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.

The Pain Never Lasts Very Long

We were all working in the yard over the weekend. Spreading mulch, dividing daylillies, minor repairs. Side by side. The whole family. Ok. So, we had to bribe our daughter with gas money for her upcoming trip. But we were still having a great time. One big, happy family.

A thorn jabbed me under my nail. Deep. And it hurt.

“Ouch!” I cried.

My youngest son, all 7 years of him, rushed over, grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy! The pain never lasts very long.”

I smiled. Savoring his wise words. Starting to dismiss them. Because our family has been struggling through a heaping basket full of minor and major mishaps for the past five months.

And then I realized, he’s right. In the huge (and in our case it has to be huge because we still haven’t seen the end to the crap parade that’s been coming down our street) grand scheme of things everything we’ve been going through is going to look like a tiny blip on the radar. Tiny. At least, fingers crossed, that’s what I’m predicting.

Have you ever sat there, in your comfortable life, thinking things were so hard? And wishing for the days when things were so easy? You’re in your forties, with college looming ahead for your daughter, wondering how in the world you’re going to help finance it and wishing you were in your thirties when her biggest expense was a new bicycle. Or you’re in your thirties, struggling to give your children everything they deserve, wrestling with their constant demands, wishing for the carefree life of college. Or you’re in college, struggling with studies and holding down two jobs to help pay for your existence and wishing for the easy days of high school when your biggest dilemma was what to wear or which social activity to attend.

It’s all relative.

And it’s true, the pain never lasts very long.

In a blink of an eye, your daughter is being placed in your arms at the airport. Sweet, cuddly little bundle of joy from Korea. Blink, blink. And she’s 10 years old, doing her adorable judges salute at the state gymnastics championships. Blink again and she’s struggling with a death of a boyfriend, honors and AP classes, essays for college applications.

Or she’s struggling with pain you feel you created for her. A dad, the man you married much too young and later divorced, who is making her feel like a burden, less than valued, an inconvenience. You try to take away her pain. You try to tell her the pain never lasts very long. But your words feel hollow and thin.

As much as this pain that she’s struggling with hurts right now, it is true. It will dissipate.

And be replaced with something new.

And thank goodness, that pain will never last very long either.

Superhero Anti-Depression Gene: Free At Jane’s Blog. All Qualified Sufferers Apply Within.

I was born with a sunny disposition. Just ask my mother. She always marveled to anyone who’d listen that “Jane was such a happy baby. She never cried. Ever. We took her to the doctor when she was 6 months old because we were worried she might be retarded or something.”

Yep. That’s my mom.

But I am. Happy, that is. Most all of the time. I’ve had my share of down moments but they rarely last long. And that is such a blessing. It truly is. My extended family is riddled with mental illness so I’ve seen the consequences first hand. I don’t want any part of it.

As I mentioned Wednesday, December was a &%!#$. Really. Awful. Struggles in all areas of my life. Financial. Marriage. Friends. Family. Even kids. Things so personal I would never, ever mention them here. You’ll have to let your imagination run wild. And quite honestly, my real life friends and family have no clue either. Only my therapist knows the deepest, darkest. I’m, believe it or not, a private person. (That sounds so funny from someone who blogs their life to the masses, doesn’t it?)

I am private about the deepest, darkest. I think because I don’t want to seem like someone who wallows in self-pity. I know it’s because I don’t want to be perceived as weak. Strong was always valued by my father. Letting things roll right off your back. Pick yourself up and move forward. “You’ll get over it,” was his common refrain. We used to joke that would be his epitaph — “They’ll get over it.”

Back to this past December.

I’ve heard, over and over, how tough the holidays are for some. The pressure. The strain. The in-laws and dysfunctional family get togethers. The financial pressure to measure up. To buy, buy, buy. The social obligations. Forced “Happy Holiday” greetings through gritted teeth.

The logical side of my brain got it. The emotional side of my brain didn’t.

That delicious time (and I do mean delicious) between Thanksgiving and New Years is my hands-down favorite time of the year. I live for it. I hum Christmas carols all year round. I start buying for next year (mostly out of necessity but that doesn’t make it any less fun) as soon as January hits.

And thank goodness, especially this year, that I enjoy December so much.

I said to my therapist, that if it weren’t for the fact that I love the holidays, I just might have slit my wrists. I’m not being flippant. I’m not trying to minimize anyone else’s pain out there. I’m trying to say the emotional part of my brain finally got it this year.

Now before you start worrying your pretty little heads – no one has cancer. Our home is not in foreclosure. It was just (Ha! Just. As if.) a bombardment of yucky, crappy things. A new one each day. For a little over three weeks. Every. Single. Day. From the vacuum cleaner breaking (a ridiculously expensive central vac system) to friendships crumbling to burst water pipes and …… well, I mentioned I’m private. I’m stopping there.

Every day it was something new. It got to the point that I’d wake up and say, “So God (or is it the devil?), what are you going to throw at me today?”

I’d start mumbling mantras: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

But that got old.

I’d start preparing and imagining for the worst every time the phone rang or we’d step into the car (Did I mention my husband’s car getting smashed in a parking lot? That was an eventful day.)

But that just put my stomach into knots.

Truly. If it weren’t for the joyous Christmas season – joyous for me, anyway – I never would have made it out. And there’s this little inkling in me, right this very minute, that is trying to strip away all the holiday spirit and really try to comprehend all that happened. But then there is this Superhero force that stops myself and doesn’t let me go there.

Thank goodness. Time to just forget it all and move forward.

Thank you, happy Christmas gene.

I am feeling so grateful that I lucked out with a happy Christmas gene that got me through. There are a small handful of you out there (you know who you are and to protect your privacy I’m not naming/linking here — I’m sure you understand) that  suffer during this time of year or also had a particularly difficult December. I’m sending a Superhero strength anti-depression gene to anyone who needs it.

He looks a little like this:

Cute, huh? He sits snug as a …..well, penguin in your nucleus accumbens and will travel to your prefrontal cortex, your amygdala. Wherever he is needed. He doesn’t look like much. Certainly not like a Superhero (I think his tux is cleverly hiding his cape). But he’s plenty powerful, believe you me.

I had to rely on him much this holiday season. And afterwards, too.

But I’m done with him now.

Thank goodness.

(Ahhhh, if only it were that simple. Hugs to ALL of you out there. Superhero hugs from me.)