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| This is the inside of my brain right now. Or a famous painting. Close enough. |
"That's the thing," I explained to the doctor at the walk-in clinic as I sat in her office yesterday. "I have an anxiety disorder, but normally it's triggered by something. I don't have anything to be stressed out about. Life is fine."
Except I don't feel fine. Anxiety has been eating my brain like a tiny famished zombie for the last few weeks.
Nothing pisses me off more than when things are totally sweet and I can't enjoy them because I'm too busy worrying. That's like having Charlie Hunnam lying naked in your bed with Hershey's Kisses all over his torso and you should be overjoyed but instead you're just worried the chocolate is going to melt and make a big mess and how do you get that stuff out of duvet covers anyway and hey isn't there a load in the dryer that needs to be folded and does everyone have clothes for school in the morning and have you made a meal plan for the week yet because money's kind of tight right now and STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME, CHARLIE, I'M TRYING TO IMAGINARY COOK THINGS IN MY HEAD RIGHT NOW.
Basically just like that.
I haven't been able to calm my brain down. It runs all the time like a speed-fuelled hamster. It obsessively frets over everything. My heart constantly feels like it's pumping adrenaline. I can't read a book, let alone a magazine article. I can't write much of anything. I can't follow a recipe. I can't focus on a conversation or sit quietly for more than a minute or two. I can't complete simple tasks, talk on the phone, make appointments or add even one more thing to the to-do list. Everything is too overwhelming. It's unbelievably frustrating to feel so out of control all the time.
"You mentioned you moved this spring. That sounds pretty stressful," the doctor inquired.
"Stressful, but for the best. We love it here. And my son needed medical support we couldn't get unless we moved."
"What kind of medical support?" She asked.
"Oh, he has depression and anxiety, so-- I can see your little doctor gears spinning from here, you know."
"You seem very intuitive." I like sarcasm in a doctor. This one was totally on her game.
"Almost as intuitive as I am good looking," I grinned.
She laughed then, and so I spent about 10 minutes after the appointment trying to figure out if I was really funny or really ugly. Did I mention the anxiety?
She looked at my file on the screen. "And you were here last month for heart palpitations. Do you still have those?"
"Daily. But I'm 1000% certain they're related to anxiety."
She gave me a look and smiled. "1000%, huh?"
"Shit. Did I say that? I didn't mean that. Now I sound like one of those women on the Maury show who say things like 'I'm 750% sure he's my baby's daddy' and they're always wrong. Ever notice that? Oh, come on. Everybody watches that show, even doctors. Also, I'm a writer with an IQ of 138. I know you can't get above 100% of anything, ever. I don't even say, 'I gave 110%' because THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE. Please don't quote me in my file."
"Oh, I'm definitely writing that in: 'Patient says she's 1000% sure heart palpitations related to anxiety.'"
"... I have a reputation to uphold, you know."
"You really DO worry a lot, don't you?"
She ordered a 3-day Holster monitor that I'll be wearing next week to rule out the possibility of tiny zombies eating my heart too. She also gave me the name of a good psychologist. We talked medication, but decided on trying the talk therapy, more exercise, meditation and supplements first (I started taking St. John's wort a few days ago.)
"I think you've been through a lot more than you realize over the last few months and you're having a delayed reaction to everything that's happened. That must have been a hard move for you, even if the outcome has been good. And you've been pouring all your energy into helping your son get better. But what about you? You need to take care of yourself, too."
That's when I tried not to cry. And I didn't until I got in the car and drove away. Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me. It's not like I didn't see the signs; I just chose to ignore them. And not in that martyr way, but in that mom way.
I am the poster child for parents everywhere who ignore their own shit to deal with everyone else's. What a bad thing to be a poster child for. I'd rather be the one for parents who have great fashion sense and can cook good too or parents who find Charlie Hunnam in their bed and don't kick him out for wasting perfectly good chocolate by melting it into the sheets with their naked body heat.
Anyway, you don't need to worry and cry yourself to sleep tonight, everybody. Anxiety is an insidious bitch, but I think I'm starting to climb out of it. I have a plan. I have doctors. I have St. John's Wort (which is doing a great job, by the way. Not that I'm recommending everybody go buy some right now because I know it has mixed reviews, but I've been doing better today than I have in a long time and I'm pretty sure that's why.)
I will find my way back soon. And then hopefully I'll write decent things again with more regularity instead of awkward conversations with a doctor who probably flagged my file with things like "patient definitely has anxiety issues, bad taste in talk shows and quite possibly a learning disability in mathematics."