I wish I knew the exact quote and its source, but I remember
reading a saying of sort that guilt is the incestuous cousin of anxiety and
depression. You feel bad because neither anxiety nor depression is a good
feeling, right? And then you feel bad for acknowledging that you feel bad and can’t
participate fully in life. It’s an ugly duo of nastiness that just fuels the
fire.
My earliest bouts with depression hit me around the same
time as puberty. I was in the sixth grade and found myself so lacking in energy
that I was coming home after school and collapsing at the bottom of the stairs,
unable to make it to my room. The normal physical education my classmates took
part in left me breathless and dizzy on a regular basis. I was not medically
overweight despite being one of the few girls in my class to tip the scale in
the triple digits at 115 pounds and 5’2”. They ran tests on my heart as I was
born with a very slight heart murmur and they thought maybe it had gotten worse
and not better. They did an ultrasound of my chest and determined that I had
outgrown the murmur and there was no physical reason I should be so tired. My
pediatrician decided I was depressed and gave me an antidepressant. I remember
thinking the guy was a “quack,” and even referred to him as Dr. Quack in my
journals. I also remember that I took the pills for exactly three days. They
gave me cotton mouth and made me the bitchiest little thing on two legs. At the
ripe, old age of 11, I knew enough to know that I didn’t like it and simply
tossed the bottle.
As my menstrual cycles kicked in, so did the dramatic mood
swings. Anyone that said PMDD is just an excuse to give psyche meds to chicks
never lived with me. I ran the gamut from crying bouts to cleaning binges with
a few failed attempts to paint my bedroom that started out as cleaning binges
and ended in crying bouts. My father looked at the foods I was making and
cautiously asked once if I was pregnant. Birth control pills helped, but I
spent most of my adult life completely insane for at least one week out of the
month. I was on some form of a birth control pill up until age 28 when I had a
partial hysterectomy.
The doctor that so graciously removed my uterus was the
first to prescribe Prozac to me. Initially he offered it to ease my PMDD and
later told me that I was not emotionally stable enough for surgery when he
first saw me or he would have done the hysterectomy sooner. Prozac worked
without numbing me down like other meds I was given over the years. Unlike the
other meds that I would try for a couple weeks then throw away; I stayed on
Prozac for around 3 years. I weaned myself off of it after The ExH and I
separated so I’d be able to go without once my health insurance was gone.
Less than a year after I’d gone off Prozac I met
Depression’s ugly sister, Anxiety. I started having panic attacks that turned
into violent crying fits and ended with me curled up in the fetal position.
There were certain triggers I learned to recognize. Of all the normal life
things, grocery shopping was the hardest thing for me to do. During most of the
18 months I was with Moose, he had to do the shopping because I couldn’t even
pull into the parking lot at Wal-Mart without falling apart. Other situations
would come up and I’d find myself running from wherever we were at and hiding
in the car. It was embarrassing, scary and made worse by the generally stressed
out life I was living. I was still without health insurance, but I had become
friends with a group of people who tended to stray from traditional medicine in
favor of holistic remedies and herbalism.
One friend in particular, a medically retired Vet with debilitating PTSD
gave me a Happy Camper one day and told me where to buy them. She swore by them
and never left the house without a couple in her belly and her service animal
beside her.
Last year when I met The Mr., I was on my own and doing
better than I had in years. I was training a class at the call center I’d been
at for around a year. My income was comfortable, even when my high heels
weren’t. I’d learned to take a Happy Camper before grocery shopping, and
carried them in my bag for unexpected panic attacks. Generally, things were
smooth. The work stuff was stressful, but I was in a place where I commanded
the room and saved my crying for the quiet moments when I was alone in my
classroom doing time critical reports making over-time pay. Until the day I
couldn’t.
Maybe it was the corporate Big Wigs that were sitting in on
my class. Maybe it was the Taco Thursday turning my insides over while I tried
to lecture. Maybe I was ovulating. Whatever the reason, I found myself starting
to break out in a cold sweat. As I walked the aisle of the room, stars were
flashing before me. I felt nauseous and short of breath. I tapped my assistant
and told him I needed a minute and asked him to pick up where I was in the
slide show. Before I could make it down the hall to the bathroom I started
crying hysterically. I was having a major panic attack at work with only a
small 2-stall unisex bathroom to run to. Inside the stall I crouched down on my
heels and shook and cried for a good 10 minutes. Of course someone that knew me
came in just as I was coming out and attempting to clean myself up. I played it
off as a stomach issue so they would think I had been vomiting and not crying.
I went back to the classroom and wasn’t in the door 2 minutes before it hit me
again and I had to go running. Again when asked if I was okay, I alluded to
digestive issues and was asked if I was pregnant. That was the day I started carrying a larger
stash of Happy Campers.
Since the move out East I’ve seen an increase in anxiety
over all. Working from home has turned me into even more of a hermit than ever,
creeping into the realm of agoraphobia. Just the idea of leaving the house when
my mood is off can send me spiraling. The Mr. is the type that can’t stay home
for days on end, and gets cabin fever after only one day off work. We are so
enmeshed in each other that our moods sometimes feed each other and we have
been known to play ‘pass the crazy ball’ back and forth several times in a day.
He understands when I’m having trouble and is quick to bring me a Happy Camper
and remind me to eat breakfast before the caffeine winds me up. He is good
about holding my hand and not leaving me alone in public places when possible.
He also takes Happy Campers when he finds himself having a case of the crazies.
He truly understands what happens with me because it happens to him sometimes
in his own way. But the guilt of it still gets to me.
I feel guilty for being crazy. I feel bad for needing pills,
even if they are herbal. I feel like I’m holding him back from doing things he
would enjoy that would likely cause me to have a meltdown. I push through as
much of it as I can, but there have been times where we’ve gone somewhere and I’ve
just needed to leave.
Today was a family event at his work. He wanted me to come,
but knew that between the number of people and the environment it was likely to
cause anxiety for me. He asked about it a couple times in a non-pushy way,
giving me the option. When he left this morning we talked about it again. I was
considering pushing myself, taking a Happy Camper and getting dressed. He said
to me, “It’s okay. You would just get pretty to be surrounded by people you
don’t know and be outside for several hours while worrying about getting home
in time for work.” He meant it when he said it was okay for me to stay home
today, but the incestuous cousin to my Anxiety Monster has been hanging around
all day.
And in the end, he got tasked with a project, blew off the "Mandatory Fun Day" event and was home by lunch time to start his long weekend.
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