So where have I been?
Well, dear reader…..I’ve been feeling sorry for myself.
I’m about to make some confessions here that may cause me a lot of embarrassment. Who knows, I may delete this entire post – but I feel the need to be completely honest. To purge, to confess, to get this flipping monkey off my back.
So Leigh, why are you feeling sorry for yourself?
Let’s back up a ways…..a long ways to when I was 13. I traveled with my church’s youth choir to Nashville. Never one to shy away from anything social or fun at that age, I was excited. Excited about singing in front of large groups of people, of spending the week with my very best friends and for the day trip to Opryland that was on the itinerary.
It was all going very well until the day of the theme park trip. It was hot – I wasn’t with my parents and therefore my diet consisted of Mountain Dew and doughnuts – and those two things combined didn’t go well together and I had a little heat stroke in the middle of Opryland USA.
Mortification follows, being 13 and all.
And then suddenly, I’m convinced that I’m dying. I wasn’t, of course. I had been hydrated and treated and all was well – but I was 13 and away from home and scared senseless and I was pretty sure I was going to die. I remember kneeling over a toilet that evening with one of the chaperones holding my hair and my best friend Ashley rubbing my back and I just kept saying “I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m dying. Dead, dead, dead.”
I got home and was no better – my parents rushed me to the home of our family physician (and also dear friend) and he diagnosed me.
Official diagnosis? CRAZY.
At 13 I started having anxiety attacks and they haven’t let up since. I go through times (sometimes months) where I’m doing great – completely in control of my emotions and reactions and then WHAMMO! I’ll have a huge anxiety attack and it throws me right back into square one. Head over toilet, chanting, “Dead, dead, dead. I’m dying. I’m dead.”
Medication can help – but the medication also causes me to be lethargic, gain weight, have a general “who gives a flip” feeling about life. (Well, the one’s that control the anxiety attacks do at least.) Yet, I’m not able to get control over my emotions unless I’m on something.
I went to the doctor 10 days ago and he prescribed Buspar. So here I am, day 10 – not really sure if I feel better and just praying for some relief.
I want to be able to live my life and not worry about ridiculousness. I don’t want fear to swallow me whole. I can’t live my life worrying about things that are completely out of my control anymore.
In high school a lot of people thought I was a snot. Aloof, distant, averted all eye contact. The truth was I was terrified – and I still am. There were very few people I was comfortable around and I am still that way. Making friends and keeping friends is nearly impossible for me because of constantly being consumed by fear.
So yeah, there’s where the feeling sorry for myself enters.
I hate that I can’t be that person. That I can’t grab my own shoulders and shake some sense into me. I hate that one side of my brain knows that I’m fine while the other side of my brain is convinced I’m not. I hate not being able to enjoy life, my child, my husband, a pretty day, for fear of an anxiety attack.
I hate being afraid of being alone. Driving. Flying. Traveling far from home. Meeting new people. Etc, etc, etc. (I could go on but the list of crazy is long and honestly, quite mortifying to see all sprawled out in black and white.)
I hate all of it.
So…..if you’re the praying sort – would you say a prayer for me?
And, if you’re a crazy sort – would you share your story with me? Any of you out there dealing with this? Dealt with it? Beat it?
Leigh needs a hug. And maybe a cheese plate.
P.S. If you don't really want to talk about it in my comments section feel free to email me. leighmidd@hotmail.com
