Victories

I have a friend, S, who also suffers from Panic and Anxiety Disorder. In fact, I met her in a PAD support group over ten years ago. It turned out our children went to the same school at the time. Hers were in upper primary school and my elder child was in Year 3.

About eighteen months ago I had a long visit with S at her house and it was then that the idea for this blog was born. We had so much fun comparing notes and laughing at ourselves and our rituals that I was sure other people with the same condition might benefit from an on-line discussion of what it's like to have PAD.

PAD has manifested itself differently in the two of us. Mine tends to be cyclic. I go through periods where I'm as "normal" as I'm ever going to be; I go out and about with ease. Then something triggers a setback and I can barely walk out my front door without intense anxiety. I then spend months to years clawing my way back to my "normal". S has rarely had gaps in her PAD. It's something she's had to deal with on a daily basis for quite a number of years with no break, despite treatment. Furthermore, I like to be out and about either alone or with close family. That way, if I have a panic attack I can hit the ground running and get out of wherever I am without having to give an explanation or excuse. S, on the other hand, feels safer being with other people - ones she's close to who know about her issues. Up until recently that did not include her daughters; she didn't want to saddle them with mum having a panic attack.

The other day, I ran into S at the local shops. She was there with her daughter and new grandson. S told me that, when her daughter was pregnant, she decided that she needed to be able to go out with her daughter so she could better enjoy the whole grandmother experience. Once she felt safe with that daughter, however, it extended to her younger daughter, as well. S was really proud of herself as she told me this; it was obvious how much it had enhanced her life. Going shopping and having a coffee with either of my children is something I thoroughly enjoy. Now S can relish the experience, as well. It's also really helpful for her daughter to have S there when she takes the baby shopping. I shared S's joy and was very proud of her, too.

With PAD small victories can lead to other small victories. S also told me that she wants to reduce and eventually stop anti-anxiety medication. The victory of going out with her daughters has given her the confidence to take the medication step. I haven't taken anti-anxiety meds (yet) but I understand they are difficult to come off of so I applaud her decision and am proud of her for that, as well. The issue isn't whether or not she goes off her meds, it's that she's currently got the confidence to try. Confidence is in short supply in the personality of a PAD sufferer.

I wish her all the best and look forward to catching up again, preferably one day when she's looking after her charming grandbaby!

Being Kind to Oneself

How many times have we heard or said the expression, “Be kind to yourself”? We say it a lot to each other. I used to think it meant doing something or not doing something. For example, having a massage or not doing a particular chore. Let’s face it, though, we’re busy and sometimes stressed people who don’t always have the time or money for a massage or the luxury of letting things pile up, only to have more to do later. I realised recently – quite by accident – that being kind to oneself can mean something entirely different, simpler and more powerful.

Being a parent can be wonderfully rewarding. I have quite a collection of handmade gifts and cards in childish scrawl declaring undying love for me. For a time, however, those expressions of love can be few and far between. That time is known as the “teenage years”. Some children never stop being both physically and verbally affectionate; others fight strongly to separate themselves from their parents to create their own identities. The latter can leave a parent feeling lost, grieving, undervalued and unappreciated. Then parenting can feel thankless. I mean that literally. There are few “thank yous” and little appreciation. There are other situations that can create the same feelings. People prone to anxiety and depression can personalise the behaviours and feel worthless at those times.

You’ve probably guessed by now that I was feeling quite low. One day in particular I was feeling worthless and superfluous. I felt as if I was doing a lot and that one of my children didn’t seem to respect or even like me. I thought about what I wanted from that child. I knew that I couldn’t force them to act in a certain way so I decided to give myself what I wanted from them instead. I wanted thanks and kindness. I spent the day thanking myself for each task I performed around the house or each errand I ran for the family. I even looked in the mirror and told myself I looked pretty. It felt stupid and contrived. Be that as it may, I also felt happier and lighter as I went about my chores.

It was then that I realised that being kind to oneself had a lot to do with one’s internal monologue and self-belief. I love having massages; I love it when the kids do the dishes. I can relax and have some time off. If I’m still telling myself that no one appreciates me, however, I’m not really being kind to myself, am I?

I’d love to be able to end this post with some sort of “happily ever after” ending about how I always thank myself and feel great. I don’t and I don’t. For the most part, my internal monologue is pretty toxic. What I’ve learnt – at an intellectual level for the time being – is that being kind to oneself doesn’t consist of single, discrete acts of random kindness. Rather, it is an on-going process of actively trying to change one’s inner voice to one of love and appreciation. The massage is just the icing on the cake!

(Let me clarify that I don’t expect thanks and love for the things I do. This has been part of an on-going situation that is complex and multi-layered.)

To Medicate or Meditate

I’m not a big fan of pharmaceuticals. I feel more comfortable using alternative and complementary medical products. I have this idea that because it’s a natural product, it’s better for the body, supporting its own defences. I know that’s not necessarily the case. In fact, my husband worked in pharmaceuticals for ten years and tells me – repeatedly – that the criteria to be met are far higher with many more checks and balances.

So it was that I was dutifully downing St John’s Wort and Nervatona a couple of months ago in the midst of the hard time I was going through. I’d been through hard times before in my adult life and had gotten through with herbals. There was one glaring difference, however. On the face of it, this time may have seemed less stressful than some of the others. It’s true that there was something affecting every family member but I’ve had more to carry in the past. The difference was that I had my own health issue. I was so worried about what was wrong with me that I couldn’t cope with everyone else’s problems. That was why I was melting down on a daily basis.

It all came to a head one day. My symptoms were so severe in the morning I nearly drove myself to the hospital. Instead, I called my husband to come home and, by the time he arrived, things had settled enough to go to the GP instead. I couldn’t get in to see my usual doctor but the one I saw instead was even better. In no time, I had a prescription, a referral for an ultrasound and a referral to a specialist in hand. I started to stand to leave but sat back down again, began to cry and simply said, “I think I may need anti-depressants, as well.”

I began the anti-depressants that evening. I didn’t read the product information because I knew if I did I’d scare myself into not taking them. I noticed a small difference within two days. I had a fight with a family member during which I began to cry. (Surprise, surprise.) Instead of stewing for hours, however, I was fine five minutes later. I also knew that they would make my anxiety worse at first so I wasn’t concerned when I spent the first week waking up at 6am in a cold sweat, heart pounding and stomach filled with butterflies. The only lasting side effect has been nausea a few hours after my tablet. That’s around bedtime, however, and it doesn’t keep me awake at all. When I wake in the morning or even later in the night, it’s passed.

Apart from the nausea I’ve had no side effects. It hasn’t slowed my thought processes or changed who I am in any way. What the medication has done is turn the volume down considerably on the depressive and anxious feelings I’ve experienced most of my adult life. I guess, in that sense, they’ve changed me. The thoughts that trigger depression and anxiety still come. Thoughts create feelings but the feelings are so dampened down to be almost non-existent. Without the meds, more dark or anxious thoughts follow the feelings. The cycle goes on seemingly endlessly. By reducing the feelings, the second round of thoughts don’t come. I imagine it’s different for each person using them but that has been my experience so far.

I’m on the lowest dose available and I like how I feel. It’s going to read like a cliché but I wish I’d done it years ago. 

Day Surgery

Part of my anxiety - a huge part - is health anxiety. Even though that makes me something of a hypochondriac, I don't like doctors and medical procedures. They make me very anxious. So, you can well imagine how I must have been feeling about the prospect of day surgery. It was nothing too invasive but it did involve general anaesthetic. Yikes. That was yesterday and I lived to write the tale. *sigh of relief*

I was pretty cool about it up until the night before. I knew I needed it done and that the results would be immediate so I was actually impatient to go in and get it over and done with. I went to bed the night before and slept well ... for an hour. After that, my sleep was fitful and my anxiety levels really high. On a scale of 1 to 10 they would have been a 10. My heart was pounding, I was sweating and my mouth was as dry as cotton. Unfortunately, drinking was not an option after midnight so that exacerbated the anxiety. One of the first things I do when I'm anxious is have a sip of water. I also do it when I'm hungry to tide me over.

Morning came and being up and about calmed me and gave me a purpose. Even the traffic jam we hit on the way to the hospital didn't unduly upset me. It would have normally; we were stuck in traffic and behind a bus so couldn't see ahead. Once there at the hospital and checked in, the nurse had a long chat with me and took copious notes. After that she took my blood pressure and told me my surgery would be in two and a half hours. What????  My anxiety rose. I didn't know how I could go that long without eating or drinking anything. I'd really had to work to give her the wee sample she needed; there was no liquid inside me to come out. I was sooo thirsty.

I decided the most sensible thing to do while I waited was nothing. That way, I'd expend as little energy as possible. I began by staring out of the window. It was a beautiful, clear morning, and I could see across the green playing fields of Flinders University to Main South Road. Being 8am on a weekday, the cars were at a standstill, just as they had been when we'd taken the same route thirty minutes earlier.

Following that, I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of the day surgery ward. The low hum of the air conditioner underpinned it all but was barely noticeable. The dominant noise was that of the voices drifting in from the nurses' station right outside my small cubicle. Blood pressure machines being wheeled across the lino floor occasionally competed with the voices. Every so often there was a bang or crash, the origin of which I couldn't begin to guess.

After awhile, the hunger and thirst began to make me feel nauseas but somehow I drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew an orderly had appeared to take me to the theatre. He asked me for my full name, date of birth and the procedure I was having done. The ride through the hospital hallways didn't help the queasy stomach.

Once there I asked him the time and found out that I'd waited less that two hours. He left and my surgeon came in. He asked me my full name, date of birth and what procedure I was having. I knew it was protocol but I was sorely tempted to tell him that he should know since he was the one performing the procedure! He left and the anaesthetist came in and introduced himself and asked me to sign something to do with fees. I hope it was nothing too major because I was so hungry and thirsty I think I was too hypoglycaemic to be making major decisions. He asked a few questions, listened to my heart and lungs and asked me to tell him my full name, date of birth and what procedure I was having done. After he left, one of the theatre nurses came in and introduced herself and asked me to tell her ... I think you may already know by now.

Finally they were ready for me in theatre and in I went. They hooked me up to a blood pressure and heart beat monitor, put electrodes or some such things on my chest, put a line in my arm, and just as I was going under, another nurse asked me to tell her ... yep, again. I sped spoke because I was losing it by then.

When I woke up, my leg muscles were spasming wildly. The recovery nurse said it was the anaesthetic but got me a warm blanket which was really soothing and seemed to help. She also gave me a cold drink of water. I didn't feel quite as thirsty or hungry anymore. Then she took my blood pressure and I was wheeled back to my room.

Once back in the room, I was fed and given a cup of tea and a bottle of water. They even brought me a second cup of tea. I was on some kind of a drip which I found out was fluid so, by the time I was unhooked and had drunk everything, I'd had nearly two litres of fluid. Yay!

After that I got dressed and waited the couple of hours for my husband to come and get me, passing the time crocheting. Once home, I ate lunch, had another cup of tea and crashed out!

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

You’re going through a dark patch in your life so you keep looking and holding out for “the light at the end of the tunnel”. No matter how hard you try to see it, however, all you see ahead is more darkness. You keep trying, though, expending loads of energy in the process. There has to be light; there’s always light, isn’t there?

Sometimes, however, the tunnel is far too long for the light to be even faintly visible. Sometimes you’re in a cave, not a tunnel. Either way, the solution is the same. Stop using up all your energy wishing and looking for the non-existent light of the future and all its false promises of happy outcomes and light up the long tunnel or cave you’re currently in. Carry the light with you and within you.

Many years ago, I used to think in terms of “when I’m better.” Rather than being a helpful goal, it was a carrot on a stick for which I was expending too much energy. I was chasing a false illusion and living in the future. Ultimately, the realisation struck me that I had a chronic condition which – as Dr Phil would say – could be managed but probably not cured. That thought did more for me than the thought of getting better; it liberated me. I was no longer bound to a false hope and could live my life realistically and more fully than I had since I began to experience anxiety. Each time I began to feel the crippling anxiety I’d tell myself that it was part of my illness and accept its presence rather than fight against it wishing it weren’t there. The energy I’d spent chasing an illusion had much better uses. In short, I’d had a life-changing “light bulb moment”.

I fell into exactly the same trap when my mother had cancer. She ended up in hospital following several rounds of chemotherapy because her kidneys had failed. She was in the hospital for five weeks. My sister and I both had young children at the time and were dividing our time between caring for Mum, and doing everything else we had to do. I clearly remember having the same light bulb moment in relation to my mother. I was thinking to myself, “When Mum’s better ...”, only to interrupt myself with the questions, “What if she doesn’t get better? What if this is your life for the coming months?” I understood in that moment that I had to stop trying to fit my life into my mother’s illness and try to fit her illness into my life instead. It was just as well I did so because she never did get better.

A few years ago, a cousin of mine, in his mid-forties, lost his life’s partner in sudden and tragic circumstances. In the wake of her death, he said to me that he was trying to find and coming to terms with a “new normal”. What I’d done twice suddenly had a label. I’d recalibrated to create a new normal in the face of both my and my mother’s illnesses. That’s what I’m referring to when I speak of creating light in the tunnel or cave. Sometimes life throws things at us that change our direction and, often, those things are unpleasant ones. Sometimes they’re long-term or permanent and we have to create a new normal.

Recently, several things have crept up on me. They’re circumstances that have entered my life to which I’ve been resistant. I’ve been trying to find the light at the end of the tunnel and wishing and hoping for speedy and positive outcomes. I’ve been using up a lot of nervous energy worrying about the situations and looking to the future. I realised the other night that they’re my new normal. They’re here to stay, maybe long-term, maybe permanently.

The night I had that realisation I slept better than I had in weeks. The following day I was tired and lethargic because my body was letting go after carrying around so much tension and resistance for so many months.

For the time being, darkness is my new normal and I don’t know yet if I’m in a long tunnel or a cave. I’ve stopped looking for the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m going to try to light my way from inside instead.

Statistically Speaking

I was in a car crash on Tuesday morning. Nothing major. I rear-ended someone. I didn't careen into them; I simply wasn't able to stop in time. Contrary to what you may think - given my anxiety - I'm ultra-cool in those situations. I swapped details with the man I hit, drove the children the rest of the way to school and then reported it. It wasn't until my husband, who was interstate, called that I burst into tears.

Since Tuesday, road safety has been on my mind. I feel more anxious each time my daughter drives away. I also feel more anxious as I drive. A car was tailgating me the other day and I felt extremely uneasy. After all, I hadn't been tailgating - the cars in front of me had stopped suddenly. I began to worry that, if I had to stop suddenly, there would be no way the car behind could stop without hitting me.

At the moment, I'm at a fork in the road with anxiety. I'll either be able to move on from the crash and the anxiety it's provoking or I'll have a setback and get worse after so much hard work. The latter is not a very attractive option. I like where I'm at right now. So, this is what I've been doing to try to prevent it.

Acknowledging the possibility of a setback is a good starting point. I'm on red alert for extra anxiety. For example, yesterday I was out grocery shopping and felt extremely fatigued. I decided to just do what I had to do and get home. I've had a genuine health issue for the past couple of weeks that could have caused it but, as soon as I'd finished the necessary shopping, I began to feel a lot better. If I were truly tired, the shopping would have exacerbated it. That being the case, I made myself stay on at the shops until I'd completely finished and was fine. I had a lot of running around to do in the afternoon and evening and was not left tired. Conclusion: anxiety (which, for me, can manifest itself in extreme fatigue.)

I've been playing with statistics, too. I like to bombard my mind with them when I feel nervous. Each time I've had to drive to my son's school (or anywhere for that matter) I've told myself that, having lived in the same house for over 17 years, I've done each drive countless times and only been involved in one accident in that entire time. Consequently, it's far more likely that I'm going to get from Point A to Point B safely.

Using statistics is helpful in general. I've got a greater chance of getting ovarian cancer because a first degree relative had it. Statistically speaking, what it means is that my chance of NOT getting it has gone down from something like 97% to 94%.

Basically, if the chances of something bad happening are far less than not happening I like to point that out to myself. I haven't done the morning school run since the accident but I have driven to the school three times since and have been reasonably calm. It was only the first time I had to remind myself of the statistics. My daughter has done it twice since then and I've been anxious but, again, I have to keep reminding myself that it's far more likely all will be well.

The Old School Tie

The city where I live is one of those places where there are probably only two degrees of separation between any two people that live there. That degree is reduced further when it's between people who've lived here all their lives.

One of the first questions a native of Adelaide will ask is, "What school did you go to?" The question is partly to peg you socially. The other larger part, however, is to determine any mutual acquaintances you might have. And the chances are you will have some.

It's a question I love being asked. I loved my school when I was there and am still proud to have gone there. Every year it plays host to an afternoon tea for its "old girls". At that event, the prefects and house captains from fifty years before talk about their school days. It's always on the first Saturday of August and I've been going now for six years.

For me, the afternoon is an inspiration. I love the school and life stories of these women and I love being back in the school hall. The current women went to the girls' campus of the school before the school was amalgamated in the 1970s. I was in the last group of girls to enrol at the "Girls School". I spent Years 8, 9 and 10 there before we were moved to the "Boys School", completing the three year amalgamation.

It was - and still is - a very academic school. In those days we were streamed and I was in the top stream. There was an expectation of success at and from the school. There was never a sense of girls not being able to do as well as boys. (In fact, those of us in the top stream weren't able to do Home Economics. Hence my aversion to cooking.) The women that speak are testament to that. They often mention that the school motto, "Not for school but for life", stuck with them. They never forgot the school and its lessons and believe their success was because of the education and nurturing they received at high school.

I love their stories because they fill me with a sense of possibility. I look at these women and what they've accomplished and am filled with hope. They're older than me and are replete with life, passion and vibrancy. Rather than feel bitter that I've let my anxiety hold me back in many ways, I hear them speak and feel reassured that there is still much I can do and accomplish. We went to the same school and probably come from similar backgrounds. It's not as though I'm listening to some motivational speaker who's been paid to come and do it. I'm listening to women who sat in the same classrooms, played sports in the same fields and stared at the same school honour boards during assemblies in the same hall as me.

Being in the old school hall and seeing old friends triggers something else, as well. I'm with people who knew me before I was anxious, before I was someone's wife and before I was someone's mother. They simply knew me. I have trouble remembering sometimes who I was and what I was like so it's great to be reminded. Part of me and who I was walks invisibly through the corridors of that school and it's reassuring to get a glimpse of that "angelic rebel" sometimes.