*** This was written in about 10 minutes to get it off my chest. I use panic and anxiety attack interchangeably, but I know the two are not the same. Also, I am positive there are like a zillion typos. Oops.
I should have seen it coming. There were signs, of course. Ironically, when I am on vacation or have any kind of downtime, it rares its ugly head. Anxiety. My worst enemy. My monster under the bed.
Two years ago, I faced the worst anxiety attack. My second ever. I hardly ever
talk about it because it was emotionally and physically so traumatic. Brandon was gone for a month of training in Southern California. I was on summer break, but I had also just accepted my first teaching job. My dream was literally coming true. Everything I had worked for was sitting right there before me. And then this...
It started with a panic. I was just laying in my bed watching tv while the kids played together. I could hear them. Their laughter. I remember feeling a weight bear down on my chest. I started to hyperventilate. I was breathing so hard and fast that I could not breath at all. My fingers curled up (from lack of oxygen, presumably). I couldn't feel my feet at all. They were totally numb. I called out for Noah. I screamed for her. She came in the room and I managed to ask her to call my neighbor. When she got there I was curled up in the fetal position, sobbing. I literally could not form the words in answer to her question, "What's wrong?" NOTHING! There was no pre-cursor. I had experienced no great revelation or life-altering catastrophe. This came from NOWHERE. I'm grateful to this day for her voice just sitting there talking to me and keeping my mind occupied while my breathing slowed. When I say that is the most terrifying thing I've ever been through, I mean it. Not even the ICU stay that almost killed me was THIS scary. For days after, I had to tell myself to breath. Take a slow breath, ReBecca. Now take another. Again.
I started training for my new job in a total fog, willing myself out of bed every day. I could hardly raise my hands above my head to blow dry my hair. I was that exhausted. Each day I came home and collapsed into bed, proud of myself for actually going. For not losing my brand new job. I'm pretty sure my kids ate nothing but chicken nuggets and Lunchables during that time. I'd say I'm ashamed of that, but I really think I was lucky to be surviving. I was barely alive myself. I do know that I managed to get Eli to therapy. I managed to keep the house clean. I made it until Brandon got home and then totally let him take over. I told him about the anxiety attack. Did I tell him that my foot stayed numb for months? I can't remember, but I stopped going to the gym consistently after that. My right foot felt like pins and needles. I felt like maybe I'd done some permanent damage to it, but I was too embarrassed to go to a doctor and say, "I had a really bad panic attack and now I can't feel my foot."
So basically, the shame of anxiety started to rule my life in silence. I should have gone to therapy. I did go one time. I didn't go back. It felt like talking about it made it real. I didn't want this to be a thing I was experiencing. Not ME. This was tantamount to a lack of faith. I just needed to believe more. What did really have to feel sad about? I am the opposite of the person who experiences anxiety because my life is good! These are the things I said to myself. Lies.
My life IS great, but that doesn't mean I don't have some serious issues stemming from a trying start in life. I can't go into great detail about that right now. I just know that for years I tried to live in a way that belied the pain of my early childhood. I didn't want to acknowledge anything negative, so I just didn't. But that isn't how the mind works. Problems don't disappear, and it is becoming evident that I must face them
The past two weeks the anxiety has been building up, culminating in frustration and irritability. There are a few contributing factors with stresses in my extended family, but I know it boils down to unresolved fears in me. I decided to get help. I still have faith that God can do awesome things through my life, but now I see that instead of running from my past, I have to use it as part of my testimony. I have to be honest about who I was so that I can be proud of who I have become. It is exhausting worrying over everyone else. It is time to worry about me.
Friends and family, I ask for good vibes and prayers. I don't need sympathy. I am not thinking of harming myself (EVER). I am beginning a journey of honesty that already hurts. These wounds are old and gross. They are ugly. As always, I am grateful for the most amazing support system in my husband and children. I told them yesterday that I'm getting help. Eli said to me, "Mom, you just have to be able to say no to people." And that comment from my 12 year old is why I know I'm going to beat this monster.
Much love,
ReBecca
