Tag Archives: Panic Anxiety Disorder

Just Write. Because I Haven’t Really Written In A While Now.

Dizzy. Again.

What is it? Is it my thyroid? Blood sugar? Hormonal? Or is it just my freaking mind running away without my body?

My body. Struggling to seem normal. Struggling to appear normal. I fake it. I try to fake it. I don’t know if I’m successful.

Desperate for this dizziness not to tail spin into a panic attack I try to distract myself.

So, I fold some laundry. And unload the dishwasher. And let the dog out. And check email. But because I’m dizzy, and my heart is fluttering and my mind is over in the next room, I don’t finish anything.

The damp laundry, taking on a familiar mildew-y perfume,  is sitting in the dryer with the door open. I forgot to turn it on.

The bottom rack is emptied. The top is full. And forgetting that I hadn’t emptied the entire thing, dirty dishes are now mingling with clean.

The dog is quietly whimpering on the porch. Forgotten.

Emails left unanswered. I can’t form my thoughts. They float in and out of me. Waves of words. Sinking into the sand and out of reach. Gone. Until a new wave washes up. I try to grasp at some of the letters. Some stick. Others disappear.

Normal, I think. I just want to be normal again. Please, God. Make me normal again.

Louise Hay tells me I can control my health with my thoughts. So I think harder. “I am healthy.” “I am calm.” “I am balanced.”

My husband tells me it’s physical, so I take more herbs.

My doctor agrees with my husband and encourages me to wait it out. Menopause is a tricky thing, she says.

But I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of struggling.

And I’m tired of faking normal.

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The above post is an exercise of Just Write by the wonderful Heather at The Extraordinary Ordinary blog. Please visit her blog to read more or participate yourself! 

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I Need A Support Team. A 24/7 Support Team.

Suffering, as I do, from panic/anxiety disorder is a very lonely thing. First of all, it has taken me almost two years to admit publicly that I am a sufferer.

Hi. I’m Jane. And I have …….

It’s so hard to say. Because the name means nothing to me. Okay. That’s a lie. I can’t say it because the label is so loaded in my mind.

There. My deep dark secret is out. Now, why don’t I feel better?

My panic and anxiety makes me feel weak, crazy, unlovable, a burden. Never one to ask for help before, it’s even more difficult now. And while it would also be a lie to say that I don’t already have a support team, I can say it isn’t enough.

I am suffering. I am struggling. And I dream of 24/7 support.

A nurse. To check my vitals and tell me I’m okay when I’m freaking out. But she has to be knowledgeable of Eastern Medicine and be on board with the methods I’m trying (both Western and Eastern) under my husband’s care (a doctor of Oriental Medicine) and my Western Medicine doctor.

A dietitian who doubles as an amazing chef. To feed me when I can’t bare to make the food myself. To make sure I’m eating well. To make amazing meals for my family that don’t come from the freezer or a take-out box.

A yoga instructor. To guide me in my workout and take away the anxiety I feel that I’m going to pass out every time I exercise.

An assistant. To mail my daughter’s Valentine’s care package (Yes. It’s still sitting on the counter) because I’m afraid to drive a car.

A housekeeper. To pick up the slack. I don’t mind the housework. In fact, sometimes it helps to do repetitive chores. But other times, I’m in the middle of something, I find it hard to concentrate so I move onto something else. My home is then filled with half-done projects. Or I spray Windex on the dining table or leave the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the hall, forgetting where I left off. (Don’t judge. You can’t see those pretty vacuum lines on Berber carpet.)

The perfect sleep husband. A man who doesn’t snore when I’m sleeping so lightly already. Someone who is cheerful and wide awake when I need comfort at 3am because I’ve just woken up in terror.

But most of all, I want someone to inhabit my body and take over so I can morph into the old me when my kids are around. I want to make them breakfast and listen to their joys and troubles without a pained expression on my face while I try desperately to keep it together. I want focus to be able to play a board game or read to them or have the energy to play catch. I want to be the mom I was meant to be, not this blob who shuffles through, doing the bare minimum.

Don’t get me wrong. My husband is more than understanding. His medical knowledge invaluable. The closest friend that I’ve felt comfortable sharing this struggle with picked me and the boys up when I had a panic attack out on the highway and couldn’t drive another inch.

In desperate times, people come through.

I just want 24/7 support so I never have to get to the desperate point.

Because all those times in between are such a struggle.

And difficult.

And oh, so lonely.

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