Well, I'm definitely enjoying the meds. Been back on them for a month now and noticing some real differences. No more obsessing, able to let things go instead of ruminate over them, able to keep myself from analyzing every thought or interaction I have in a day. Very good.
I have been sick though. Double ear infections that won't go away...went on a "garbage" antibiotic, Zythromycin, (my husband the pharmacist called it garbage) which didn't work. So now I"m on a new one, but went to the ENT today to find that I have a moderate hearing loss (temporary - as a result of the infections/ruptured left eardrum) and my eustachian tubes on each side are swollen shut - so the fluid built up in my middle ear can't escape, despite the top notch drug (Levaquin).
So....I"m taking a steroid not to hopefully stop the swelling. If that doesn't work, I have to have a little slit cut in my eardrum.
Anyway, so I 've been sick for two weeks. I'm really fucking sick of being sick. I've been blowing my nose ever 10 seconds and producing piles on green shit every time for a week and a half. It's disgusting and exhausting. My nostrils, nasolabial fold, and upper lip are so chaffed and sore. Ugh. And I'm so tired. And I'm still getting fevers at night. Overall, I'm exhausted. Makes caring for a 7 month old all day long a little tough. It would be nice if my husband said something supportive or appreciative about that fact once in a while.
I"m pissed at him right now. We're at his mother's apartment, and we had a hell of a time getting our daughter to go to sleep. She just screamed and screamed for like 30 minutes. Would take her bottle, would let me rock her to sleep, wouldn't lay down with me, wouldn't lay down alone in her crib. It sucked. I finally got her to sleep by going in the room where her crib is, turning on the light, rocking her (while standing - with a screaming bachache and sore joints) and she finally feel asleep in my arms.
During this whole debacle, my husband made a comment about "how could I questions his desire to never do this again". He means never have another child.
He has such a fucking piss-poor attitude. Yes, it is difficult to care for an infant. Yes, it is challenging, and frustrating, and for the first 3 months, really no fun. It is exhausting and stressful and hard. But it's also kind of rewarding....I mean I had a sense of accomplishment when I finally got her to sleep. I also had a sense of concern, because I realize I've got myself a baby who seems to need to be rocked to sleep (which I don't want). But still, I felt good about my skills as a mom. I took my screaming baby into the bedroom, figured out what she needed, and got her to sleep. Yes, it sucked while she was screaming.....yes, it's uncomfortable being at someone else's house when this is happening. But you know what? It's over! It passed! It's okay now. Maybe it'll happen again tomorrow night, maybe it won't, but you know what? We all survived. It's not at all worth getting so angry about. It's not at all worth deciding in the uncomfortable moment that you don't want any more children.
My husband has always known I wanted two kids. He is an only child and has always said "why do we need more than one?" But at the same time, he's always known I wanted two and has repeatedly stated that I "will win that argument".
Now I'm not so sure. He has such a bad attitude when things are tough. My daughter doesn't eat well. In the past two months she's stopped drinking as much as she used to, and frequently refuses bottles or doesn't finish them. So we went to the doctor. We talked about her eating habits.....we weighed her and found that in the past month, despite her shitty eating habits she's increased her percentile in the infant weight chart. See? Everything is okay.
Often, when my daughter won't take her bottle my husband puts her down on the ground, walks into the kitchen, and swears....or throws the bottle across the room into the sink. He gets SO angry! Why? It's not worth it! Did he think it would be easy raising a child? God, calm the fuck down.
When we first started dating my husband told me he had a bad temper, but I never saw that. I always found it difficult to believe and figured he was exaggerating. But now, with a child and a marriage license, I'm finally seeing this negative side of him.
It's tough, because when he does get so pissed, he gets over it quickly. I am NEVER concerned about our daughter's safety, and he usually comes back into the room smiling and talking about what a stinker she is. She adores him. They are always fine together.
But why does he react so dramatically? Why does he get so angry? I hate it because I know, deep in my heart that ever time he gets so upset he's filing another card away in his little mental box, labeled: "Reasons Not to Have Another Kid".
I hope he changes his mind over the next couple of years. I hope he sees that the ends are worth the means...that yes, even when one difficult phase ends another one begins, but it's part of the process if you want to be a parent. It's never easy, but it's always so very special.
I told him ALL of this tonight after the baby was in bed and you know what he said? NOTHING! So fucking aggravating! WTF? Fucking Asberger Robot. Sometimes I get so sick of his stoic shit. It doesn't do anybody any fucking good.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
No one finds this interesting.
It's clear. No one finds my blog interesting. But that's okay. I'm not really writing it for anyone but myself. Really, this is just an online journal to help me purge my thoughts in a way other than hand writing into a paper journal. S'okay.
Anywhoo, I've been feeling like shit the past day or so. Lots of over-analysis and thinking to hard and feeling sorry for myself because my husband isn't all over me. He's not totally ignoring me, he's just not saying exactly the right things at exactly the right times. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that he hasn't been feeling well.
I wish he talked to me more. I wish he initiated conversations about likes and dislikes and feelings and ideas and wonderings and ponderments. I wish he would give me some lengthier verbal responses when I confronted him or posed questions about moderately important issues. Like today when we talked about how he's out of shape and overweight. Okay. That sounds harsh. I didn't just say "honey, you're out of shape and overweight". But I did explain that I'm worried about the impact his bad habits (poor food choices, lack of exercise, and slow but steady weight gain over the past 3-4 years) is having on his present and future health. After this, he really said nothing. Nothing! When I asked him if I was upsetting him or if he wanted me to stop talking about it, he just said "I don't have any answers". AAAAAAAAAAAH! It is so infuriating! How can someone be so unaffected? How can he not have feelings on the subject. God, I wish he was more like me sometimes.
My therapist suggested that it was probably good that I wasn't with someone who was as "reactive" as I am. She has a good point, and I need to think about like truths like that one when I'm upset. But - I also need to learn how to admit disappointment. I think it will actually keep me from stressing out as much. So here - I'm admitting it: I wish my husband emoted more.
Ugh. This is nothing new. I have wished this about him for the bulk of our relationship. He did emote a lot at the beginning of our relationship. But I suppose then he was falling in love with me. He was impassioned. I suppose he is less so now. He IS impassioned in regards to our daughter. So I guess I should focus on the positive of that. He definitely emotes with her. Tells her constantly that he loves her, cuddles her non-stop, plays with her, is excited to see her...sings to her!
Okay - another thing that isn't new: the realization that I am jealous of my baby daughter. Nice. Oh well. What can I do? I guess all I can do is constantly remind myself that it is a very good thing that my husband loves his baby immensely. I will need to love myself a little more right now. I can probably do that. I think if I focus more on loving myself and less on evidencing my husband's lack over acts of affection towards me exclusively, I'd worry of them (or the lack thereof) a lot less.
Plus, who knows how this non-emoter will interact with a growing child? A teenager? Perhaps I should relish in the obvious love that my husband expresses to our daughter now.....it might be a lot harder for this moderate intellect/introvert to express himself as time goes by.
Anywhoo, I've been feeling like shit the past day or so. Lots of over-analysis and thinking to hard and feeling sorry for myself because my husband isn't all over me. He's not totally ignoring me, he's just not saying exactly the right things at exactly the right times. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that he hasn't been feeling well.
I wish he talked to me more. I wish he initiated conversations about likes and dislikes and feelings and ideas and wonderings and ponderments. I wish he would give me some lengthier verbal responses when I confronted him or posed questions about moderately important issues. Like today when we talked about how he's out of shape and overweight. Okay. That sounds harsh. I didn't just say "honey, you're out of shape and overweight". But I did explain that I'm worried about the impact his bad habits (poor food choices, lack of exercise, and slow but steady weight gain over the past 3-4 years) is having on his present and future health. After this, he really said nothing. Nothing! When I asked him if I was upsetting him or if he wanted me to stop talking about it, he just said "I don't have any answers". AAAAAAAAAAAH! It is so infuriating! How can someone be so unaffected? How can he not have feelings on the subject. God, I wish he was more like me sometimes.
My therapist suggested that it was probably good that I wasn't with someone who was as "reactive" as I am. She has a good point, and I need to think about like truths like that one when I'm upset. But - I also need to learn how to admit disappointment. I think it will actually keep me from stressing out as much. So here - I'm admitting it: I wish my husband emoted more.
Ugh. This is nothing new. I have wished this about him for the bulk of our relationship. He did emote a lot at the beginning of our relationship. But I suppose then he was falling in love with me. He was impassioned. I suppose he is less so now. He IS impassioned in regards to our daughter. So I guess I should focus on the positive of that. He definitely emotes with her. Tells her constantly that he loves her, cuddles her non-stop, plays with her, is excited to see her...sings to her!
Okay - another thing that isn't new: the realization that I am jealous of my baby daughter. Nice. Oh well. What can I do? I guess all I can do is constantly remind myself that it is a very good thing that my husband loves his baby immensely. I will need to love myself a little more right now. I can probably do that. I think if I focus more on loving myself and less on evidencing my husband's lack over acts of affection towards me exclusively, I'd worry of them (or the lack thereof) a lot less.
Plus, who knows how this non-emoter will interact with a growing child? A teenager? Perhaps I should relish in the obvious love that my husband expresses to our daughter now.....it might be a lot harder for this moderate intellect/introvert to express himself as time goes by.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Status Update
Well, I'm doing pretty well. Really well, actually. I had a minor setback yesterday - a totally random thought made me search my brain for evidence that I was/was not a lesbian, but aside from that, there's been very little obsessing lately.
I've been back on my SSRI for 15 days now. The first 6 days were spent on an accidentally low dose...I had thought I was on 5 mg in the past when it turns out I was actually on 10mg. After my pharmacist brought this discrepancy to my attention, I was able to get a new script, and then began taking the proper dosage.
I've really felt good for almost a full week now. It helps that I had a really good conversation with my best friend about the whole husband/wife spiritual belief issues (she is also married to a man who is a pretty secular guy). And then, the next day my husband and I had a fantastic visit with an old high school friend of his, and his wife.
So some of the things I've needed for some time have occurred. Opening up and discussing my anxieties with a friend, being more social with another couple, and - of course - becoming medicated again.
So, it would seem, I have little to report. This is a wonderful thing, though. Feeling good may make for boring blogging, but it makes for wonderful living.
It feels so good to feel good again.
I've been back on my SSRI for 15 days now. The first 6 days were spent on an accidentally low dose...I had thought I was on 5 mg in the past when it turns out I was actually on 10mg. After my pharmacist brought this discrepancy to my attention, I was able to get a new script, and then began taking the proper dosage.
I've really felt good for almost a full week now. It helps that I had a really good conversation with my best friend about the whole husband/wife spiritual belief issues (she is also married to a man who is a pretty secular guy). And then, the next day my husband and I had a fantastic visit with an old high school friend of his, and his wife.
So some of the things I've needed for some time have occurred. Opening up and discussing my anxieties with a friend, being more social with another couple, and - of course - becoming medicated again.
So, it would seem, I have little to report. This is a wonderful thing, though. Feeling good may make for boring blogging, but it makes for wonderful living.
It feels so good to feel good again.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
To take or not to take?
So now I just don't know what to do. I started taking Lexapro again last Wednesday (today is Thursday). So I've been on it a week. I stopped taking it when I found out I was 8 weeks pregnant back in May of 2009 and stayed off while I was nursing my daughter. I felt pretty good while I was pregnant. Stressed and a bit anxious trying to get things in order at work in preparation for my maternity. And the whole "holy crap I'm gonna be a mother" thing was a bit stressful and anxiety inducing as well. Still, I was actually really impressed with how well I did off of my medication. Considering the fact that I was pregnant and supposedly super hormonal and prone to greater emotional upset, I felt pretty good. Of course this seemed kind of appropriate, because I'd been in therapy for nearly four years and medicated for nearly three - so the whole "doing well" thing has become pretty familiar.
BUT....here I am now, typing about my newly "re-medicated" status. This is because I really began to struggle with anxiety and resultant depression shortly following the birth of my daughter. I suppose this isn't a surprising thing. Lots of women experience post-partum depression. I had been seeing my therapist about once every 2-3 months throughout my pregnancy and so I wasn't totally without treatment during the postpartum period. In fact, based on my declining mood, I began attending monthly again. My anxiety and depression ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I felt okay, sometimes I felt really good, and sometimes I felt plagued with anxiety. Sometimes I obsessed over the potential issues that my new life could bring. Analyzed all the presently non-existent problems that new motherhood can bring to one's sense of self, one's relationship, and to the well-being of the baby. I also worried about the standard stuff: would I make a good mother, were we doing things correctly, would I ever sleep again? Mainly though, the familiar type of non-productive, cyclical anxiety and obsessing had returned to my regular mental profile. So.....over time, I decided that once I was done nursing I would go back on the Lexapro. As I explained to some of the people I trusted enough to share my feelings with: "I understand my anxiety now, I know what's happening and I don't have panic attacks anymore. But just because I understand these feelings doesn't make them any less unpleasant."
Well, my daughter is six months old and I'm back on the meds. I've been on them for a week, and I've had two panic attacks. The content of my panic attacks is so unexpected that it's almost comical if it weren't so frightening when it was happening. Lately, I've been worrying to the point of physical discomfort about the meaning of life. About what happens when we die, if there's a God, what I should believe, what I do believe, what my husband believes, and how all of this relates to the answers I will or will not be able to supply my daughter one day. Honestly, these are reasonable things to wonder about, questions that every human asks at some point. But they aren't really questions with a specific answer. Thinking them over repeatedly and thoroughly isn't even inappropriate - I don't think - but thinking about them over and over again, for several days, to the point that it makes your head and neck and then your chest and even your feet feel hot and fuzzy, makes an overcoming sense of dread wash over your body as you think, panic-stricken that it's possible life has no meaning and there's nothing I can do about it. Yeah. This shit is out of the ordinary for me. This shit is upsetting.
I used to worry excessively that my relationships with my husband (then boyfriend) was going to end, or that it should end, or that we were poorly matched, or that we shouldn't be together and that I'd have to leave him/break up with him, even though I really valued the relationship. I would worry that suddenly I'd stumble over some huge problem or incompatibility that I should have noticed earlier but hadn't.
God, this is not cohesive. Who cares. I really just wanted to get some of my intense, hard-to-discuss worries off of my chest. Ha - the actual truth is that Family Guy is on tv and I'm distracted. Not really distracted by it....I'm not actually watching it......I'm not distracted because I'm trying to watch it. It's just hard to write about issues of this gravity with such light programming on in the background. Ha - discussing Family Guy and existentialism in the same entry. Funny.
Okay - I'm not sure what I've figured out. I'm still scared of panicking, but I guess I feel a little better. Oh, I know...I was going to try and figure out whether to take my meds still. See, the panic attacks I've had recently didn't start until after I'd gotten back on the Lexapro. To assume that the medication caused them seems inappropriate because I was on it for three years with no problems...with successful therapeutic effects, actually! But I can't help but wonder about the timing. NO panic attacks in years, and then two in a weeks time after beginning again? I dunno.....
The panic attacks could be explained otherwise, though. The culmination of a year of untreated anxiety and the intensified factors of new motherhood...the additional fact that, as a public school employee on summer vacation, I now have a shitload more time on my hand to ruminate and obsess over negative notions. Yeah, it's a tough one. Am I having panic attacks because I got back on the meds, or am I having them because I've been off the meds for so long?
I guess I'll give it a little longer than a week to see what happens....
BUT....here I am now, typing about my newly "re-medicated" status. This is because I really began to struggle with anxiety and resultant depression shortly following the birth of my daughter. I suppose this isn't a surprising thing. Lots of women experience post-partum depression. I had been seeing my therapist about once every 2-3 months throughout my pregnancy and so I wasn't totally without treatment during the postpartum period. In fact, based on my declining mood, I began attending monthly again. My anxiety and depression ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I felt okay, sometimes I felt really good, and sometimes I felt plagued with anxiety. Sometimes I obsessed over the potential issues that my new life could bring. Analyzed all the presently non-existent problems that new motherhood can bring to one's sense of self, one's relationship, and to the well-being of the baby. I also worried about the standard stuff: would I make a good mother, were we doing things correctly, would I ever sleep again? Mainly though, the familiar type of non-productive, cyclical anxiety and obsessing had returned to my regular mental profile. So.....over time, I decided that once I was done nursing I would go back on the Lexapro. As I explained to some of the people I trusted enough to share my feelings with: "I understand my anxiety now, I know what's happening and I don't have panic attacks anymore. But just because I understand these feelings doesn't make them any less unpleasant."
Well, my daughter is six months old and I'm back on the meds. I've been on them for a week, and I've had two panic attacks. The content of my panic attacks is so unexpected that it's almost comical if it weren't so frightening when it was happening. Lately, I've been worrying to the point of physical discomfort about the meaning of life. About what happens when we die, if there's a God, what I should believe, what I do believe, what my husband believes, and how all of this relates to the answers I will or will not be able to supply my daughter one day. Honestly, these are reasonable things to wonder about, questions that every human asks at some point. But they aren't really questions with a specific answer. Thinking them over repeatedly and thoroughly isn't even inappropriate - I don't think - but thinking about them over and over again, for several days, to the point that it makes your head and neck and then your chest and even your feet feel hot and fuzzy, makes an overcoming sense of dread wash over your body as you think, panic-stricken that it's possible life has no meaning and there's nothing I can do about it. Yeah. This shit is out of the ordinary for me. This shit is upsetting.
I used to worry excessively that my relationships with my husband (then boyfriend) was going to end, or that it should end, or that we were poorly matched, or that we shouldn't be together and that I'd have to leave him/break up with him, even though I really valued the relationship. I would worry that suddenly I'd stumble over some huge problem or incompatibility that I should have noticed earlier but hadn't.
God, this is not cohesive. Who cares. I really just wanted to get some of my intense, hard-to-discuss worries off of my chest. Ha - the actual truth is that Family Guy is on tv and I'm distracted. Not really distracted by it....I'm not actually watching it......I'm not distracted because I'm trying to watch it. It's just hard to write about issues of this gravity with such light programming on in the background. Ha - discussing Family Guy and existentialism in the same entry. Funny.
Okay - I'm not sure what I've figured out. I'm still scared of panicking, but I guess I feel a little better. Oh, I know...I was going to try and figure out whether to take my meds still. See, the panic attacks I've had recently didn't start until after I'd gotten back on the Lexapro. To assume that the medication caused them seems inappropriate because I was on it for three years with no problems...with successful therapeutic effects, actually! But I can't help but wonder about the timing. NO panic attacks in years, and then two in a weeks time after beginning again? I dunno.....
The panic attacks could be explained otherwise, though. The culmination of a year of untreated anxiety and the intensified factors of new motherhood...the additional fact that, as a public school employee on summer vacation, I now have a shitload more time on my hand to ruminate and obsess over negative notions. Yeah, it's a tough one. Am I having panic attacks because I got back on the meds, or am I having them because I've been off the meds for so long?
I guess I'll give it a little longer than a week to see what happens....
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sharing
Well, I had a therapy session tonight. It was a good one, I suppose. Good because it was oh so necessary. Panic attacks this week. Two of them. Haven't had a panic attack in about four years, so having two of them in five days was pretty upsetting.
It helps to talk to my therapist, but it was very helpful to discuss them with my husband this evening prior to heading out. I did this begrudgingly, because I am always very hesitant to discuss many of my anxiety-triggered ruminations with him. This is because the things I worry about when I'm "not at my best" are usually things that don't warrant obsession. Or they are unrealistic, concerns about things that won't happen, or that I can't resolve. At any rate, it is not at all productive to keep analyzing specific "what ifs", but I do it anyway because the anxiety machine keeps generating cyclical thoughts. It's not something a person who isn't overly anxious can easily understand, and I always feel scared and uncomfortable sharing the specifics of my episodes with J. Especially if they're so intense that they result in a panic attack.
But.....a panic attack is not something that is simply over when it's over. It leaves you feeling fatigued, worried and depressed. And that's noticeable. So when J asked me what was wrong when he got home from work, I decided today that I would tell him about the anxiety and panic attacks instead of trying to hide them.
It felt good to share with him and to realize that our relationship wasn't marred by my "weirdness". It's always better when I'm actually honest with him about my feelings. Even if J doesn't offer a perfect response (whatever that is) I feel better because I'm not trying to hide anything. And really, why should I? I shouldn't be ashamed of my anxiety...it's really not my fault that I'm prone to this.
Okay....now I'll just keep telling myself that.
It helps to talk to my therapist, but it was very helpful to discuss them with my husband this evening prior to heading out. I did this begrudgingly, because I am always very hesitant to discuss many of my anxiety-triggered ruminations with him. This is because the things I worry about when I'm "not at my best" are usually things that don't warrant obsession. Or they are unrealistic, concerns about things that won't happen, or that I can't resolve. At any rate, it is not at all productive to keep analyzing specific "what ifs", but I do it anyway because the anxiety machine keeps generating cyclical thoughts. It's not something a person who isn't overly anxious can easily understand, and I always feel scared and uncomfortable sharing the specifics of my episodes with J. Especially if they're so intense that they result in a panic attack.
But.....a panic attack is not something that is simply over when it's over. It leaves you feeling fatigued, worried and depressed. And that's noticeable. So when J asked me what was wrong when he got home from work, I decided today that I would tell him about the anxiety and panic attacks instead of trying to hide them.
It felt good to share with him and to realize that our relationship wasn't marred by my "weirdness". It's always better when I'm actually honest with him about my feelings. Even if J doesn't offer a perfect response (whatever that is) I feel better because I'm not trying to hide anything. And really, why should I? I shouldn't be ashamed of my anxiety...it's really not my fault that I'm prone to this.
Okay....now I'll just keep telling myself that.
new rule
I just read my first post and decided something: I'm not going to correct typos.
I have a secret. I am obsessed with perfection in writing. When I send out work emails, I check them for typos, grammatical errors, mis-spellings, whatever. I actually do this with personal emails too. And Facebook posts. Maybe there's a little OCD in my mental health profile too.
My diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder came about four years ago, after I'd been in therapy for a few months. I started going to regular cognitive-behavioral therapy when I was 24 years old, after the constant analysis of my relationship with my boyfriend became too exhausting to manage alone. For both him and myself. That boyfriend is now my husband, by the way.
I had been in therapy before. When I was 21 years old, my mother died suddenly of a stroke. A month later, my ex-boyfriend's father died suddenly of a heart attack. A month after that, my aunt died suddenly in her sleep. I was a bit shaken up. My boss suggested I "talk to someone", and I started attending free therapy sessions through the university clinic on campus. I did this for the entire winter semester, until classes ended and I moved back home for the summer.
A year later, during my first year of graduate school, my father was diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Neurofibromatosis Type II. NF2 causes benign tumors to develop on the 8th cranial nerve (the hearing nerve) and often on the nerve endings in the spine. My twin sister and I were both tested and found to have NF2 as well. Again, I was a bit shaken up. I decided to head out to the trusty ol' campus counseling center once more, and began attending more therapy sessions. These sessions also lasted a semester.
And then, a year and a half after that, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years. While this break-up needed to happen and actually left me feeling like a weight had been lifted, I also felt very lonely. I should also mention that the break-up occurred four months prior to the second brain surgery operation I had to undergo as a result of the NF2-related tumors that were on each of my 8th cranial nerves. So yeah, I guess I was shaken up again. More therapy, this time with the same counselor who had helped me when my mom (and those other folks) died suddenly.
Wow. See, this blogging thing is good. After writing all that I've taken a moment to appreciate the fact that a lot of fucked up shit has happened to me. Maybe that's why I worry so much. I mean, I understand psychology enough to know that I do have a checmical imbalance that pre-disposes me to excess anxiety. My brain simply produces more of it than the average bear's. But really, let's be fair here...my life is one that has taught me that bad stuff can and sometimes does happen.
Anyway, that's all the therapy I had prior to my current therapist, who I've been seeing for about four years. At first I saw her weekly, then twice a month, then once a month, and then every few months. Blah, blah, blah. The point is, I've had a lot of therapy. The different between my current therapists and the other ones, however, is that in the past I was always able to related my need for support to some external event. Some trigger I had no control over...my mother's death, my father's diagnoses, my diagnoses and surgeries. I never really had to face the fact that I was excessively keyed up on a regular basis.
It wasn't until I met my husband that I realized I needed professional help. And not just because I was a victim of bad fortune. See, J is a really wonderful man. He's patient and considerate and has a great sense of humor. A pretty off-color sense of humor actually, which is perfect for me. I found myself intrigued by this man as soon as I met him, and attracted to him as soon as we began spending time together. Almost immediately, I was struck by the kindness he treated me with, the generosity he showed, and the way that he seemed to truly value the time he spent with me. In short, he was "a keeper".
So why was I analyzing every aspect of his personality and our relationship? Why was I obsessing over statements made and not made, looking for "red flags" that didn't exist at every turn?
To make a very long story short, after months and months of this, I decided I needed help. "I think I worry a lot more than other people" is what I told J when I said I was going to see a therapist. "I think so too" is what he told me.
I'm not proofreading any of this.
I have a secret. I am obsessed with perfection in writing. When I send out work emails, I check them for typos, grammatical errors, mis-spellings, whatever. I actually do this with personal emails too. And Facebook posts. Maybe there's a little OCD in my mental health profile too.
My diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety Disorder came about four years ago, after I'd been in therapy for a few months. I started going to regular cognitive-behavioral therapy when I was 24 years old, after the constant analysis of my relationship with my boyfriend became too exhausting to manage alone. For both him and myself. That boyfriend is now my husband, by the way.
I had been in therapy before. When I was 21 years old, my mother died suddenly of a stroke. A month later, my ex-boyfriend's father died suddenly of a heart attack. A month after that, my aunt died suddenly in her sleep. I was a bit shaken up. My boss suggested I "talk to someone", and I started attending free therapy sessions through the university clinic on campus. I did this for the entire winter semester, until classes ended and I moved back home for the summer.
A year later, during my first year of graduate school, my father was diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Neurofibromatosis Type II. NF2 causes benign tumors to develop on the 8th cranial nerve (the hearing nerve) and often on the nerve endings in the spine. My twin sister and I were both tested and found to have NF2 as well. Again, I was a bit shaken up. I decided to head out to the trusty ol' campus counseling center once more, and began attending more therapy sessions. These sessions also lasted a semester.
And then, a year and a half after that, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years. While this break-up needed to happen and actually left me feeling like a weight had been lifted, I also felt very lonely. I should also mention that the break-up occurred four months prior to the second brain surgery operation I had to undergo as a result of the NF2-related tumors that were on each of my 8th cranial nerves. So yeah, I guess I was shaken up again. More therapy, this time with the same counselor who had helped me when my mom (and those other folks) died suddenly.
Wow. See, this blogging thing is good. After writing all that I've taken a moment to appreciate the fact that a lot of fucked up shit has happened to me. Maybe that's why I worry so much. I mean, I understand psychology enough to know that I do have a checmical imbalance that pre-disposes me to excess anxiety. My brain simply produces more of it than the average bear's. But really, let's be fair here...my life is one that has taught me that bad stuff can and sometimes does happen.
Anyway, that's all the therapy I had prior to my current therapist, who I've been seeing for about four years. At first I saw her weekly, then twice a month, then once a month, and then every few months. Blah, blah, blah. The point is, I've had a lot of therapy. The different between my current therapists and the other ones, however, is that in the past I was always able to related my need for support to some external event. Some trigger I had no control over...my mother's death, my father's diagnoses, my diagnoses and surgeries. I never really had to face the fact that I was excessively keyed up on a regular basis.
It wasn't until I met my husband that I realized I needed professional help. And not just because I was a victim of bad fortune. See, J is a really wonderful man. He's patient and considerate and has a great sense of humor. A pretty off-color sense of humor actually, which is perfect for me. I found myself intrigued by this man as soon as I met him, and attracted to him as soon as we began spending time together. Almost immediately, I was struck by the kindness he treated me with, the generosity he showed, and the way that he seemed to truly value the time he spent with me. In short, he was "a keeper".
So why was I analyzing every aspect of his personality and our relationship? Why was I obsessing over statements made and not made, looking for "red flags" that didn't exist at every turn?
To make a very long story short, after months and months of this, I decided I needed help. "I think I worry a lot more than other people" is what I told J when I said I was going to see a therapist. "I think so too" is what he told me.
I'm not proofreading any of this.
I'm going to give this a try...
"Make a blog. You should totally write a blog."
This is the statement made regularly by a friend of mine who writes a blog about her family. It's very nice. My husband and I like to read it. Her kids are darling and the stories she shares are entertaining, heartwarming and inspiring. I aspire to be like this woman.
She is a mom and now I am a mom. I had a baby in December, and she is six months old now. I guess now that I'm a mom, my friend thinks that my own friends and family would like to read about the daily adventures of our family. Until now, though, I have not created any sort of on-line journal. And this journal is not really supposed to be about my my family.
This blog is about my anxiety. About the overwhelming worry that sometimes plagues me. That often plagues me. It is about the intrusive thoughts that I truly believed I had a handle on. That I believed I would never be plagued by again. But here I am, six months into motherhood and they are back. Generalized Anxiety Disorder with "some" Panic Disorder (this was my official diagnosis from my general practitioner) rears it's ugly head again.
There are two reasons why I never started a blog in the past. The first one is simple: I questioned whether my verbal output was worthy of the attention of others. I still do. Who am I to assume someone else would be interested in the contents of my head? What makes my verbal diarrhea any more worthy of attention than anyone else's? This is amusing because, as I indicated earlier, I find my friend's blog quite enjoyable to read. As is often the case, this perception of my own value has a lot to do with confidence and peace of mind, and less to do with the reality of a potential audience. In this day and age, most blogs are really for the loved ones of their authors, a modern day "Christmas letter" that is published on a more regular basis. They are not meant to be scrutinized and worried over. But then again, I scrutinize and worry over pretty much everything when I'm "not at my best".
The second reason that I never started a blog until now - a blog related to my family, that is - is because I'm so afraid of not being able to present the "right" picture of family life. The appropriate activities, thoughts, feelings and insights of a new mom. A week after my daughter was born, my husband bought me a journal so that I could write in it each night and chronicle her development. I started to do this nightly, but began generating entries less often when the demands of new motherhood and infant care interfered. No biggee...to be distracted from not-absolutely-necessary tasks while caring for a newborn is pretty standard. What wasn't standard, however, was worrying that what I was writing in the journal wasn't "right". I worried that the stories weren't positive enough, that I didn't appear happy enough through the prose. That if my daughter read the entries someday she wouldn't feel loved enough because she might doubt my excitement for infant care. It didn't matter that, at times, I realized it's okay to be uncertain, grumpy, delerious-with-lack-of-sleep when learning to mother a new baby. That's the point. Anxiety, when it's bad, pretty much paralyzes. It obliterates perspective and leaves the affected individual incapable of looking at the big picture. All that is visible is the particular intrusive thought or obsession that the negativity machine is currently generating.
And that, I suppose, is why I'm really here. I'm looking for an outlet. A place to release some of the worry and negativity that I've claimed is so plaguing. I've journaled in the past and found it pretty therapeutic. But I'm feeling differently now. I have so many thoughts jumping in and out of my brain that it's hard to keep up with them. And I type faster than I write. So I guess I'll give blogging a whirl.
I'm not sure how long I'll keep this up. It feels pretty good to get some of these thoughts out, so maybe I'll do it for a while. I don't really plan on telling anyone about this blog so maybe no one will read it. Maybe some weirdo who's up late and trolls the internet for other weirdos will read it. Did I just insult someone? Did I just insult you, reader? Did I just insult myself? I don't know...I didn't really mean to. But I guess I don't really care. I just need to get some of this stuff off my chest.
This is the statement made regularly by a friend of mine who writes a blog about her family. It's very nice. My husband and I like to read it. Her kids are darling and the stories she shares are entertaining, heartwarming and inspiring. I aspire to be like this woman.
She is a mom and now I am a mom. I had a baby in December, and she is six months old now. I guess now that I'm a mom, my friend thinks that my own friends and family would like to read about the daily adventures of our family. Until now, though, I have not created any sort of on-line journal. And this journal is not really supposed to be about my my family.
This blog is about my anxiety. About the overwhelming worry that sometimes plagues me. That often plagues me. It is about the intrusive thoughts that I truly believed I had a handle on. That I believed I would never be plagued by again. But here I am, six months into motherhood and they are back. Generalized Anxiety Disorder with "some" Panic Disorder (this was my official diagnosis from my general practitioner) rears it's ugly head again.
There are two reasons why I never started a blog in the past. The first one is simple: I questioned whether my verbal output was worthy of the attention of others. I still do. Who am I to assume someone else would be interested in the contents of my head? What makes my verbal diarrhea any more worthy of attention than anyone else's? This is amusing because, as I indicated earlier, I find my friend's blog quite enjoyable to read. As is often the case, this perception of my own value has a lot to do with confidence and peace of mind, and less to do with the reality of a potential audience. In this day and age, most blogs are really for the loved ones of their authors, a modern day "Christmas letter" that is published on a more regular basis. They are not meant to be scrutinized and worried over. But then again, I scrutinize and worry over pretty much everything when I'm "not at my best".
The second reason that I never started a blog until now - a blog related to my family, that is - is because I'm so afraid of not being able to present the "right" picture of family life. The appropriate activities, thoughts, feelings and insights of a new mom. A week after my daughter was born, my husband bought me a journal so that I could write in it each night and chronicle her development. I started to do this nightly, but began generating entries less often when the demands of new motherhood and infant care interfered. No biggee...to be distracted from not-absolutely-necessary tasks while caring for a newborn is pretty standard. What wasn't standard, however, was worrying that what I was writing in the journal wasn't "right". I worried that the stories weren't positive enough, that I didn't appear happy enough through the prose. That if my daughter read the entries someday she wouldn't feel loved enough because she might doubt my excitement for infant care. It didn't matter that, at times, I realized it's okay to be uncertain, grumpy, delerious-with-lack-of-sleep when learning to mother a new baby. That's the point. Anxiety, when it's bad, pretty much paralyzes. It obliterates perspective and leaves the affected individual incapable of looking at the big picture. All that is visible is the particular intrusive thought or obsession that the negativity machine is currently generating.
And that, I suppose, is why I'm really here. I'm looking for an outlet. A place to release some of the worry and negativity that I've claimed is so plaguing. I've journaled in the past and found it pretty therapeutic. But I'm feeling differently now. I have so many thoughts jumping in and out of my brain that it's hard to keep up with them. And I type faster than I write. So I guess I'll give blogging a whirl.
I'm not sure how long I'll keep this up. It feels pretty good to get some of these thoughts out, so maybe I'll do it for a while. I don't really plan on telling anyone about this blog so maybe no one will read it. Maybe some weirdo who's up late and trolls the internet for other weirdos will read it. Did I just insult someone? Did I just insult you, reader? Did I just insult myself? I don't know...I didn't really mean to. But I guess I don't really care. I just need to get some of this stuff off my chest.
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