21 May The story of my anxiety: Re-learning how to live.

Last week for Mental Health Awareness Week, on Facebook and Instagram, I posted daily about my battle with anxiety and panic attacks.

I have summarised these posts here. I hope they might bring comfort to you if you are struggling, and serve as a reminder that you are not alone.

Part 1.
RECOGNITION
Growing up I never really thought about my brain. It was just there, ticking over, doing what I needed it to.
As a straight-A student, education was not a problem and apart from a few (obligatory) crappy teenage years I was outgoing and popular.
I was brought up to know I was loved and safe and, in terms of Mazlo’s hierarchy of needs, my pyramid was secure.

Then in my early twenties I began to experience radio interference. Bursts of static. Confusion.
Fear. My brain stopped being the reliable machine it had always been.
Thoughts and emotions unexpectedly spilt.

It began slowly, sporadically, with long enough gaps in between these short-circuiting episodes for me to tell myself I had imagined it.
But deep down I knew I hadn’t.
The worst kind of ear worm drilled into the very centre of my brain. I heard whispered promises I would be ill, my family would be ill, I would be trapped, unable to escape, humiliated.

Moments of terror appeared out of the calm blue and overwhelmed.

To the best of my memory, this is the story of my first panic attack:
In my early 20s I took a job delivering workshops in universities around the play ‘Angels in America’ by Tony Kushner. By anyone’s reckoning a brilliant play with a fairly intense subject matter: fear, illness, despair, hope, death.
My role in these workshops was to take extracts from this play and use them as a basis for discussion. I was creating opportunities to talk about the play and the issues it raised, and to act as soft advertising for the production, encouraging participants to buy tickets. At a certain point in the workshop, students would be given these extracts and with a little direction, would get this section of the text ‘on it’s feet’.
Something to do with the youth of the students, their optimism and innocence, combined with the devastating subject matter was too powerful for me. Watching these tiny inept performances I felt myself spiralling, struggling to cope. As the students came in and out of character, their inexperience obvious, something got under my skin, their words became a part of me.
It is hard to explain.

There are still moments from these workshops that I can remember frame-by-frame. I still have a physical response to them. My gut lurches. I have to catch hold of my thoughts before they move, too fast, away from me.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks. I am in my car, a hand-me-down battered green Citroen, poorly executing a three-point-turn in my parent’s road, opposite their house.
All of a sudden, mid manoeuvre, I stop. My heart racing, blood rushing in my ears, stomach churning, as my mind wandered over to one of the scenes from the workshop a few weeks back.
It felt entirely outside of my control. The memory simply landed on me. I was desperately trying to wrestle my mind back to safer territory, the weather, the trees, the bloody car, but I couldn’t. It felt as though my mind was being pulled by powerful magnetic forces to watch this scene, over and over again.
Eventually I park the car and get out. My knees knocking, my breathing heavy. I struggle to stand, to lock the car. I lean against the roof and close my eyes, squeezing them tight, using all my energy to focus on something, anything, else.
In a few moments, the feeling subsides, and calm returns.

It was a long time before I learnt the correct term for these episodes: panic attacks.

At the time I didn’t want to dwell on it, or give it any more headspace than necessary. Distraction, moving on, placing my focus elsewhere, was the only thing I knew to do. I pretended it hadn’t happened, I told myself it was a one-off, an aberration.

I think you might also call it denial.
–
The fact that this might be a panic attack never occurred to me at the time. It was only years later looking back I realised this was what I had experienced.
So what did I think was happening?

– I thought maybe I was physically ill. Maybe I had a stomach bug, or some other digestion related illness.

– I thought it was a spiritual attack. For those of you reading this who don’t know me and weren’t brought up in an evangelical Christian community this requires an explanation. Basically I thought something spiritually was attacking me, maybe as a result of my bad behaviour or because I was weak/ hadn’t prayed enough/ wasn’t holy enough and therefore I left myself vulnerable. It is imperative for me to point out here there was a load of garbage and in no way reflects the truth I have discovered about faith and God. But this was what I thought at the time and it is important to write this in black and white here just incase anyone else out there is suffering and thinking if only they were a better Christian (in itself a nonsense idea) they could get control and be well.

For a long time these were the only two options I considered. They were the only possibilities available.
It was a scary place to be.

Later I learnt these panic attacks were not my fault. They were not a result of my bad behaviour and although they were an illness – not in the way I had thought they were.

Part 2.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I was 30 when I finally went to see someone to talk about the fact that I seemed to be falling apart. Eight years after my first panic attack.
Why did it take me so long?
I had no knowledge of mental illness (depression and anxiety) and so hadn’t recognised it. Also, it had been sporadic, although gradually increasing in intensity and regularity.
–
The summer after my third child was born panic was making a regular appearance and I was constantly having to fight past a tide of anxiety which paralysed me, made me not want to go out or make plans, left me too exhausted to have a conversation or read a book.
My concentration span was non-existent. All I wanted to do was watch something mindless on tv (I know a lot about America’s next Top Model circa 2009.)

It was my brilliant husband who encouraged (pushed?) me to go and see a therapist and my incredible therapist (to whom I am forever grateful) who diagnosed me with post-natal depression. Through therapy I began to accept that I was not well and needed help.
In those first few months post diagnosis I felt three things:

1. Shame.
I thought people who suffered with mental illnesses were the super flaky weak ones, that it showed a lack of backbone to suffer with depression or anxiety. What did that mean about who I was? Was my faith not big enough? My resolve not strong enough? My hard work not good enough?’

2. Fear.
How would I tell my friends? What if I couldn’t get better? What would people think? What was going to happen next?
Would I always be this way?

3. Relief.
I wasn’t making it up! It was a real thing! I wasnt going crazy – well, I was, but not in the way I thought I was. If this was a real thing then maybe some help might be available. If someone else could diagnose what was happening in my head maybe I wouldnt be like this forever. I was not the only one. I was not alone.

The relief of being told you are not making it up and that other people also suffer is a beautiful thing.
The validation is immense.
This was the first step on the road to recovery.
–
The difficult truth is: no one can help you until you are willing to help yourself. You must be brave. You have to let someone in. Tell someone how you feel. Find someone you trust who you can confide in.
Go and see your GP.
If possible, find a therapist.
Don’t put it off or say you will do it tomorrow, next week, when life calms down a bit. It will never happen. Make an appointment now. Pick up the phone and call your GP.
Tell a friend and ask them to check in on you to see you have done it. Ask them to come with you if it makes you feel more confident (and will stop you backing out).

You are responsible for your own life and your mental health, and you need to take action regarding it.
–
I wish there was an easier way, but I promise you taking action will be worth it.
Be persistent.
Don’t give up.
You are worth care and attention. You are worth investing in. Your health is important. You can do this.