How anxiety is trying to ruin my favorite activity of all time.
My people are the stiff upper lip, never let them see you sweat, never talk about your problems in public kind of folks.
And then there's me.
Honestly, I do hold quite a bit of myself back from the general public, because the less you know about the feral sack of cats running around in my head, the better. You're welcome.
But one area in which I'm perfectly candid to give you a peek behind the Wizard's not so magical curtain is mental health.
I have anxiety. And I'm extremely empathetic. I feel others and situations deeply. You can imagine how well I'm dealing with our crumbling society and the uncertainty of the world as of late. What a time to be alive!
When you tell people about your anxiety, the first words that typically escape their tongues are: "You should just let it go and relax." OH WOW! Thank you! I had never thought of that before. Gosh, Elsa was right.
People mean well, but unless you've actually experienced anxiety, I can guarantee you words like that are insulting to someone who is struggling.
Some Christians actually want to blame your lack of faith as a reason for a mental health situation, and for those poor, unfortunate souls who have brought that argument to the table in my presence, let's just say they got a firm lecture filled with lots of facts and real-life scenarios. I have ZERO tolerance for that ignorance. So I guess I should be thankful I didn't live in Salem in the late 1600s. Yet, the persistence of the mental health stigma is not something we'll overcome in this lifetime, sadly. I'll admit though, I grow a little wary of men and women of faith insisting that mental defects are just a side effect of not enough faith, rather than a chemical imbalance, or the result of deep-rooted trauma.
A number of years ago, I was reading a book that gave me a much needed B-12 shot to the soul. For those of us who are people of faith, and still find ourselves struggling, it's an even more stressful time. It's almost as if being Christian grants you immunity from mental health issues. Keep that Oz curtain closed folks! Whatever you do, don't let anyone see the cracks in your facade. Yeah, that's not realistic.
The author was pretty candid in his assessment, noting that if your serotonin levels are jacked up, there's not much a book can do for you, and maybe you should see a doctor.
Enter the wild, wonderful world of science and mental health professionals.
As a Christian in this day and age, it's pretty heretic to insist there be a separation between religion, science, and mental health, but hear me out. I think faith is an incredible, life-changing tool. And when a person combines faith with proper medication, and support, they can get better mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
I think God, in His infinite wisdom, gave us science. If someone has been gifted with these skills, and can use these skills to offer the scientific proof to support that one or more specific things can help, we should embrace it. God, in His infinite wisdom, took incredibly empathetic people and made it possible for them to receive the proper education and experience to help others.
I know what you're thinking...Christy, have you seen the insane drug commercials on television and their horrifying list of side effects and warnings? I get it...people are really weird about taking drugs. You would rather suffer. You do you. For me, anxiety medication has made a profound positive impact on not just my physical health, but my emotional health, and spiritual health as well.
I guess this long-winded explanation is that a person isn't going to become the best version of themselves by substituting religious practices for modern or even holistic medicine, but rather in addition to them. Humanity, at best, is incredibly flawed. Just look at Tom Cruise and Scientology if you want more on that argument. If you haven't seen it, the documentary Going Clear left me shook. I imagine Creed Bratton from The Office might have been a founding member of the Sea Org at one point.
So when did I know I had anxiety? After the big bike wreck of 1988.
I was killing time before my best friend Laura's birthday when on a beautiful February day, I had a horrific bicycle accident that left me scarred, both physically and emotionally.
Many of us remember key aspects of certain days with remarkable clarity. That was the day I tried Cool Ranch Doritos for the first time. Spoiler alert - I blame my anxiety of them as if they're some mythical beast responsible for my shaky hands and inability to cope with stress.
I was wearing my favorite turquoise sweater and grey cowgirl boots, which kept slipping off the pedals. Style over substance, even at an early age.
My parents were waxing our cars, a practice I have literally never done in my entire life. Are we all supposed to be doing that? I've never had a car resemble Tow Mater from Cars, so was that just for cars made before 1990? I digress.
Growing up in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky, I can tell you the craggy landscape varies greatly. There are mountains, there are hills, and there are steep inclines that are reminiscent of a trek up the Himalayas.
Enjoying the beautiful day, I thought it was a great idea to ride my bike up and down the hill on our street, each time walking my bike just a little bit further up the giant hill to catch the wind on my way down.
On my last attempt, a combination of my brakes going out and the slippery cowgirl boots set off a chain of events that still affects me as an adult.
I tumbled tush over teakettle down a paved road landing at the bottom, face-first onto some jagged rocks. I think it's fortunate when you experience something so horrifying but you can't remember any pain associated with it. I don't have any recollection of tumbling like a rag doll. Nor can I recall the impact that knocked out one of my teeth or the rocks that split my forehead wide open.
I remember coming to, lying face down on the road, and being so exceptionally tired. When I pressed myself up onto my knees, I assumed it was sweat covering my brow, but to any six-year-old, wiping your face and coming away with a hand soaked in blood is not a reassuring moment.
When I began slowly jogging down the hill, I felt like my legs were shackled to invisible weights. My mom recalls she could hear a faint cry of "Help, I wrecked!" And even before I got to my neighbor's fence line, my dad scooped me up in his big arms and ran me to the car. I noted with surprise, the entire car was freshly waxed and polished. I instinctively thought to myself, "crap, I have been out a while, they had just started when I went up the hill."
The nearest hospital was 25 miles away, and on the frantic car-ride there, my mom kept talking to me and insisting I stay awake. I have never wanted to sleep more in my life. Just a brief blissful cat nap. Or just a moment to rest my eyes.
I'm sure I could have used an MRI that day, but 80s medicine in rural Kentucky was just a step above Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. I got seven stitches and was sent home. No blood infusions, no overnight stays for observations.
Did I wear a helmet riding my bike after that? Oh heavens no. We 80s kids weren't about safety! Having destroyed my girly bike, I opted for a manly dirt bike once I was healed weeks later. But I was forbidden from riding on hills ever again, which made the dirt bike kinda hard to peddle on normal, paved streets. Maybe that was the sign that I had a possible traumatic brain injury.
After the big bike wreck of 1988, I noticed a change internally. It was like a light switch. I became jumpy around loud noises. I was fearful of car rides up steep mountains, a frequent occurrence in my family. I was worried my dad would lose control and we would go tumbling off the side of a mountain, never to be found again. I began to dread ordinary things and procrastinate for the oddest reasons. To say I was a nervous kid is an understatement. I was like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Outward manifestations of my anxiety began with tangling strands of my hair into knots so ratty they almost had to be cut out. Much to my mother's horror, my hair began to look broken and frayed. I began to pick my cuticles to the point of bleeding, wincing anytime I used antibacterial soap at school.
In my adult years, I realized I was coping with anxiety, but barely. I don't self-harm in any way, but dry cuticles remain my unconquerable beast. Occasionally, I'll go numb to what my hands are doing until a sharp, searing pain and a tiny splotch of blood appears on one of my digits. It is honestly a mindless side effect of my anxiety. I rarely notice I'm doing it.
Normally a calm and joke-cracking person, I found myself struggling with sudden bouts of extreme irritation. I don't know how to describe it other desperately needing a bathroom and encountering no one that speaks your language. It's an urgent need to be heard but not understanding why people are on step one when you're on step five. I credit my husband for his insane amount of patience and love. Not many people can deal with snippiness with grace and understanding.
Panic attacks are rare, but boy are they so much fun. A few years ago while waiting for the dentist, my right hand began to shake uncontrollably. I swear it looked like Parkinson's. I was terrified it was. I got out my phone and by propping it against my leg, I kept it still enough to record. I needed proof to show others I wasn't crazy, and I wasn't faking it. I still get a little shaky from time to time, usually when I'm hyped up about something or I haven't slept well in several days. I avoid putting eyeliner on during those episodes because the Hatchet Face look is not good on anyone. Besides, there's nothing wrong with my face. I've got character.
Soon after my spirit fingers on steroids, my anxiety took on a new form. Insomnia. WHAT? You mean I can't participate in my all-time favorite non-physical activity? Anxiety, you dirty trollop.
I realized I needed professional intervention. And contrary to any societal standards, I feel absolutely no shame in admitting that. I made an appointment with a counselor to discuss things that were bothering me and I sought the advice of my doctor. Both agreed anxiety meds could definitely help. My counselor and I begin sorting through that bag of feral cats, setting them free one by one. They were much happier once released from their burlap prison and so was I. A few of them will always live in my head, but that's just part of my charm.
Under the care of a very receptive doctor, we set out to discover which anxiety medication would be best for me. Shockingly enough, it's not a one size fits all scenario. This part of the experience is always fun as you realize you're the lab rat and medications are just buttons and levers being pushed and pulled inside your brain, frantically looking for a combination that quiets the calm and restores peace. Sometimes you get it on the first round. Realistically, it might be the third or fourth.
Once we got the anxiety under control, the sleep still didn't come. Oh, glorious sweet sleep, why does anxiety keep us apart?
I sought numerous homeopathic cures with no success. Throwing up the white flag, I took a bold step and tried Ambien for the first time. Hear me out. It's not as scary as you think, at least for me.
Brian joined The Night's Watch for the first few days, eager to snap into action if he found me eating a whole rotisserie chicken. On the kitchen floor, in my underwear, in the middle of the night. I am happy to report that no, I haven't developed an online gambling habit or recreated Bruce Lee's fight scenes in my sleep. I just sleep. Peacefully. It is so relieving!
Honestly, I think the way to crack a human is to deprive them of sleep. You can conquer the world when you're well-rested. Sleep-deprived? Yeah, maybe you aren't the candidate for nuclear codes. Just saying.
My bestie Ambien and I have been happily ensconced for five years. I don't tango with her every day, just a few nights a week when I feel like I might snap from an irregular sleep pattern. Yes, it is a controlled substance, and yes, I keep it securely stored in our home away from people. No, I do not share it. Yes, I undergo yearly drug tests to be sure I am not abusing it. And yes, I do have to hand over my driver's license every time I fill a prescription (which is usually once every 90 days or so). But it's helped me tremendously.
Or at least it has in the past.
Now that we're in month five of the COVID nightmare, that hussy anxiety is trying to break us up, which is a new and unsettling experience.
I haven't been sleeping well for weeks. Four nights ago, I awoke from an Ambien slumber at 5:00 am. Not terrible, but when you're on a controlled-release version, it's troubling. Three nights ago, sans my happy sleepy time pill, I was awake at 3:00 am and remained awake for the entire night. Two nights ago, thank heavens gracious, I finally slept, but last night, I would make a fantastic baker - I was fully alert by 4:30 am.
My resolution in this difficult time is a multi-tiered system of self-care. These include:
Drinking tons of water, even more than usual.
Eating healthy fruits and vegetables, and meals with lean proteins. Luckily for me, I haven't had caffeine in 12 years, and I eat little to no sugar at all. (except natural sources like fruit and the occasional Kind minibar).
Walking and doing pilates. I hate this part the most.
Maintaining my bed as a place to sleep, not lounging or loafing. I spend most of my time downstairs, which is a nice departure from our old house.
Keeping my bedroom dark and cool.
Showering before bed and slathering myself in my favorite bougie lotion from Whole Foods.
Having a white noise app on my phone if I jolt awake. Oddly enough, as a person who hates loud noises, constant rhythmic sounds are soothing.
Praying and meditating on what has me troubled and asking God to ease my overworked mind.
Reading, specifically devotional books and chick lit. Both are like cotton candy for my harried brain.
Breathing exercises. I know it's new age, but you really can shift your focus at the moment by paying attention to your reactions. Breathing exercises are the get out of my brain jail free card.
Being diligent about my anxiety medication. No excuses.
When all else fails, I don't fight it. My body responds to whatever it will, but my attitude attempts to remain positive. I know for everything there is a season. If I can't sleep, I get up and do things. I have a protein shake. I watch a rerun of Seinfeld. Recently, I downloaded Kevin Wilson's laugh-out-loud Nothing to See Here, a delightful tale of a nanny caring for twins who channel their anxiety in a unique way. You'll love it!
Self-care isn't the solution. But coupled with faith, and the beauty of science, I'd like to say that sack of feral cats in my brain is more akin to a group of seriously pissed off raccoons.
If you're struggling with anxiety, I see you. I believe you. You should feel no shame or remorse for the misfires happening in your brain. You're not broken, a failed Christian, or a terrible human being. We all struggle with something. We all cope the best we can. Mine is mainly dark humor, obscure pop culture references, and TikTok. And writing, obviously.
Please allow me to recommend the following:
Thanks for reading!
~ Christy
Comments