I remember some of my very first panic attacks. Surprisingly enough, it started in elementary school. I remember walking to school in either 5th or 6th grade, thinking of the day to come, and realizing that it was getting very hard to breathe. It progressed so quickly, that I barely had time to register the sensations, until my vision went black and all I could hear around me was my own raspy breath and my heart pounding. I stayed where I was, until my vision cleared and my hearing returned to normal. I finished my walk to school, and hoped that I'd never feel what I had just felt ever again.
Spoiler alert- I felt it again. I felt it, a lot.
Anxiety and Depression. They are best friends. BFFs! Mine go everywhere together. When I was a kid, they followed me to school, to soccer practice, to my...many counselor appointments. Only, when I went to those appointments, they would hide in the waiting room, and I lied. I told the therapists only just enough, for them to try another depression medication that ultimately didn't work. I was always scared to tell the whole truth about the things going on in my head because I knew, even at 12, that I shouldn't be thinking the things I was thinking. What 12 year old has vivid thoughts of death, and dying, and blood? I wasn't even able to watch PG-13 movies yet, why did I even have knowledge of these things?
I was in Junior High when I started to self harm. Pill after pill, nothing helped the thoughts in my head and the crushing weight in my chest. I couldn't take it anymore, I needed a release from it. So, I cut myself. It started off small, I would use things like the edge of a protractor. A toothpick. A jagged piece of plastic. It was never about suicide. I didn't want to die. It was about the release. The rush that I felt when my skin would tear, and the buzzing numbness that came after. I would hide the scrapes and cuts, and go about my days. As I progressed into high school, the cutting became more frequent, and more...dangerous. Still, it was never about death. But I was playing a scary game, and even then I knew that if I progressed down the road I was headed down, things would get bad.
One day after PE, I cut myself in the school's locker room. My friend saw, and got scared. She told the office, and the office came and got me. My memory of this day is hazy, but I remember being so scared that my parents were finally going to know what I had been doing, and I hated knowing I was going to hurt them. My parents came to the school, and took me immediately to a hospital. From then on, it was weekly doctor's appointments, more pills that didn't work, and more hiding how I really felt to appear "normal".
Cutting was put on the back-burner, while I attempted to fool my parents, friends, and counselors. I still had the same thoughts and feelings, and same desire for release, but I knew I needed to do better, or at least- hide it better. This went on for years. I would cut somewhere, keep it concealed, and hope no one saw it. One day, I was working at my job in the mall, and I had just found out that I was going to be moving to Nebraska. I was not a fan of the idea and the more real it became, the more I spiraled in my head. The thought of leaving my friends to go to a place where I knew no one was unbearable. So, I took a "bathroom break" at work, went to the backroom and found a pair of very sharp scissors. I underestimated how sharp they were. I sliced open my shin, and when I could see the muscle I knew I had gone too far. I tried to stop the blood and hide it, but there was no hiding this one. I quickly made up a story about falling in to a cardboard box, and the store made me call my mom. My mom came and saw how bad it was, and took me to the clinic where I had to get 50 stitches in my shin. She never found out that it was self-inflicted.
Going that far with cutting, and then having to keep it a secret from everyone about what really happened...I hated that feeling. When I finally moved to Nebraska, I was off of any pills, I was seeing one counselor who was certain that my anxiety was more of a problem than the depression was, and who didn't want to see me put on another antidepressant that didn't work for me anyway. Adjusting to life here was hard, but I did it without the medicine. I stopped cutting. I made some friends. The years flew by. I was growing up, and I was dealing with things. Mentally, I always struggled with self-worth and self-confidence. Struggled, yes, but I was able to function.
I met my husband, I started having kids. My depression, particularly postpartum depression, was severe with the changing hormones. I tried yet another antidepressant in the beginning of 2010 with terrible results. I stopped taking it in March of 2010. After having Jaxon at the end of 2010, I refused to let myself get bad again. I had too much going on, and I needed to rise above it. So, I went unmedicated and I am proud of the way I handled it. I got through some of the hardest moments of my life (up to that point, at least) without any medication. As more years went by, I started to notice that while my depression was still there, it was much more manageable. I had good days, and I had bad days. But, while that became more of the norm, my anxiety started to make up for lost time. Suddenly, I was afraid of driving on the interstate? If you knew me in my late teens, early 20's, you would understand the magnitude of this. I LOVED to drive. Road trips were my thing. Driving relieved stress....until it didn't. I started having panic "episodes", and I would call my mom and tell her about them. She told me that when she was my age, that's when HER panic attacks started getting more severe. I had panic attacks all the way through my pregnancy with the twins.
In the last 6 years, my attacks have only increased in severity. It started with the driving, and soon progressed to the fear of going into new public places. And then, to ANY public places. After the death of my parents, the constant fear of losing my loved ones is always there, just below the surface. I have to amp myself up to go anywhere, even to see my friends. And with how our current situation stands with COVID-19, I feel like I am CONSTANTLY on edge.
Before COVID really hit, I was shopping with my 2 older boys. And I was hit with an attack, out of no where. I had to duck into an aisle, and crouch down to catch my breath. I was trying so hard not to be hysterical, for my own sake, and for the sake of my kids who had not seen me have a panic attack quite like that before. Aiden, my oldest, immediately went into caretaker mode. He rubbed my back and breathed with me. On one hand, I am so, so proud of that boy. I could not be more overjoyed that he has such a sensitive and caring soul that he knew exactly what I needed in that moment. On the other hand, I am mortified that my own children have to comfort me like that, and see me so vulnerable.
This last week, though, things came to a peak that they have not come to before. I was made fun of while grocery shopping, and it affected much more intensely that it should have. I had to run to the bathroom and wait out a doozy of an attack, and I felt like I was dying. Then a few days later, my husband tried to give me a hug from behind- and I ended up sobbing heavily because it put my instantly into an attack. Things have never, ever been this bad before.
I saw the doctor yesterday and he made the decision to put me on an antidepressant/anti-anxiety pill again for the first time in ten years. I have to say that rather than this feeling like a step forward, I feel like I have taken a hundred steps backward. I want to be happy, without the aid of a pill but at this time, I cannot. I feel like I always complain, and that is so frustrating. I hear the words coming out of my mouth, and I am ashamed to be feeling the way that I do.
I don't know what it's like to live without some sort of depression and anxiety. It's been there for as far back as I can remember. Sometimes, I am grateful for it. It makes me cautious. It makes me have a twisted sense of humor, that has surrounded me with awesome friends. But lately, it's really...really hard to find the good in the way I feel. It has affected every part of my life. I want to be better, for myself and for my kids. I want to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I am hopeful, that maybe it's just around the corner.
Thank you, as always, for letting me vent and for reading about my life. If you have ever felt like this, if you can relate in any way....just know that I am here for you. I will always talk with you. I have your back.
Stay safe and healthy,
Jessica
