ward them off by shaking or stretching out my arms over my head. Along with all of these, there was a type of, nagging feeling in my stomach, where you know something bad might happen, but you don't kow what. I'd heard about cutting from one of my friends who read, cherished and adored Ellen Hopkins. I tried reading them at her insistance, but never got very far, they were too dark, depressing and angsty for me. (I'd promised myself when I was younger that I was not going to be an angsty teenager. The idea apalled me, and I hated the idea of mopey people.) However, the disturbing idea of actually harming yourself stuck with me. I started having nightmares about it, the idea of cutting to make your problems go away. It was a new concept to me. I'd never even FATHOMED something like that, ever. I was a bit of a naive girl even into my teenage years. I began researching. Big mistake. I found out that several things, like chewing nails, picking at scabs and scratching zits (all of which I did) are all forms of self mutilation. I was terrified of myself. This was when the worst started. You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and you're at the top of the hill, staring down at the precipise? That's how I felt. Like I had already boarded the coaster by biting nails, I had to ride it out and feel the worst.
The shaking got worse. I had to shake out my hands all the time, several times. My knees would twitch, and my feet would tap constantly. It became impossible to sit still. I was always moving, always going, always thinking. If anyone has ever been there, you know the feeling. How weary, tired and just pure exhausted it makes you feel. I was now only sleeping a few hours at a time, snatched pockets where I wasn't thinking and wasnt worrying. My parents started noticing a difference. I was irritable, tired, and prone to crying at the drop of a hat. My mother, whom I'd always been very, very close with sat me down and asked what was going on. My first thought was embarrasment. I was embarrased that I'd thought about cutting myself, because I wanted to be a strong person, stronger than giving in to something like that, and I simply told her I was feeling a little overwhelmed.
Wow, I've already written a lot and this isnt even the worst. Please, if you read this and think its utter crap, or fake, please don't leave a comment and don't read any further then. It's my way of coping, by getting all of these memories out of my head and out for someone to read. If no one reads it, oh well. If someone does and it helps them. Then that's great and I'm glad I can help.
Have you heard of the word ANXIETY? In a dictionary it is defined as: A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. If you've ever suffered from anxiety attacks though, it feels a lot worse than the textbook definition. Trust me, I know. In 2010, I began suffering from severe, severe anxiety and panic attacks. This is a type of closure for me; to get it all out there, and hopefully if anyone comes across this and it helps them with their own anxiety issues, than that's awesome! I'm going to be putting in some of my worst attacks, what brought them on and how I look at them now. If anyone thinks I am being crass or cruel or insensitive, I'm sorry. This is how I handle. Without further ado: The Trials (my friend so aptly named the time period of my life because I'm a huge history dork. 1692?)
I was and still am, a painfully shy person. I grew up an only child, but with a huge, often loud extended family. Which meant, if you weren't outgoing, you didn't speak until you were about six or seven when you learned to yell. I was never a temper tantrum type of child, but with that came a crippling nervousness that hit me whenever I was unsure of myself (Which was a lot!!!). However, I was able to deal with it and throw it off a lot of the time. I went to a small school, with a graduating class of just over sixty, the type where you've known everybody since you were about seven. It's hard to stay a lonely in a class that small so I had a little group of people I hung out with.
The fall of 2010 was when It started. It was simple enough. It was the first time I'd really been stressed, thinking about college, life, grades and the fact that I was still single. I wasn't sleeping well. I'd fall asleep and toss and turn, waking up every couple of hours for no reason. This was manageable. I started drinking chammomile tea before bed and that helped for awhile. Then, I began to get shaky. Just in my hands, and slight enough that I could shake them out and be fine. It started creeping up though, to where it felt like I had creepy crawlies on my wrists and lower arms. I continued to try and ward them off by shaking or stretching out my arms over my head. Along with all of these, there was a type of, nagging feeling in my stomach, where you know something bad might happen, but you don't kow what. I'd heard about cutting from one of my friends who read, cherished and adored Ellen Hopkins. I tried reading them at her insistance, but never got very far, they were too dark, depressing and angsty for me. (I'd promised myself when I was younger that I was not going to be an angsty teenager. The idea apalled me, and I hated the idea of mopey people.) However, the disturbing idea of actually harming yourself stuck with me. I started having nightmares about it, the idea of cutting to make your problems go away. It was a new concept to me. I'd never even FATHOMED something like that, ever. I was a bit of a naive girl even into my teenage years. I began researching. Big mistake. I found out that several things, like chewing nails, picking at scabs and scratching zits (all of which I did) are all forms of self mutilation. I was terrified of myself. This was when the worst started. You know that feeling when you're on a roller coaster and you're at the top of the hill, staring down at the precipise? That's how I felt. Like I had already boarded the coaster by biting nails, I had to ride it out and feel the worst.
The shaking got worse. I had to shake out my hands all the time, several times. My knees would twitch, and my feet would tap constantly. It became impossible to sit still. I was always moving, always going, always thinking. If anyone has ever been there, you know the feeling. How weary, tired and just pure exhausted it makes you feel. I was now only sleeping a few hours at a time, snatched pockets where I wasn't thinking and wasnt worrying. My parents started noticing a difference. I was irritable, tired, and prone to crying at the drop of a hat. My mother, whom I'd always been very, very close with sat me down and asked what was going on. My first thought was embarrasment. I was embarrased that I'd thought about cutting myself, because I wanted to be a strong person, stronger than giving in to something like that, and I simply told her I was feeling a little overwhelmed.
Wow, I've already written a lot and this isnt even the worst. Please, if you read this and think its utter crap, or fake, please don't leave a comment and don't read any further then. It's my way of coping, by getting all of these memories out of my head and out for someone to read. If no one reads it, oh well. If someone does and it helps them. Then that's great and I'm glad I can help.
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