Fight, Flight or Lie Down and Play Dead?

What happened to my fight. I'm a fighter, I've always been a fighter. I'm good at the flight part too, but I rarely back away from a good fight. I love to argue; always have. Just ask my husband. You may even be right. I may know that you're right, but I'll still challenge your point of view. It's fun for me.

So where the heck is my fight. I start to panic. I have a thought that worries me and it just spirals. I go from "Huh, that was funny I feel dizzy" to "I'm dying of a brain tumor" in all of 2 seconds. Then my heart rate climbs and I worry I'll have a heart attack. Then I get dizzy and am sure I'll pass out. Then my limbs go numb and I start to sweat. That's it I'm dying.

This sucks don't get me wrong, but that really not the worst part. The worst part is that I JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT! I don't fight it. I don't stare the devil, the evil thoughts and my hectic body in the face and say "do your worst, I'm not moving!". What happened to my fight? Maybe that's the real evil in all this. Maybe the devil has captured my fight.

Okay, well, that's a low blow, but how bout this. My weakness is HIS strength. You wanna take away my fight, satan, have at it. You think I was pain, you ain't seen nothing yet. I'm hurt, but not helpless. I'm down but you don't get to dictate when I'm out. You can whisper lies, speak in half truths, and attack my sense of self worth, but He promised he wouldn't leave me nor forsake me. I don't know why I'm going through this right now, but I know this. What you mean for evil, He'll use for good. I was already good, can you imagine me better? How bout healed? How bout whole? You scared yet? You're heart racing? You're hands shaking? You sweating yet? That's called a panic attack, sucker. How do you fix it when you aint got Jesus? You don't? Sucks to be you.

In the Closet

Day 7 of no more meds. I wish I could write that I'm back to how I was before this roller coaster began, but I can't. What's more, I'm beginning to think that going backward is not the answer either. Then I'll just be staring at the ride again, in line, waiting to be flipped upside down. Maybe if I stay on this track, I'll get off the ride all together and walk away...go find the Teacups or the giant swings instead.

I haven't had a big panic in several days, but now I'm having anxiety attacks instead. I feel like I've ordered the Mental Illness sample platter. A taste of depression, a touch of mania, a side of panic attacks with an anxiety dip. I can't sleep because I can't shut down my brain and my brain keeps my body up by pumping me full of adreniline. The book I'm reading says that synapses in my brain are telling my adrenal glands that I'm in imminent danger and so my body goes into fight or flight...two things I don't really feel like doing at 1 am so my body just shakes instead. The book also says that if your thoughts can turn on the adreniline, it can turn it off too. Convieniently, it doesn't tell you how.

I'm pretty confident at this point that God has a purpose in this madness. Somehow I'm going to sit on the other shore of this ocean of confusion a better person. More in touch with God and myself, and therefore, hopefully, a better mom, wife, friend, daughter. I realize at this point that that might take some time, but I hate that I'm dragging others into the sea with me. They aren't dressed for a swim and they didn't sign up for the excursion. I just hope I'm fast swimmer.

I don't have any answers yet, but I'm trying to embrace the process. I'm not just going to bury things this time. I'm going to unpack this box and put things where they belong. I reorganized my closet yesterday. It needed it badly. Thing were falling out of drawers, I could no longer shut the door, and there were shoes I didn't know I had hidden under the mess. I spent two hours removing what I didn't use or didn't like, throwing aways things beyond repair and boxed up other items to give away. I opened every drawer and put winter clothes away and refolded and reorganized the rest. I can not only shut the door now, I could throw a party in there. It amazing how much room you save when you just put things away neatly (Mom's been saying that for years). That's how I'm looking at the rest of this process. My mind has gotten messy, and instead of just shoving the door closed hoping nothing else falls out, it's time to reorganize. Throw away the useless, give away what's not mine to begin with, put away the rest until I can see what I have again. If your like me, you have to repeat the closet clean out every few years, but it should get easier as you get used to the process. I didn't color code my clothes or arrange my socks with safty pins because that's what works for other people, not me. I like a little disorder. I think my brain will be the same way. I guess I'm aiming for healthy havoc. Happy cleaning!

No more meds

Well, day 4 of NO MEDS. I spoke with my NP about it Tuesday and we decided they just weren't doing me any good right now. I've been on SSRIs and she now wants to starts a different type of drug, but I told her my head needs a rest.

The panic attacks are pretty frequent even without the meds, but they are more managable. I feel like I'm more in control of my own thoughts than I did on the SSRIs. Xanax doesn't help right now as it only makes me feel drunk, and I HATE that feeling (good news for my liver I suppose)

I'm not a therapist, but I think this all comes back to a control issue. I want to be in control of all things all the time. I want to control my thoughts, and how my body responds to things. I want to control this situation and I'm beginning to think God needs me to realize that I never have been and never will be in full control. But He is. Jesus take the wheel, I'm too drunk to drive right now.

What's so different?

You live by routine. You get up, have a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal. You head to work. You come home. You eat, you brush your teeth, you go to bed. Life in the commas may vary, but by and large that's what you do each day. Then slowly you start to notice changes you can't seem to control. You're irritable. You're thirsty all the time. You start carrying water bottles everywhere. You start to pee like a racehorse before the derby. You drink less water. You have to wake up at night to pee. You don't feel right. You're tired from waking up to pee, so you drink more coffee. You have trouble eating. You ask your friends, your relatives, they tell you to drink less, or drink more, get more exercise, get more sunlight, relax. Weeks later you still feel poorly, you know something isn't quite right. You look fine to them, but you don't feel right. Finally, you head to the doctor. Your friends and family roll their eyes because you always tend to--gasp--go to the doctor when you're sick. You are just another hypocondriact. The doctor, on the other hand, tells you you're not fine. In fact, he gives you a one way ticket to the hospital and tells you you'll be there a while. Why? Your blood sugar is so high that you'll stroke out if you so much as sniff a candy bar from 50 feet. You have Type I Diabetes. That's why you don't feel okay. You're scared, but you feel better knowing what's going on. It's not in your head, you aren't overreacting. This is real. This is serious. Your family and friends show up to the hospital concerned. They feel terrible for not believing you. They tell stories of how other people had similar symptoms and were fine. They didn't mean to discourage you from getting help. They are wonderful about it now. They read up on Diabetes just like you do. They ask you about your insulin. They even change the contents of their own pantries so they'll be sure to have the right things on hand when you are around. They even join the local Diabetes walk in support of you. They understand your condition and will help you through it every step of the way....

... This is not how it works with Depression. The first steps are very similar. You don't feel right, you know something is off. No one seems to get it, but finally, hopefully, you get checked out. You get a diagnosis. You are scared, but feel better, almost justified that there really is something wrong, it's not in your head. But that is often where the similarities end. Everyone around you thinks it is in your head. Even if they've dealt with it, somehow it's not the same. You couldn't possibly have what they had. You seem fine to them. So you hide it. You stop telling people. You don't join a walk for Depression, neither do they. They don't ask what your triggers are or how your meds are working. They don't feel like you should need help forever. You can get over it. After all it's mind over matter, right?

Depression is an illness. It is a disease. It isn't crazy and it doesn't just go away. Like diabetes there are things you have to learn to stay away from, and there are drugs you may need to take for the rest of your life to stay healthy. Don't be fooled, Depression can be fatal if not treated. Just ask the %14 of people WHO WERE seeking help that end it every year. I would imagine the number jumps when you add those not seeking help or add those who medicate with illegal drugs, alcohol, sex, adrenaline. So if you have a loved one suffering from Depression;have some respect and show some support.

2 Week Mark

Finally...optimism. I was hoping to start feeling better at the two week mark, and thankfully, I do. Still not too sure whether or not I really want to be on this medicine, but today I'm okay continuing to give it a chance.

My counselor has asked me to write down what's going on in my head before going to bed each night. Night time seems to be the worst for me right now, so I suppose we are trying to find what triggers it. Last night I just got a pen and paper and really just let my brain write. Most of it makes absolutely no sense, but at some point this....I guess you could call it a conversation with myself, came out.

What do you want to know?
Who are you?
I'm you.
You're who?
You.
You can't be me if I'm me, right?
I can. I am.
What's your name?
Why do you ask?
Well, so I can identify you...or me...I guess.
Do you think identity is found in a name?
At its basis, yes.
Names explain nothing.
Your last name does anyway. Says who you came from.
DNA may make the instrument, but you choose the music.
Who are you?
You.
Okay, who am I?
Ah, now we're getting somewhere.
Where?
There. Here.
This makes no sense.
It's not supposed to. Sense comes from someone being there before. No one else has ever been you.
So where's "here"?
Here is "who am I"? You are always "who am I" until you become "what she was".
Stop speaking in riddles.
It isn't a riddle. The answer IS the question.
What about HIM?
HE knows the answer, but HE still wants you to ask.


Told you it was weird. I'm not sure I really understand where my head was going with this dialogue, but somehow I felt better after letting it play out. Like there really was an answer in there. There is a side of me that is always looking for approval. Looking for a place. Looking for a label to tell me who I am. There is obviously another part, a part that calmed me last night, that understands that there will always be questions about who exactly we are in all this and what God's purpose is. So therefore, there is always going to be a question "who am I" until the day we die. At that point they talk about "who you were". Those alive will stick labels on you that suit them and their memories of you, both the good and bad. You can't help that, so why try on this side of the grave. Why spend so much time labelling yourself and trying to live up to other peoples expectations? God knows the answer, but he still wants me to ask the question, and hopefully, regardless of what those I leave behind say about me, He will write the last label, the only one that matters and the only one that will stick...MINE.