Happy Birthday Dear Blo-o-og, Happy Birthday To You!

This time last year, I clicked the button to make my blog public. I’d had it private for almost four months, and didn’t know if it was ever going to be public.

The issue was privacy. The premise of my blog is how a mother with anxiety handles life when her child starts to have panic attacks.My daughter Talee wanted to be sure that her real name wasn’t used. I completely understood, and of course, would honor her request.

I’d heard of authors using a pen name, but had no idea how to deal with this situation. I didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t telling the truth. The whole point was to be open and honest. I wondered if any other bloggers wrote anonymously, and if so, how did they do it?

I read tons of blogs, searching for my answer. Thankfully, I found it. One woman wrote about her daughter who has autism, and used pseudonyms. I modeled some of the structure of my blog to hers.

I’d written about six posts while it was still private. I asked Talee (now in her early 20s), if she wanted to take a look at them, and she did. I sat next to her, as her eyes were fixed on the computer screen, reading stories about life when she was a little girl.

I was surprised by her response. Her eyes welled up and she couldn’t seem to stop the tears.

“Talee, why are you crying?”

“I didn’t realize this is how you felt when I was going through that. I never thought to think of it from your perspective, as a mom. It’s so sad.”

Talee told me she was proud of me, and that my stories could help others.  That was the turning point. She gave me her blessing, and that’s exactly what I needed.

And so it began. Private to public.

I hoped people would read, but didn’t expect much. I was intimidated. I wondered if what I had to say was important. Will anyone really care?  Soon I met amazing and supportive bloggers. They cheered me on and helped me grow as a writer, as a person, and as a mental health advocate.

When I look back on the posts I wrote this year, I see it as a form of a diary. Personal thoughts are documented, ideas I never dreamed I’d express.

Even though the names on my blog are fictional, the feelings and experiences are all mine. It’s important to me that readers get to know the real me, while I manage to keep my family’s anonymity.

I’m grateful to occupy a little space here on WordPress. I’m thankful to my fellow bloggers for reading, commenting, and encouraging me. I’m excited to see where this next year takes me!

First image courtesy of: See here

Second image courtesy of: See here

Speak Out

I wish I would’ve known… That my symptoms were an actual illness. That I wasn’t alone. That medical help was available. And that I would recover.

I knew I didn’t have a normal problem. I didn’t dare divulge my secret, in fear of being ridiculed. What prevented me from talking about it was the stigma attached to mental illness.

May is Mental Health Month. And this week is National Children’s Mental Health Awareness Week. This hits close to home, so I thought this would be a good time to dedicate a post to it.

I was about ten years old when I started to have symptoms of panic disorder. Of course, I had absolutely no idea what my strange feelings were. At first I’d have episodes of disorientation. It was like I was in a fog or dream, and things didn’t seem real. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I’d think, Am I really ME?  I know it sounds weird. It was frightening. I never told anyone because I was embarrassed and ashamed. I now know I had feelings of detachment and derealization, which occur in people with panic disorder. I wrote about that in a previous post, you can find it here.

In middle school, I started to have terrifying times when all of a sudden, I’d get lightheaded, my heart would race, I’d start to black out, and was afraid I’d faint. I’d want to practically run out of the place I was at. It happened at school, the mall, and while driving. I couldn’t think of any reason I should be so scared. The sensations would wash over me like a tsunami, and eventually retreat to calmer waters. I didn’t realize what I experienced were panic attacks.

I was in my early thirties when I finally went to the doctor. He told me I had anxiety, agoraphobia, and panic attacks. I couldn’t believe there was a name for my symptoms. And that other people, millions of others, had this too. The best part was that I could get treatment. I didn’t need to suffer anymore. REALLY?

I felt pure relief! I had a diagnosis for my mysterious symptoms. I honestly thought my doctor wouldn’t know what to do with me, that he’d be referring me for tons of brain tests, in a desperate attempt to find out what was wrong.

When my daughter was ten and diagnosed with panic attacks, she didn’t want anyone to know. She was afraid her friends would think differently of her. I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t want the school nurse to write ‘anxiety’ in my daughter’s medical chart. I didn’t want her to be labeled.

It’s much harder to explain a mental illness, rather than a physical one. No one would say anything if my daughter had a broken leg. But I worried what they’d say if they found out she had panic attacks.

Thankfully, things are beginning to change. People are speaking out. But we’ve got a long way to go to end the stigma.

People suffering from mental health issues need to know they aren’t alone. And they can receive treatment and they can recover. I’m happy to say my daughter and I are testaments to that. We are nearly panic free.

First image courtesy of: http://www.namilongbeach.org

Second image courtesy of: http://www.franklinlakes.org

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Generations of Hurt

My childhood was wonderful. I grew up with two loving parents, a beautiful home, and a great family life. But there’s a snippet of time that wasn’t so good.

It happened when I was nineteen and my mom was in her late forties. I was a self-absorbed teenager, starting my second year of college.

I noticed Mom was getting thinner, but didn’t think much of it. Until one day when I saw her change her clothes. I’d never seen Mom’s arms and legs look so bony. Her face appeared drawn and gaunt. It scared me. I didn’t say anything to her because I didn’t want to make her feel bad.

I didn’t know why my mom lost so much weight. I can’t pretend to know what she was thinking. Mom told me she felt better not eating much. She didn’t mind being hungry. She said she felt in control.

Mom was a dancer when she was young, and she still took weekly ballet classes. The ballet instructor told Mom she was getting too skinny. Mom laughed it off, thinking that was  ridiculous. She said when she stood in front of the mirror in her tights and leotard, she thought she looked fat. I couldn’t understand this. How can Mom not see how she really looks?  

Mom was hospitalized for depression and anorexia. It seemed like she was always trying different medications. She was discouraged because none of them worked. And they all had bad side effects.

About five years later, when Mom was in her mid fifties, her doctor said there was a new drug that was worth a try. An antidepressant called Prozac.

Within days, Mom felt better. She could function. She felt normal, and not in a daze. She even felt happy, like there was a reason to live.

That medication was Mom’s miracle.

***

I’ve had panic attacks since I was a child. At the time, I had no idea what was wrong with me. I didn’t know how to explain my frightening symptoms. My heart would race, I’d get dizzy, and feel like I was going to faint. I had an uncontrollable urge to leave the place I was at. I knew it wasn’t normal to feel that way. I never told anyone, not even my parents.

I finally reached out for medical help when I couldn’t take it anymore. I was in my early thirties. The symptoms would inevitably come every time I drove, went to the grocery store, or the mall.

My doctor diagnosed me with agoraphobia. He told me I inherited Mom’s imbalanced serotonin levels, and would need an antidepressant to correct it. The doctor explained that in my mom, it showed up as depression. In me, it was panic attacks.

Unfortunately, the incorrect levels of serotonin were passed on to my daughter. She started to have signs of panic attacks when she was nine years old. She missed several weeks of fourth grade because she was terrified of having panic symptoms at school. She was also prescribed an antidepressant, which helped her return to the classroom.

My mom, my daughter, and I are now healthy and happy. Mom is almost eighty years old, and is beautiful and vibrant. My twenty one year old daughter is successful in college and rarely has panic attacks. She no longer takes medication. I live a rich, full life, and can control my anxiety.

Three generations affected by imbalanced serotonin. It deeply changed each one of us. We felt alone. We thought we were fighting an emotional battle no one else knew.

Now we realize we aren’t alone. Millions of people suffer anxiety, panic attacks, and depression.

We are testaments to the fact that there is hope.

There really is hope.

***

Image courtesy of: 4hdwallpapers.com

 

 

 

 

Am I Really Me?

This subject is hard for me to talk about. For me, it’s the scariest part of panic disorder. It used to happen often, but thankfully it doesn’t anymore.

Here’s how I can best describe the feeling: I’m in a fog. I’m in a dream. I don’t know whose body I’m in. I’m not sure if everything around me is real. I want to cross the street, but the lines are wavy and the street signs are blurry.

Is this real? Am I really here? Who am I anyway?

I’ve had these weird thoughts since I was a girl. When I was in my 30s, I learned that there were actual terms for the symptoms that totally freaked me out.

Derealization (feeling as if the world isn’t real) and depersonalization (an anomaly of self-awareness; being a detached observer of oneself). Like an out-of-body experience.

The first time it happened was in fourth grade. I had to go to the administration office to get something for my teacher. This crazy sensation came over me that I wasn’t sure what I was doing in the office. Is this me? I sat in a chair until I felt better. Scary! And I was only ten years old. I didn’t mention the episode to anyone. How could I? Who would understand?

It started up again in high school. I’d be looking in a mirror and wonder, Is this really me? If not, who is it? I practically had to shake myself to stop those thoughts.

One morning I was sitting on the floor in front of my full length mirror, getting ready for work. Those strange feelings hit me so hard. I couldn’t stop them. I was shaky and felt like I was brushing eyeshadow on someone else. Like I was in a fantasy world. I called in sick that day.

I’d tell myself, Stop it! Stop thinking I’m not who I am! Don’t go there! I could easily make myself go to that weird, awful, freaky place. But it was hard to bring myself out of it. Once I stepped over into the land of distortion, I couldn’t get back. The trick was not going there at all.

That dreamlike (nightmare) state was what I always hated most about my agoraphobia and panic attacks. To be honest, as I’m writing this, I’m wondering if anyone really  understands what I’m saying.

When my little Talee was having panic attacks, she’d say to me, “Don’t ask me questions. I don’t want to talk, because it doesn’t sound like my voice.” I knew exactly what she meant. And I was so sad for her.

It’s been years since I’ve gone into that frightening zone. Yes, “zoned out.” I’m thankful I rarely feel like I’m going there. And if I do, I can stop it. I tell myself, NO. I’m NOT doing this. Then I keep myself busy to distract myself.

Anything to keep me out of the dreaded fog, and back into reality.

***

Image courtesy of: https://www.pinterest.com/caputxi/conceptual-photography/

Pass the Colored Pencils

I loved coloring books when I was a little girl. I was so excited every time I’d get a new box of crayons. My favorite colors were Aquamarine, Hot Magenta, Cornflower, and Goldenrod.

Lately I’ve been hearing a lot about coloring as a new type of stress therapy. It seems like a fun activity to incorporate into treatment.

Art has therapeutic qualities. Many people find it relaxing to draw, paint, or sculpt clay. I’m creative, and love arts and crafts. I’m not a talented drawer. Stick figures are about it for me. But coloring in lines — that I could do.

There was an article in last week’s newspaper, dedicated to coloring for your health. Psychologist Alice Domar, Ph.D, says, “Coloring requires you to be in the moment. And that makes it meditative.” You can sit and be mindful of what you’re doing, instead of worrying about your anxiety. It can be soothing and a good distraction. Plus, at the end, you get a beautiful result.

I was wondering what kinds of coloring books adults buy. I pictured myself going into Toys R Us or Target and browsing the kid’s section. But there are coloring books for adults. Think of designs like paisleys, animals, botanicals, buildings, and decorative fans. I just did an Amazon search, and there are tons of gorgeous ones to choose from.

Time for a new box of crayons. And new Crayola colors: Macaroni and Cheese, Razzle Dazzle Rose, Cotton Candy, and Electric Lime.

Or, since I’m a grown up, maybe I should use colored pencils.

***

Image courtesy of parade.com

Finding You

Sabrina is one of my all-time favorite movies. Sabrina’s father is the chauffeur of a wealthy family. She and her dad live in a small house on the grounds of the family’s sprawling estate. The young, rich brothers never notice Sabrina. But she swoons over them.

Sabrina moves to Paris for a fashion internship. She’s gone for several months, and a transformation takes place. Her confidence sky-rockets, she’s more sophisticated and  attractive. She cuts her long, thick mane into a stylish wavy bob, buys a new wardrobe, and learns how to apply makeup with perfect precision.

Sabrina comes back to the estate looking gorgeous — so much so that she’s unrecognizable. She’s invited to an elegant outdoor party, hosted by the family. Sabrina is breathtaking in a sparkly dress and a beautiful red-stained smile. One of the brothers asks her to dance. The band plays, lights twinkle in the trees, and champagne flows.

Sabrina is in heaven being close to this man she’s secretly loved her entire childhood. While they’re slow dancing, he stares into her eyes and everything seems to stop. He tells her, “You dazzle me.”

Simple as that. We all want to be dazzling. I know I do.

Sure, Sabrina looks amazing. But it’s not just what’s on the surface. That sparkle comes from deep within her. It was always there. She had to find a way to reveal it.

Through a long series of mistakes and mishaps, Sabrina finally realizes what’s important in her life. She becomes the woman she wants to be.

Our struggles with mental health can crush the hope of being the person we want to be. It may seem impossible to find peace and confidence.

How can I be happy and sure of myself when I’m terrified and so anxious I can barely move?

I think inside everyone, is someone dazzling waiting to come out. It could be a long, frustrating journey.

But that person is there, waiting to be found.

  “Happiness and confidence

are the prettiest things you can wear.“

-Taylor Swift

 

 

 

 

Bliss

That feeling of pure joy. Pure contentment. I’m grateful to say I’ve felt that this weekend.

My youngest daughter, Talee, is away for the summer studying abroad. My older daughter, Mackenzie, lives about an hour away from home. She’s a business woman, and extremely busy with her job and independent life.

I’ve adjusted to being an empty nester. But I desperately miss my sweet girls!

Mackenzie has been super stressed working on a job promotion, so she wanted to have a “chill” weekend with my husband and me. We were more than happy to welcome her home. I savored our long, leisurely meals, talking and laughing for hours. We had a great time shopping for dishes and decorative pieces for her new apartment, and of course, for clothes and shoes. Mackenzie and I cooked together and cuddled in bed watching TV. I treasured every minute.

We reconnected.

As my daughters are getting older, reconnecting is more important than ever. Sometimes I feel as if we’re growing apart. I want to give them space. They need to discover things about themselves without me. But I still want to feel needed, and be an active part of their lives. I love to hear about their jobs, their courses at school, and their friends. I want to be kept in the loop.

I’m thankful that I am. My girls tell me stories about their adventures and still seek my opinions and advice. It warms my heart that Mackenzie and Talee genuinely enjoy spending time with me, as I do with them.

Our lives are so hectic and it’s difficult to spend quality time with each other. But we need to, and we must. It feels good to slow down. Not only that, it’s healthy.

To recharge and reconnect.

I’m going outside now, and plop on a lounge chair next to Mackenzie.

Pure bliss.

Photo credit: editmentor.wordpress.com

Sweet Joys

I’ve been thinking of something all day — that delectable ice cream I ate last night.  It started with a couple scoops of strawberry ice cream (slow churned, half the fat, so I didn’t feel guilty). I dotted the top with chocolate chips (I have to have something chocolate), and sprinkled it with unsweetened coconut flakes.

Mmmmm. The ice cream melted on my tongue, and chunks of strawberries were sweet surprises in my mouth. I chewed the chocolate chips, that got a little hard from being so cold. They were the perfect accompaniment to the smooth ice cream. And the flakes of crunchy coconut… Wow! That’s what made it so delicious. The light, crispy coconut.

I couldn’t stop daydreaming about that luscious treat. That got me thinking. There are many simple things that make me happy.

*It warms my heart that Talee texts and sends pictures everyday to let me know she’s okay and having a wonderful time (she’s studying abroad 6,000 miles away).

*I’m grateful that Mackenzie is happy, independent, and loves working (her dream job, right out of college).

*I love that my husband and I laugh and laugh together.

*I’m thankful for the tiny green tomato that just sprouted on my cherry tomato plant.

It’s the smaller, kind acts of people and the beauty of nature that bring me happiness. I make a point to stop and really notice. To savor the moment.

Because if I focus on the cute, chubby baby kicking her legs in excitement, or if I watch in amazement at how fast the hummingbirds flap their wings, I’m not concentrating on my anxiety. And I’m not wondering when my next panic attack will be.

I need to be mindful. Be present. And not what-iffing on what could be.

When I drive, I often breathe in deep through my nose, and exhale slowly. I listen to my favorite radio station and get my mind away from thinking, What if I have a panic attack at this intersection? At the gym, I concentrate on the beat of my music and the way my muscles feel as they’re getting stronger. And not, What if I panic right here on the elliptical?

Remembering to stop and count my blessings is another form of being mindful. Noticing. Like when my husband held my hand last night at the park. And when our ten year old dog ran with so much energy, he played catch like he was two.

Before I fall asleep, I reflect on the good things that happened that day. Some nights I have to dig deeper. But the beautiful, small gifts are always there. Always.

Find the simple joys in life. Be mindful of them. And savor their deliciousness.

Sweet.

 

 

 

Fight On!

Music moves me. It makes me happy, and it’s there when I need a good cry.

I’ve heard this song a few times the past week, and love the lyrics. It’s called Fight Song by Rachel Platten. It has a fun beat, it’s catchy, and reminds me I’m strong and not to ever, ever give up!

Small Steps

The hard part is getting started. Whether you’re working toward recovery, completing a house/yard project, or exercising to improve health, even tiny steps are progress.

I love this cartoon for adults and children. It feels awesome to achieve a goal, especially if it’s something that scares or intimidates us. Like when Talee and I finally got control of our panic attacks. Or when Talee and Mackenzie went ziplining (fear of heights!) Or when I skied down a mountain (fear of skiing!)

I tend to get overwhelmed by projects. I’m impatient. My husband is the opposite. I’ve learned from him that I can achieve rewards if I take the time and have the patience to get there. That’s hard to do!

This is how I handle it: I tell myself, “I’ll make this one phone call” or “I’ll work out for fifteen minutes” or “I’ll clean the closet for half an hour.” I need to start with something, even if it’s small. Then I feel good I’ve accomplished that one part, and think, “Okay, I can do this, it’s not so bad.” Before I know it, I’ve been on the exercise bike for forty minutes, or cleaned four shelves of the closet.

Of course, there are times I feel like I’ve taken ten steps forward, and six steps back. So frustrating! But I know if I keep at it, I’ll eventually achieve my goal.

Small steps can reap great rewards.

***

Image courtesy of alifetimeofwisdom.com