Sunday Morning – Day 4

Today seems better than yesterday so far.  It’s just barely noon, but I’m hoping the upswing has picked up some momentum to last the rest of the day.  Alli just text messaged me and wants me to go to the bar with her this afternoon and I said yes.  Even if I were feeling highly anxious, I think the idea of staying in my house for another full day with my fiance and son could drive me over the edge.

As far as the bar goes, I’ve made myself go enough times that it’s mostly made it onto my “comfortable” list.  It’s just one bar that I go to and I have to be in a certain section.  I can only go in the afternoon and only on Sundays because that’s when our friend works as the bartender.  It’s a bit of a hole in the wall.  Every time I walk in people across the place scream “ANNIE!” like I’m Norm on Cheers.  What I need to learn to do is leave when I feel the anxiety come on, instead of stay because people will think I’m rude.

The even stranger part about my ability to be comfortable going to this place is that it’s kind of far away, across the street from Alli’s.  It’s about 8 miles one trip, which would normally be enough to make me never go.  But I’m so familiar with the roads to get there, and it’s a pretty straight shot.  The last time I went, though, the 2nd road I have to take was shut down for construction causing a bit of panic.  It was somewhat quickly recovered though, because my GPS was helpful for once.  There are, however, few things I despise more than that residual feeling you get of “almost” having a panic attack.

I don’t know if I consider this progress, since I have been able to go to this bar before.  Maybe progress would be sitting in a different place once I get there, but I make no promises.  The important part is that I’m leaving my house and having a pleasurable association with doing so.  At least I think that’s the important part.

Baby steps.  I didn’t get this anxious overnight and I’m not going to be free from it overnight either.

High Anxiety Saturday – Day 3

I had a world of trouble getting to sleep last night. Eventually I broke down and took a vicodin. My headache was pretty minor in comparison to what it usually is, but vicodin is all I have right now. I would have much preferred to take something more appropriate for anxiety, but c’est la vie. Finally, I fell asleep at around 4am, only to be woken up by my fiance doing several hundred times. If you ask me, he was being all passive aggressive and needy, but realistically he was probably just having trouble sleeping too. Still, my patience for him is dwindling. You don’t get to make me cry one minute and expect me to be loving and turned on the next. It just doesn’t work that way. And sadly, that seems to sum up majority of our time together.

He was nice enough to let me sleep in today, though. We trade off waking up with X on the weekends, but Saturday morning is usually my turn. So that was nice of him. I actually slept until noon, which I know I’ve done before but it seems like lifetimes ago. I felt pretty good waking up. Even though I woke up an ungodly number of times, I still managed to be in bed for a full eight hours. I felt pretty refreshed. After making the bed, weighing, getting dressed, and all that fun stuff, I went out to greet my family as well as the day. My heart stopped when I saw the state of the house outside my bedroom door. Our son was nowhere in sight, but it looked like he had exploded. There were toys and paper and trash strewn about. Food everywhere. A few overturned toy baskets. Puzzles with pieces everywhere. Crumbs everywhere. What the hell had happened?

My fiance was sitting on the sofa, picking at his feet as usual, and watching TV. I asked him where X was, and he told me that he’d put himself to sleep. I asked him if a natural disaster had hit our home, and he dumbly said “Why? What’s wrong with it?”. I suppose nothing is wrong with it if you don’t mind wondering what your carpet looks like.

The dishwasher always has dirty dishes in it, unless it’s running. It’s a thing of mine. We’ve lived together for an extremely long time, so he knows this. Why were there dishes piled up to the ceiling (not to mention, where did they all come from?! i’d run the dishwasher last night!) on the counter that’s RIGHT ON TOP of the dishwasher? How much more effort does it take to open the door, and put the cup a foot lower than it would be on the counter?

So I picked up the house. He decided he could pause his TV show to help out a bit, which was nice of him. Maybe he really didn’t see how horrible it looked, though I have trouble buying that. My son woke up sometime while I was cleaning. He decided a fun game to play would be to follow me around and pull out everything I put away. After asking three times for my fiance to change a diaper, I quit picking up, and got X diapered and dressed. Why he wasn’t out of his pajamas before 1pm is annoying, but it doesn’t even make the top ten list of things that annoyed me today. I finished picking up the house after that.

My living room once again looks like my son exploded in it. It makes me well up with tears to admit that in writing. I don’t think of myself as a clean freak. There are messy parts of my home, just like anyone else. But the parts that I have made an ongoing and consistent effort to keep clean are the ones I want to be kept up. I’m not asking anyone else to clean them. I’m not asking anyone else to clean anything, actually. I just want him to pick up after himself, and pick up after X when he’s watching him. Perhaps my requests aren’t as reasonable to others as they seem to me.

So with my environment out of whack, along with my sense of sanity, I don’t have any big expeditions planned for today. I will need to run to the corner store at some point, but I don’t really count that. It’s less than a block away, and I usually don’t have anxiety about going there. I know all the guys who work there and they’re very nice to me. I can still see my building from there. I don’t know why those things make a difference, but they do.

I’m not sure where all of my day’s anxiety is coming from. I don’t know whether it’s from getting more sleep than I’m used to, or walking out to a disastrous living room and kitchen, taking a vicodin last night, or residual anxiety from doing a lot yesterday. Whatever the reason, it is what it is and I need to figure out how to rise above it.

I’m open to suggestion.

An Agorariffic Outing – Day 2

I gave you a few entries of introduction yesterday, so I’m going to just jump into today without too much back story. After spending the last day and a half reflecting on the very likely possibility that I have a textbook case of agoraphobia, I decided the time to start trying to fix things is now. Otherwise I could spend the next few years researching and just thinking about getting a handle on this until I lose interest and forget about it all together.

This morning I drove my fiance to work. I’d had a panic issue about the thought of it last night before going to bed. I tried to reason with myself, which just doesn’t work. Obviously if I were well rooted in logic, I wouldn’t have this problem to begin with. Surprisingly I didn’t flip out too much before leaving. It was more of an uncomfortable feeling that just wouldn’t go away, like running into an ex while you’re wearing stained sweats and no makeup and you want to sink into the ground and never come back. I managed to get B to work and even stopped at a convenience store for a soda.

After that I went over to my best friend Alli’s house. I don’t seem to mind being there whenever I go. Once my son starts to get cranky there though, it loses it’s peaceful feeling. I’ve spent a fair amount of time there. It’s one of the places on my list of places that aren’t so bad if I have to be away from home. Usually I go there on the weekend when B can watch our son. I’ve even stayed the night on her sofa a few times, which was surprising. Being a mom 24/7 requires that I take occasional breaks away from home. When my patience goes out the window, I can usually talk myself into leaving the house for a longer period of time.

My son and I spent a few hours there. X likes to play with Alli’s kitties, her pet rat, and he likes to climb her staircase. Alli and I hung out and had lunch, and we watched most of Blades of Glory. X started getting pretty cranky towards the end. I probably kept him out about 30 minutes too long. But when we got back home, he went to sleep very quickly.

And before you start giving me the atta girl line, I do have to admit that just when I thought the outing would end without major incident, I missed a turn on my way home and wound up in a construction zone nightmare. I ended up getting lost, which as you know is a recipe for flipping out. I was even arguing with my GPS, which isn’t what sane folk do I’d imagine. I 100% refuse to ever act strangely in front of my son, so I was able to hold it in until I got home. Once I had him down for a nap, I was able to do my flipping out and streaming tears.

So I know it’s not a cure, but it’s better than yesterday. I think that has to be the extent of my goal setting – do better today than I did yesterday. Even that might be putting too much pressure on myself, so how about not doing worse than yesterday, instead? I’ll figure out the catchy goal setting motto later.

I took a baby step today. Weekends are strange around here, so we’ll see if I actually make some progress between now and Monday or not.

My Fear Of Driving

Recently, I told you my first panic attack was on the school bus during my school days. Here is how that has developed into a fear of driving.

When I was attending private school in California, I got my driver’s license. On the way home from a Saturday homecoming event, the day before my 17th birthday, I was in a minor car accident. I had run a stop sign and got hit. My parents had gone on a day trip to Edwards to see the air show. I was stuck, in my uniform, in the hot desert, waiting for four hours until help arrived. I think most people would consider this just above “inconvenient”. I didn’t even seem to be all that stressed while it was going on. I was terrified to call my parents and tell them I’d wrecked their car, but what seventeen year old wouldn’t be? Once I got home, though, it was quite another story. I had panicked in an episode of epic proportions. The three hour long panic attack drained me so much, that I slept the majority of the following two days. Yes, I slept through my 17th birthday.

After that, I didn’t drive for a while. Then when I started making friends after I left school at the end of that year, I started again. Los Angeles is a big place. It’s possible to rely on other means of transportation than your car, but not exactly easy. Besides, would a cab or bus really be less stressful than driving? I wagered not.

Somehow over the years, this fear of driving has manifested into a full blown phobia. I still drive, if I have to. We sold our second car to make the move back to Texas, so I actually drive almost every day. The trade off is, I then have panic attacks almost every day. It’s hard to gather strength to do anything else I consider “adventurous” that day, because I’ve already had the one panic attack after driving. Who could knowingly subject themselves to a second one? I’ve done it, even enduring another two or three episodes in a day, but the next few days I suffer for it.

My son is still young enough to be unaware of his timid mother. But he’s also smart enough that his ignorance won’t last long. I need to get this under control before he is permanently messed up by me.

My Panic Attack History

My very first panic attack happened about thirteen years ago, at the age of fourteen. It happened on the school bus. I grew up in a pretty snotty town in south Florida. The junior high I attended was nicknamed “Gucci Middle” by the community. Dealing with the other kids was rough, but I had my own thing going on too. On the way home from school, the same horrible girls were saying the same horrible things they said to me every day. It was always upsetting that they were so nasty, but like I said, I had my own thing going on with my own friends. I didn’t really need these people to like me, though at the time I thought it would have been preferrable. Minimum, it would have been easier. But I digress.

They were crowding around me, as they always did, saying whatever awful thing came to their mind on that particular day, and I freaked out. I felt like there wasn’t enough air on the bus. It had gotten so stuffy. I couldn’t swallow. But I couldn’t let them see me physically freak out, or it would just get worse. It was taking forever to get to my housing development. I remember blinking really hard, hoping to blink it away I guess. And tears came running down my face. I wasn’t crying in the traditional sense, no sobs or anything, but the tears just kept coming. I sat there thinking that this was it. I was going to die. What seemed like years later, the bus pulled up to my stop, and everyone got off. If I walked fast enough, the jerks usually didn’t bother following me. I think I’ve maybe ridden the bus, any bus, three more times since that day. They happened frequently after that, for the next year or so. It wasn’t long before I was frequently absent, eventually withdrawing from school to have a home tutor. At the end of my sophomore year, my father was relocated to Los Angeles. I eventually went with my parents and agreed to attend outside school so long as it was a private, very small school. It was a nice enough school, but my habits had been set. I could never bring myself to actually go. I stopped going after the end of junior year and got my high school equivalence. I got a job working in technical support at the local ISP.

I started making a lot of friends. I moved out of my parents’ home and got my own place. The panic attacks seemed to disappear as suddenly as they had come on. I even quit taking all of my medications and was fine for a few years.

In 2000, I entered into a very bad relationship. We brilliantly decided living together would make it better. I began withdrawing more and more. Somehow, and the main details have faded, but I ended up in another state with the boyfriend. I had no friends and wasn’t making any. I hadn’t gotten a job as quickly as I’d hoped. I was stuck at home, but I didn’t seem to mind. One day we had just had a fight, and I had to go to a part of town I didn’t know. I got lost, as I often do, and couldn’t find my way home to save my life. I had to pull over for about 45 minutes while I regained my composure. When I finally made it home, I couldn’t leave my bedroom for a good six hours.

About six months after that relationship ended, the panic attacks stopped. They started again when I enrolled in college that was an hour commute one way every day. I endured them, excusing myself to the restroom when necessary, and using other means to hide my distress in the classroom when possible. I made it to graduation and wanted to never drive again. The panic episodes went away again for a while after graduation.

They came back again once I began to hate my job. And, as the pattern would suggest, I stopped going to that job. The episodes subsided again just for a short time. I ended up taking a job where I leased space. I paid for my time and got paid for my work only when I actually showed up. It was significantly less stressful, but I still dreaded making the trip there and interacting with people. I cancelled at the last minute a lot. Eventually I didn’t have enough clients to make it seem worthwhile. I withdrew from that, too.

I got sick of myself. I decided to move to where my best friend lives in Texas. We became roommates. We had a blast. I didn’t have a panic attack for almost a year. Then my other best friend died. Followed by another close friend. Then, despite my efforts and cautiousness, I found out I was pregnant with my son. The positive pregnancy test was enough to cause a few panic episodes in succession. But the real issue started when my lifelong friend, current boyfriend, and my son’s father decided to use my pregnancy as an opportunity to dump me and go back to his ex. Again, I ran home to mom and dad.

For the next nine months, I left the house only for McDonalds drive through breakfast and my OB/GYN appointments. I maybe went to the grocery store five times during my pregnancy. If I needed gas for getting to my appointments, I would stop on the way and pay at the pump. While it was pumping, I could get in my car and be anxiety free. Mostly.

Without getting into details, and without being judged by anyone, my son’s father and I worked out our issues. But it still left me pretty messed up in the head. I haven’t been free from panic attacks since then, unless of course I avoid everything that might cause one.

And this is where I am today. My world is narrowing. I don’t want to mess up my son, too. So it’s time to get this under control.

Day 1 – The Introduction

I am not 100% housebound. On average, I leave the house about 3 times per week. I do not fear open spaces, at least I don’t think I do. And when I have someone I know with me, I can pretty much go anywhere for normal amounts of time. So maybe that’s why I’ve been so dense for so long realizing that this could be an actual problem instead of some major character flaw.

Yesterday:

After attempting to take a walk around the apartment grounds with my almost 2 year old son, I had yet another pretty serious freak out. As it is the case every time this happens (which is every time I leave the house) I didn’t know why I was freaking out. I just knew I had to get back home. I told myself it was too cold. It was too windy. It was too bright. People were staring at us. I don’t know if any of those were actually true. It was chilly and a bit windy, but I wasn’t exactly in a bikini trying to weather the harsh winter weather of Texas. It wasn’t terribly bright. In fact, it was actually more grey. People may have been staring at us, but my son is super cute. There were only a few people out, mostly going to and from their cars. Someone acknowledging my presence with a look shouldn’t make for an immediate flip out. I’m sure there was a time when I wouldn’t have flipped out because it was cold outside or someone may or may not have been looking at me, but I can’t remember the time with any detail.

After retreating into the safety and familiarity of my home, I quickly quit freaking out. I felt like I had narrowly escaped yet another close call. I sat down, fired up google, and after a bunch of useless wiki articles, finally found a few pages that had detailed descriptions of agoraphobia. It seemed like the authors had written the sites about me.

Today:

I felt a great sense of relief when I had read up a bit yesterday, but felt the subject required further research on my part. I’ve spent the majority of the day reading everything I can about panic disorders, agoraphobia, and their treatments.

I still feel some relief knowing that there’s a chance I’m not as lazy and crazy as I’ve thought for so long. I can still feel myself trying to fight the idea that it’s something as real and tangible and even as easy as an agoraphobia diagnosis from a doctor. Each time I start unclenching a bit and letting myself off the hook for things I haven’t done because of my fears, I’m immediately hit with like this mental slideshow of everything I’ve ever done and seen in my 27 years that may cause shame, fear/panic, or guilt. To combat this, for every memory that comes up on the mental slideshow, I simply say “I forgive myself” over and over in my head. Even if it’s something I’m not at fault for, or couldn’t have forseen consequences to. Forgiveness and letting go feel pretty similar to me, so it works. Mostly.

Tomorrow:

I hope to call the doctors I found in my area who deal with agoraphobia. There seems to be some major flaws, if you ask me, in the way some professionals deal with it. Like group therapy? Seriously? You want me, who’s afraid of driving, and hates leaving home, to go downtown to sit in a group therapy session? And you don’t see any reason that may not work out?

As far as medications go, I’m pretty reluctant to go on antidepressants. After having a good row with an eating disorder during my teenage years, I’ve been prescribed pretty much every single one under the sun. After I left my parents’ home, I quit taking everything I was on. I was still bummed out on the meds. I was still having panic attacks. And I felt like a zombie the rest of the time – so much so that I would actually just sit and stare at the TV while it was off. Seriously, who does that? And until I got pregnant with my son, I was pretty much dealing with all of it well enough. At least I was still functioning. Since then, it’s been a much more rapid decline.

But I know what it is now. Because I know what it is, I can figure out a plan to fix it. Wish me luck.