1. Joanne reminded me about my three things. I appreciate that and I appreciate her. :-)
2. It is FRIDAY and that means, FINALLY, some time with my boys! I really feel like I haven't seen Jeff at all this week and now he's mine for two whole days.
3. Jeff and I did some shopping tonight and bought Grayson the first of his birthday and Christmas gifts. I'm excited for him to get what we bought because he will love them.
4. I have these people in my life that I can say ANYTHING to and they don't judge me and they still love me and those people make life worth living. I'm so effin' lucky.
I am exhausted, folks, so PEACE OUT.
Friday, 30 September 2016
Thursday, 29 September 2016
DAY 6 - September 29, 2016: Nine Good Things
Today was one of those non-stop days. I felt like I rushed from one thing to the next and, though part of me thrives on that, the other part of me finds it stressful and exhausting. So here I am at midnight, typing out my three good things for today.
1. Today was a super productive day at work and that felt awesome. Those are the best days.
2. After work I had a list of errands to run. I knew I wouldn't make it through the whole list, but thanks to my lightening speed, I got more of them done than I expected to.
3. One of those errands was running to Lululemon to get a new pair of leggings. New Lulu leggings simply must be on the list.
4. Another one of those errands was stopping at the China Pastry to pick up their Cream Buns. People, if you have not been there to partake in a cream bun, I implore you to get in your car and head directly there. You can thank me later. (I ate two of them, by the way.)
5. For those of you keeping score today, this is what my not-so-balanced diet consisted of: two homemade donuts, one apple, two cream buns, one slice of lemon loaf, and one half of a pumpkin cream muffin. For serious. This is a negative for my not-so-tight tummy, but a positive for my tastebuds.
6. I finished the day with a yoga class. I love going to yoga so much more than I thought I would when I initially signed up. I think it's because for most of my days, I feel like how I felt today -- that I rush around from one thing to another, always late, always harried, always feeling like I'm barely keeping up with whatever I need to get done, if at all. And it's so exhausting. And when I get to yoga, I have nothing to do. I have no where to be. I have no where to rush to. My whole purpose for that hour is just to be present. Just to STOP and breathe and be IN my body and be aware of myself. I cannot express to you how incredible that feels. It had been one week since I last went and I had previously been going twice a week. That one week stretch just felt much too long, which tells me twice a week is perfect for me. It felt good to be back and to sink into my body and be present.
7. When I looked next to me, I saw Pat, who I love more than I can possibly say, and Sarah, my soon-to-be sister-in-law (we are all very impatiently waiting for my brother to lock her in!). And that felt wonderful. I love both of those women so much and yoga with them felt like a gift. That sounds SO corny, but it's a completely accurate description of how I felt. It was bliss.
8. After yoga Pat and I went to Starbucks. Starbucks and the beautiful soul that is Pat Hanley sitting across from me at a table, looking, for the first time in a long time, settled... happy: this was the perfect end to my day.
9. Thank you for reading this far, if you did. For sticking with me through this sappy, corny, long-winded blog, you are my ninth good thing.
P.S. just this once, I am not doing an edit/final read over of this before I post (it is 12:14 a.m., after all and I have to be up at 6:30 tomorrow). If you caught an error, be a dear and let me know. :-)
A.
Wednesday, 28 September 2016
Day 5: September 28, 2016
Today was Wednesday. Here are some good things about the day.
1. I love my little Carter Peters. I just think he's so danged cute. We had a speech therapy appointment today and he did really well. He has some pronunciation issues. For example, his 'L's are often pronounced "W". He was the most cooperative he's ever been today. Our last appointment was not so stellar, so this was a nice little treat.
2. We taught Grayson to say his own name today. It was basically the cutest thing in the history of all things.
3. Watching the boys play in the leaves today was pretty sweet. Watching them take joy in doing nothing except running around leaves really does remind you how much joy we lose as we grow older. The good news is that watching kids do things like that -- simple things that bring them such joy -- allows you to tap into that joy yourself, even if it's just for a minute.
I'm danged excited about tomorrow, for a whole host of reasons, but I'll save those for tomorrow's post!
Nighty-Roo
A.
1. I love my little Carter Peters. I just think he's so danged cute. We had a speech therapy appointment today and he did really well. He has some pronunciation issues. For example, his 'L's are often pronounced "W". He was the most cooperative he's ever been today. Our last appointment was not so stellar, so this was a nice little treat.
2. We taught Grayson to say his own name today. It was basically the cutest thing in the history of all things.
3. Watching the boys play in the leaves today was pretty sweet. Watching them take joy in doing nothing except running around leaves really does remind you how much joy we lose as we grow older. The good news is that watching kids do things like that -- simple things that bring them such joy -- allows you to tap into that joy yourself, even if it's just for a minute.
I'm danged excited about tomorrow, for a whole host of reasons, but I'll save those for tomorrow's post!
Nighty-Roo
A.
Tuesday, 27 September 2016
Day 4: September 27, 2016
1. My mother-in-law is here for a visit. It's nice to have her company and the kids really love her. Jeff told her to bring her running shoes because she would be on kid-duty for some of the time she's here so that we can get some things done around the house. I'm off tomorrow and really, really hoping this means I can get some vacuuming done. Wish me luck!
2. I'm the weirdest wife ever, but I actually love it when Jeff plays video games. This is not a daily occurrence by any means, but sometimes (like tonight) he plays them upstairs and we sit on the couch together. He plays his video game and I half watch him play, half admire his magnetic and raw sex appeal, and either read or putz around on the computer. Now, I'm writing this as he plays.
I think the reason I like it so much is because it reminds me of when we were first together. I was in school, working on an English (Literature) Degree (and then one more just to even out the number and make sure I had more degrees hanging up on the wall than Jeff), so I essentially lived with my face in a book or in front of a computer. Often, I would read or write papers while sitting next to Jeff on the couch as he played video games.
Nostalgia is a good thing. :-)
3. The word "putz" might be one of my favourite things to say. Just say it: putz. Putzing. Amazing. It just makes me happy.
2. I'm the weirdest wife ever, but I actually love it when Jeff plays video games. This is not a daily occurrence by any means, but sometimes (like tonight) he plays them upstairs and we sit on the couch together. He plays his video game and I half watch him play, half admire his magnetic and raw sex appeal, and either read or putz around on the computer. Now, I'm writing this as he plays.
I think the reason I like it so much is because it reminds me of when we were first together. I was in school, working on an English (Literature) Degree (and then one more just to even out the number and make sure I had more degrees hanging up on the wall than Jeff), so I essentially lived with my face in a book or in front of a computer. Often, I would read or write papers while sitting next to Jeff on the couch as he played video games.
Nostalgia is a good thing. :-)
3. The word "putz" might be one of my favourite things to say. Just say it: putz. Putzing. Amazing. It just makes me happy.
Monday, 26 September 2016
Day 3: September 26, 2016: Home Alone Housecleaning, and Louis CK
1. My awesome mom took the boys today so I could do a little bit of housecleaning and organizing. As always, I didn't get nearly as much done as I wanted, but I got some stuff done, so call it a win.
2. Getting cleaning done without the kids at home is so much easier. Being home alone and cleaning (which I do like doing) is a treat. An actual treat. How freaking sad is my life.
3. Watching Louis CK on netflix while organizing was a good idea (my god, I'm smart). I watched the show entitled "Hilarious" and it was. His bit on arguing with kids is Carter. He's basically talking about Carter. I'm talking specifically about the "Pig Newton" bit. If you haven't seen it, or don't know what I'm talking about, go watch it. That's an order.
2. Getting cleaning done without the kids at home is so much easier. Being home alone and cleaning (which I do like doing) is a treat. An actual treat. How freaking sad is my life.
3. Watching Louis CK on netflix while organizing was a good idea (my god, I'm smart). I watched the show entitled "Hilarious" and it was. His bit on arguing with kids is Carter. He's basically talking about Carter. I'm talking specifically about the "Pig Newton" bit. If you haven't seen it, or don't know what I'm talking about, go watch it. That's an order.
Sunday, 25 September 2016
Sunday, September 25: 3 (plus one) Good Things
1. Jeff let me sleep in today. I got up at 9:30. #husbandofthedecade
2. My cousin, Nicole, came over today to visit. Life has been busy and we haven't seen her much lately. Talking to her for a good hour while Grayson napped and Jeff and Carter were out was so nice.
3. Carter predictably asked her if he could sleep over. She said yes, so he excitedly packed his bag and off they went. They make such a cute little pair. I've said this a hundred times over, but I love that he is close with her. He feels so at home in her house and loved by her. As a mom, I want nothing more than for my boys to feel fulfilled: loved, safe, supported, and important. I feel so grateful to those people in my life who are those people for and to my kids.
4. Watching a movie with Jeff after Grayson went to bed. It's the simple things :-)
Monday, 12 September 2016
Anxious Thoughts: Monday
So this is an example of the ways in which my thoughts run amuck.
On Saturday night my parents came over after having been on vacation for three weeks. They played with the boys and then (no surprise) Carter asked if he could sleep over at their house. So, we packed his bag and off he went. I chatted with my mom a few times on Sunday morning about funeral arrangements for her uncle and then again around noon regarding the funeral but this time she also said, "You should probably come and get Carter. Dad's not feeling well."
Amber: What do you mean he's not feeling well?
Mom: I don't know. He's got a gut ache. I guess his stomach is upset.
Dad [in the background]: I've had the diarrhea!
My immediate thoughts are laced with panic:
- Oh my god, Dad has the flu and now, since Carter stayed there, he's going to get it for sure.
- Then once Carter gets it, he's going to give it to Grayson and probably Jeff and me.
- And Jeff's got an insanely busy week at work, so this is the worst week for him to get sick.
- AND because Jeff's got such a busy week at work, he for sure can't stay home to help me if one or both of the kids do get sick.
- Oh, no, AND, he will likely be home late almost every night this week because of the things going on at work, so I'm literally ON MY OWN with the kids all day on Monday and then right into the evening/possibly bedtime.
I go to get Carter and go into the house (which I don't want to do, but I know that sitting in the car and having them send him out is too far, plus, my anxiety directs that I go in and see for myself how Dad seems).
I go in the house.
Dad doesn't appear ill at all. He's still running around like a crazy ass with Carter, as per the norm. He volunteers up information, saying he's had the runs all morning and thinks it's the chicken he ate last night. "But mom ate the same thing and she's not sick," I point out. "Yeah, but I ate a lot more than her. And it was really spicy."
I notice a handful of things that stress me out:
- Carter is all over my dad, like the man is a play structure.
- Dad is telling me that Carter told him he needed to shave his beard because his kisses are too prickly. Dad says that Carter told him that he will only give him kisses on the cheek from now on until that beard is dealt with. (This should just be funny, but my first thought is, "oh my god, so you guys kissed on the mouth and you might be sick?!)
- He's sitting on Dad's lap, cuddling. (eeeeee! why so close?!?!?!)
- He's got his hand on my dad's hand. (Ugh, and Carter sucks his thumb, so he's touching Dad's hand, which likely has his flu virus on it, and then that thumb will be in his mouth within five minutes.)
- When we leave, Dad asks for a hug from Carter, who obliges. Dad kisses his cheek. I wish their faces weren't so close. (Later, when I kiss Carter's cheek, I wonder if there is any bacteria there from when Dad kissed him. I do it anyway.)
I don't say anything or stop anything. I try to remind myself that I don't know that Dad has a virus at all and there is no guarantee that Carter will get it even if he does, and -- the most important thing -- people get sick all the time. It's a normal part of life and it will be okay if Carter and Grayson, or all of us, get sick. We will be sick and then we will care for ourselves and each other and then we will be healthy.
But I'm still freaked out.
We go home. Everything is fine. I wonder all day when enough time has passed that I can text my dad to see how he's feeling. It needs to be enough time that, if it was just something he ate, it would be out of his system and he should be feeling better, and also enough time that if it's a flu, he has gotten worse to the point that he now knows it's a virus. I settle on about 5:30. He doesn't respond. I'm hoping that the lack of response is because he went to his soccer game at 5:30 (or around there; I wish I could remember what time he said) and not because he's in bed sleeping...
Over the course of the evening, I don't watch Carter too closely (but mostly because I figure he won't be sick until either tomorrow or the next day). But there are things that I have to stop myself from doing.
- We made those de-freakin-licious Pillsbury sugar cookies. I asked Carter if he wanted to take the cookies out of the package to put them on the baking sheet for me. He did. (I had to force myself to ask him because I know he'd enjoy it and want to do it, but I don't want to ask him and think I should just do it myself because if he has the flu, and simply isn't yet showing symptoms, and touches the food we will all eat later, I'm just infecting the rest of my household.) But I let him do it anyway. I let him do it because I know that I'm being ridiculous. I don't even know if he's even sick. It would be reasonable to not have him near/prepping food for the family if he actually was ill, but he's not. But it's still really hard.
Bedtime comes and we carry on about our evening.
My dad finally texts me back at 9:00 p.m. and says that his stomach feels funny, but he ate pizza with no issues.
That makes me feel significantly more stressed out and more certain that it's a flu. I respond with, "Ugh, that makes me think you probably have some kind of virus and Carter is going to get it!" He says, "I don't think so. I don't have a fever or feel achy at all. I'm pretty sure it was the hot chicken wings I ate (all twenty of them)."
And here we are Monday morning, watching Paw Patrol after having eaten breakfast. Everyone seems fine, but I'm watching Carter for signs of illness and just waiting with dread for him to say, "Mom, my tummy hurts."
It's 10:00 a.m. I'm resisting the oh-so-strong urge to text my dad to see how he is today. Or to text my mom to see how Dad is today. Or texting my brother, Curt, who works with my Dad to see how he is today. I know this is one of the behaviours that my therapist wants me to try to stop engaging in, so I'm not going to do it. But, my god, it's so hard.
So this, my friends, is an example of how my thoughts work when my brain perceives the "threat" of a stomach virus/flu that may also cause vomiting.
Welcome to the land of my crazy. (I don't actually mean this disrespectfully to myself. I honestly believe we all have our own version of weird and crazy -- some just prefer to present a more consistent guise of normalcy than do others.)
*UPDATE: It's now 8:15 p.m. and I didn't text anyone to see how my dad was today. I resisted the desire to do it all day, but kept reminding myself that whether or not my dad was sick isn't the issue. The real issue is my lack confidence in my ability to handle the situation in the event that my kids do get an illness. I worked at reminding myself all damned day that it doesn't matter if the kids get sick or not because I will do just fine at caring for them. Yes. Just fine.
A.
Sunday, 11 September 2016
Therapy + One
So on Friday, September 8, after being on anti-depressants for anxiety for a month, I sat in my therapist's office to check in with her. It's a warm, welcoming space. I sit in the same chair every time. This time was different though; this time I asked Jeff to come along.
For a couple of months I've been thinking about having him come to a session with me. Jeff is one of the most logical people I know, but sometimes I've felt that he doesn't really understand the anxious version of me (who the hell really does though, let's be honest). I thought that if he heard some of the things I say, and some of the things the therapist says, maybe it would give him a bit more perspective.
We have also run into a bit of trouble, thanks to my anxiety. We are one of those annoying couples that rarely fight or even argue. In the last few months, we have had two arguments for which my anxiety is 100% responsible. I will give an example.
Disclaimer: I know this is super weird. Welcome to the world of anxiety, where things are based on extreme versions of logic (there are germs on all public door handles), but actions are pushed to a land entirely devoid of logic (I will never, ever touch a public door handle).
Some background: I've mentioned that stomach bugs/gastro issues (specifically relating to nausea and vomiting) are my anxiety trigger. If someone says they feel nauseous, or if I was around a person who later developed flu (stomach specifically) symptoms, I would immediately be nervous and spend the next handful of days -- five or so (I have googled incessantly the incubation periods for many viruses) -- intently watching my own body for signs of impending illness. I would also be on very high alert for signs of illness in the kids: not eating a meal, a runny poop, etc. Upon hearing this information, there is also an immediate physical reaction - increased heart rate, tightness in my chest, fidgeting in an attempt to distract myself from my thoughts and intense worry, and my stomach drops the way it does when you get really, really bad news. The immediate mental reaction is panic, "Oh my god, the kids are totally going to get this." The thoughts spiral out of control and I want to escape that feeling of terror. It's actual terror. I worry and remain on "high alert" for about a week, at which point, if no one gets sick, I am fairly confident that we are out of what I like to call, "the danger zone." If one of the kids gets sick, the entire process starts again while I wait for someone else - the other kid, Jeff, or myself, to get sick... and then the entire process starts anew. It is probably exhausting to read, so imagine living it. Every. Effing. Day.
Now that you know that additional background (which I hope to continue to expand upon in additional posts) (man, I really, really love parentheses lately...), here is an example of a conversation that has the potential to happen daily, or more than once a day, in my house:
Scene: Grayson craps himself. Jeff goes to change his diaper.
Amber: How was that poop?
Jeff [knowing that Amber is asking about consistency; did he have diarrhea?]: Fine. Normal.
End scene.
Now, I ask you, is it normal to ask "how" a kid's poop was after they are getting over a stomach bug that gave them the runs? Sure. Is it normal to ask after every bowel movement, when there has been zero evidence to suggest that the child might have a watery poop? Nope. It sure isn't. And yet, I do it anyway. And when I don't do it, I still think it. I have to will myself not to ask.
Through my therapy appointments and the book I'm reading, The Mindful Way Through Anxiety, I now understand that asking the question and getting the "right" answer, i.e., his poop is totally normal, is a bandaid fix to quiet the anxious thoughts.
The problem is that it's a quick fix solution that doesn't get at the heart of what I'm afraid of: losing control, freaking out, running away, etc. if and when the kids, or I, actually get sick. What I need to actually remind myself over and over and over again is that it doesn't matter if his poop is runny or not. It doesn't even matter if he throws up or not -- I CAN and will deal with it and EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY. I've dealt with it in the past and I can deal with it again in the future.
So, ultimately, the problem with asking the question is that since it provides relief -- although temporary -- from the anxiety, that sense of relief makes me want to ask the same question next time. It worked for shutting the anxiety up last time, so, like an addiction to a high, I turn right back to that method to quiet the worry and calm the tense body.
This is a risky game I'm playing though. The danger in resolving the anxiety this way is twofold:
1. What if the answer confirms my suspicions, worry, and worst fears and he *gasp* had diarhea? Now what? That leaves me more anxious than I was before. Hmmmm. This is a problem.
2. What if Jeff says, "Fine. Normal," but he's lying because he knows it will get me worked up into a panic and there's nothing to panic about yet, because one runny diaper doesn't necessarily mean anything.
This second, newfound, concern that people will just lie to me because they are trying to "protect" me from myself, is where Jeff and I have run into our problem. We recently had a conversation where afterwards I told him that I didn't know if I believed him (relating to an anxiety induced question). He was frustrated and, rightfully so, because he's spent the last nearly twelve years of our relationship proving his honesty to me.
So, not only did Jeff want to come because I wanted him to (and he's a kick-ass, supportive husband), but also because both he and I were looking for some direction from my therapist on how he should deal with/respond to the interrogative line of questioning hurtled at him by my anxiety.
At the session we talked about some of the new actions Jeff engages in as a result of my anxiety (i.e., how we change the garbage is quite the process to ensure that the lid never touches the kitchen floor because I'm scared of contamination from raw meat, etc.). It allowed my therapist to see a bigger picture of the ways in which my anxiety has seeped into my life, my home life, and the actions of my family (even the kids) and their home life. His being there to talk about some of these things moved the conversation in a direction that her and I had touched on before but not fully explored: my obsessive compulsive tendencies.
Having a more complete picture of the anxiety, and the newer realization the OCD is a bigger part of this picture than she (or I) originally realized means that we move forward with work on the OCD actions as well as anxiety. The task that she left Jeff and I with was to come up with a comprehensive list of all of the OCD tendencies I have/all of the things we do differently now that anxiety has taken on the role of dictator.
We talked a little bit about how I've been feeling on the medication as well. I am on Escitalopram (20mg/day). When I told her the dosage, I could see in her face that she felt that was too low. She told me, more than once, that we will do some work together, and with Jeff (who is a part of my healing process as well since he has become involved in my anxious processes/OCD), but that I should be open to an increase in dosage because we will have to work at that until we get it right. She also said that it would be about six to eight weeks before I would really feel the full benefit of the drug. So, in a month, I will have to see how I feel.
Thankfully, getting the very strong sense (Jeff did too) that she thinks my dosage is too low, did not have any negative effect on me whatsoever. Though, as I talked about in my previous post, I struggled with going on medication initially, having to increase the dosage or try something else because this one just doesn't work doesn't bother me in the least. I don't feel as though I have any emotional reaction to that.
And how do I feel after a month of being on the meds. Meh. Okay? I don't really know that I would say I feel much improvement. I'm not sure if I feel any real improvement (which tells me that, at least at this point, I wouldn't call the drugs effective in the way they need to be). I might say that the drugs have dulled the intensity a bit. Maybe 15%? I still feel a sense of panic when I hear someone is sick, but I don't find that it lasts as long, though the thoughts remain. Maybe they aren't as relentless. But that's a big maybe. I wouldn't say I feel better.
I'm back to see my therapist on October 5 and by then the medication should be operating at full capacity and we can get to work on my OCD behaviours and figure out where to go from here.
I find it funny that I brought Jeff to this appointment thinking that he would gain perspective and that in the end it was the therapist and me who walked away with a greater perspective on the situation. I don't feel upset or particularly distressed at the "discovery" that I have OCD. I view it as part and parcel with the anxiety which, truthfully, feels like a much bigger hill to climb.
So there we are. There's an update. I have now spent much too long sitting at my laptop on a Sunday. Since my dad has had the runs all morning and Carter stayed over there last night, I have some excessive worrying to do, so I need to get to that. (This is my sad attempt at half-true humour. I actually need to put laundry away, create a meal plan for next week, and go get groceries. Exciting times, folks. Exciting times.)
Have a wonderful day, and I mean this sincerely: if you read this far, message me and tell me what your favourite coffee place is and (again) I will treat you to a bevy there. 'Cause I'm awesome sauce, but you're even more awesome sauce for taking time out of your life to engage in mine.
Thanks for reading.
A.
For a couple of months I've been thinking about having him come to a session with me. Jeff is one of the most logical people I know, but sometimes I've felt that he doesn't really understand the anxious version of me (who the hell really does though, let's be honest). I thought that if he heard some of the things I say, and some of the things the therapist says, maybe it would give him a bit more perspective.
We have also run into a bit of trouble, thanks to my anxiety. We are one of those annoying couples that rarely fight or even argue. In the last few months, we have had two arguments for which my anxiety is 100% responsible. I will give an example.
Disclaimer: I know this is super weird. Welcome to the world of anxiety, where things are based on extreme versions of logic (there are germs on all public door handles), but actions are pushed to a land entirely devoid of logic (I will never, ever touch a public door handle).
Some background: I've mentioned that stomach bugs/gastro issues (specifically relating to nausea and vomiting) are my anxiety trigger. If someone says they feel nauseous, or if I was around a person who later developed flu (stomach specifically) symptoms, I would immediately be nervous and spend the next handful of days -- five or so (I have googled incessantly the incubation periods for many viruses) -- intently watching my own body for signs of impending illness. I would also be on very high alert for signs of illness in the kids: not eating a meal, a runny poop, etc. Upon hearing this information, there is also an immediate physical reaction - increased heart rate, tightness in my chest, fidgeting in an attempt to distract myself from my thoughts and intense worry, and my stomach drops the way it does when you get really, really bad news. The immediate mental reaction is panic, "Oh my god, the kids are totally going to get this." The thoughts spiral out of control and I want to escape that feeling of terror. It's actual terror. I worry and remain on "high alert" for about a week, at which point, if no one gets sick, I am fairly confident that we are out of what I like to call, "the danger zone." If one of the kids gets sick, the entire process starts again while I wait for someone else - the other kid, Jeff, or myself, to get sick... and then the entire process starts anew. It is probably exhausting to read, so imagine living it. Every. Effing. Day.
Now that you know that additional background (which I hope to continue to expand upon in additional posts) (man, I really, really love parentheses lately...), here is an example of a conversation that has the potential to happen daily, or more than once a day, in my house:
Scene: Grayson craps himself. Jeff goes to change his diaper.
Amber: How was that poop?
Jeff [knowing that Amber is asking about consistency; did he have diarrhea?]: Fine. Normal.
End scene.
Now, I ask you, is it normal to ask "how" a kid's poop was after they are getting over a stomach bug that gave them the runs? Sure. Is it normal to ask after every bowel movement, when there has been zero evidence to suggest that the child might have a watery poop? Nope. It sure isn't. And yet, I do it anyway. And when I don't do it, I still think it. I have to will myself not to ask.
Through my therapy appointments and the book I'm reading, The Mindful Way Through Anxiety, I now understand that asking the question and getting the "right" answer, i.e., his poop is totally normal, is a bandaid fix to quiet the anxious thoughts.
The problem is that it's a quick fix solution that doesn't get at the heart of what I'm afraid of: losing control, freaking out, running away, etc. if and when the kids, or I, actually get sick. What I need to actually remind myself over and over and over again is that it doesn't matter if his poop is runny or not. It doesn't even matter if he throws up or not -- I CAN and will deal with it and EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY. I've dealt with it in the past and I can deal with it again in the future.
So, ultimately, the problem with asking the question is that since it provides relief -- although temporary -- from the anxiety, that sense of relief makes me want to ask the same question next time. It worked for shutting the anxiety up last time, so, like an addiction to a high, I turn right back to that method to quiet the worry and calm the tense body.
This is a risky game I'm playing though. The danger in resolving the anxiety this way is twofold:
1. What if the answer confirms my suspicions, worry, and worst fears and he *gasp* had diarhea? Now what? That leaves me more anxious than I was before. Hmmmm. This is a problem.
2. What if Jeff says, "Fine. Normal," but he's lying because he knows it will get me worked up into a panic and there's nothing to panic about yet, because one runny diaper doesn't necessarily mean anything.
This second, newfound, concern that people will just lie to me because they are trying to "protect" me from myself, is where Jeff and I have run into our problem. We recently had a conversation where afterwards I told him that I didn't know if I believed him (relating to an anxiety induced question). He was frustrated and, rightfully so, because he's spent the last nearly twelve years of our relationship proving his honesty to me.
So, not only did Jeff want to come because I wanted him to (and he's a kick-ass, supportive husband), but also because both he and I were looking for some direction from my therapist on how he should deal with/respond to the interrogative line of questioning hurtled at him by my anxiety.
At the session we talked about some of the new actions Jeff engages in as a result of my anxiety (i.e., how we change the garbage is quite the process to ensure that the lid never touches the kitchen floor because I'm scared of contamination from raw meat, etc.). It allowed my therapist to see a bigger picture of the ways in which my anxiety has seeped into my life, my home life, and the actions of my family (even the kids) and their home life. His being there to talk about some of these things moved the conversation in a direction that her and I had touched on before but not fully explored: my obsessive compulsive tendencies.
Having a more complete picture of the anxiety, and the newer realization the OCD is a bigger part of this picture than she (or I) originally realized means that we move forward with work on the OCD actions as well as anxiety. The task that she left Jeff and I with was to come up with a comprehensive list of all of the OCD tendencies I have/all of the things we do differently now that anxiety has taken on the role of dictator.
We talked a little bit about how I've been feeling on the medication as well. I am on Escitalopram (20mg/day). When I told her the dosage, I could see in her face that she felt that was too low. She told me, more than once, that we will do some work together, and with Jeff (who is a part of my healing process as well since he has become involved in my anxious processes/OCD), but that I should be open to an increase in dosage because we will have to work at that until we get it right. She also said that it would be about six to eight weeks before I would really feel the full benefit of the drug. So, in a month, I will have to see how I feel.
Thankfully, getting the very strong sense (Jeff did too) that she thinks my dosage is too low, did not have any negative effect on me whatsoever. Though, as I talked about in my previous post, I struggled with going on medication initially, having to increase the dosage or try something else because this one just doesn't work doesn't bother me in the least. I don't feel as though I have any emotional reaction to that.
And how do I feel after a month of being on the meds. Meh. Okay? I don't really know that I would say I feel much improvement. I'm not sure if I feel any real improvement (which tells me that, at least at this point, I wouldn't call the drugs effective in the way they need to be). I might say that the drugs have dulled the intensity a bit. Maybe 15%? I still feel a sense of panic when I hear someone is sick, but I don't find that it lasts as long, though the thoughts remain. Maybe they aren't as relentless. But that's a big maybe. I wouldn't say I feel better.
I'm back to see my therapist on October 5 and by then the medication should be operating at full capacity and we can get to work on my OCD behaviours and figure out where to go from here.
I find it funny that I brought Jeff to this appointment thinking that he would gain perspective and that in the end it was the therapist and me who walked away with a greater perspective on the situation. I don't feel upset or particularly distressed at the "discovery" that I have OCD. I view it as part and parcel with the anxiety which, truthfully, feels like a much bigger hill to climb.
So there we are. There's an update. I have now spent much too long sitting at my laptop on a Sunday. Since my dad has had the runs all morning and Carter stayed over there last night, I have some excessive worrying to do, so I need to get to that. (This is my sad attempt at half-true humour. I actually need to put laundry away, create a meal plan for next week, and go get groceries. Exciting times, folks. Exciting times.)
Have a wonderful day, and I mean this sincerely: if you read this far, message me and tell me what your favourite coffee place is and (again) I will treat you to a bevy there. 'Cause I'm awesome sauce, but you're even more awesome sauce for taking time out of your life to engage in mine.
Thanks for reading.
A.
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
Day 1: Three Good Things
I'm going to try this again (and, probably, then again, and again, and again).
Every day, for a year, I'm going to do a blog post that lists three good things about my day. Simple enough right? Yeah, you try it.
Seriously though; I want you to try it... cause I want to read it.
So, today -- Tuesday, September 5, 2016:
1. I had a pretty productive day at work, and that felt kick-ass. I feel like I will breathe a bit easier when I go in on Thursday.
2. I am currently sucking back my second Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks since yesterday. Note: there is a fair amount of guilt that comes along with this: not because I care about adding to the cellulite that already exists on the backs of my thighs (if you don't like it, don't look), but because they are $5.50 a drink.
3. Carter's first day of preschool is tomorrow. This is his second year of preschool, so it's not a "big" or emotionally charged day for me, but it's exciting for him nonetheless. Last year, I did up a chalkboard with information on it for him to hold for his first day. Tonight, I updated that information. It blows my freakin' mind that next year, he will be in Kindergarten. Gah!
Every day, for a year, I'm going to do a blog post that lists three good things about my day. Simple enough right? Yeah, you try it.
Seriously though; I want you to try it... cause I want to read it.
So, today -- Tuesday, September 5, 2016:
1. I had a pretty productive day at work, and that felt kick-ass. I feel like I will breathe a bit easier when I go in on Thursday.
2. I am currently sucking back my second Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks since yesterday. Note: there is a fair amount of guilt that comes along with this: not because I care about adding to the cellulite that already exists on the backs of my thighs (if you don't like it, don't look), but because they are $5.50 a drink.
3. Carter's first day of preschool is tomorrow. This is his second year of preschool, so it's not a "big" or emotionally charged day for me, but it's exciting for him nonetheless. Last year, I did up a chalkboard with information on it for him to hold for his first day. Tonight, I updated that information. It blows my freakin' mind that next year, he will be in Kindergarten. Gah!
Saturday, 3 September 2016
Winning the War? I have no idea.
*More than once I have tried to write this post. Two versions of it sit in the drafts folder of my blog. It hasn't been fear that's held me back. I'm not nervous about publishing it. It's that, in spite of numerous re-visits and changes to both drafts, neither felt right. Neither felt good. I guess, I didn't know what it was that I wanted, or needed, to say. But this one, finally, feels right. It feels like me. So here is the first real blog post about my struggle with anxiety.* (I'm sorry the post is so long; there's a lot in it. If you read to the end, you get a gold star -- or a Starbucks something-or-other on me.)
Today is Saturday, September 3. Twenty-five days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of a Safeway, holding a prescription for an anti-depressant. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes. I couldn't get out -- partly because I didn't want to and partly because I looked a hot mess. Every time I thought about getting out, I started to cry, and I didn't want to walk into Safeway looking like the joker with mascara running down my red face. I figured I would wait the crying fits out; they took longer than I had anticipated. Eventually, when I felt I could make it fifteen minutes without crying, I walked in. I was still wrong. As I walked around the mall, Starbucks in hand, waiting for my prescription to be ready, I still cried.
The next morning, the tiny pill stared at me, daring me to take it, and - a moment later - daring me not to take it. Fuck you, I thought, as I washed it down. I felt strong, and weak, and scared, and proud, all at the same time. I wished my next therapy appointment wasn't a month away.
I posted a picture of that first pill on Instagram. I said that I was scared to take it. I was scared it would make me feel sick (nausea is my anxiety trigger/phobia). I was scared it would make me feel so tired, I would have difficulty taking care of my boys, my house, and being productive at my job. I was scared I would lose all interest in sex. But, to be honest, I think I was most scared that it wouldn't work at all. As I said to my GP when I sat in her office the day before to discuss whether or not it was in fact time to call the medication in, "I'm terrified that they won't work and I will feel like this forever." That was the line. That was the moment she put her head down and wrote the prescription.
I have dealt with anxiety and strange tendencies for the entirety of my life, but, back in February when both of my kids had a stomach virus, it really spiralled out of control. I knew it had taken hold in a more severe way than it ever had in the past and that I needed help. I made an appointment with my therapist (who I have seen in the past for the exact same issue), but I couldn't get in right away. I felt nothing short of desperate for immediate relief, so I also made an appointment with my doctor, hoping that she would prescribe me something. She wouldn't. She felt that I was still "functioning" and that my anxiety wasn't negatively effecting my relationships, my job, my ability to sleep, etc. Looking back, I think she was wrong: I wasn't sleeping and I had essentially locked myself in a room downstairs. This, folks, is not functioning. But I didn't say anything and the doctor said that she wanted me to see a therapist and try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) first. If that wasn't moving me forward, we would talk about supplementing with medication. I agreed and told her that I already had an appointment with a therapist that I liked.
The truth is that when I went in to see the therapist, I wanted her to echo my sentiment that I should be on drugs. (I know that only psychiatrists can prescribe medication, but I was hoping that she would agree with me and I wanted that confirmation from a professional.) But she agreed with my doctor. And so, I saw her once a week for the first two weeks, then once every two weeks for a month, then about once a month. I had completely put the notion of medication as a treatment option out of my mind and moved forward with the therapy.
Fast forward six months to July. I hadn't been in to see her in well over six weeks. The summer had been busy. She was on holidays. I was on holidays. As she asked me how I had been, and I said that, truthfully, I was frustrated with myself and my lack of progress. I felt that I was consistently and more frequently engaging in behaviours that feed the anxiety and irrational thoughts (in future blog posts, I will give actual examples of this) and that I felt that, in that way, I was actually getting worse. In addition, my worry about the kids getting sick would often consume my thoughts. In the past, I felt like there were "safe zones" - like in tag or hide-and-go-seek. But I was at the point now where nowhere, no situation, provided me relief or freedom. It was exhausting. During this session, and throughout the past six months, I honestly had not given medication another thought. As I told my therapist that I almost felt like I'd regressed, as opposed to progressed, I still wasn't thinking about medication; I was just venting my frustrations and being honest.
She told me that she disagreed with me and that, in spite of some of my behaviours, I had absolutely made progress since February. She said that part of the reason I might feel as though that isn't true is because I am now significantly more aware of how irrational the thoughts are, where as before, it was simply the track that repeated in my head. (I only half agree with this. I'm a pretty self-aware person and I did know -- for the most part -- how irrational some of the thoughts were and why they weren't "normal," but I do think that I have more clarity with respect to the boundaries of "normal" thought patterns and the behaviours that follow. She also said that, in spite of my desire to allow my decisions and actions to comply with the demands of my anxiety, the fact that I would still follow through with an original plan was evidence of progress. (For example, leaving the boys with my parents for a few days and going on the trip to Saskatoon, just Jeff and I, instead of cancelling it in fear that my kids would get the flu that my dad had just three days before). She said Past Amber would/might have cancelled the trip. I don't know that I agree with that either, but I might have changed plans (i.e., taken the kids with us instead of going alone, etc.). So, at the end of my appointment, I was caught completely off guard when she said, "have we talked about medication before?"
Immediately I wanted to cry because my first thought was, "she doesn't think I've made any progress." Knowing exactly how I think, the next words out of her mouth were (again) reassurance that I've made really great progress, but (the inevitable, always annoying but) she thinks I am in the "red zone" of anxiety a lot. She said that the intensity of the "red zone" makes it challenging for me to utilize and practice the tools I've been given over the course of my therapy sessions. I know what to do to manage the anxiety, but when I'm in full-on panic mode, and my thoughts run rampant, my heart rate nearly doubles, and I start shaking, my body reverts to fight or flight, and trying to use the strategies she's given me to calm myself down is exceptionally difficult when I'm already swimming upstream... and I can't swim.
She said she would write a letter to my regular doctor advising her of how our sessions were going, but suggesting that medication was, in her opinion, necessary.
The days leading up to the doctor appointment were very difficult.
For some reason, I really struggled with the idea of taking the meds -- a reaction that came as a surprise to me. In the two weeks I had to wait to get into my doctor, nearly every time I thought about it, I cried. I couldn't figure out why. It really wasn't feeling like I failed. I have/had no problem with "needing" medication. The stigma associated with mental health didn't bother me. I didn't feel the need to hide it from people in my life. I'm a very naturally open person. So what was my problem? Normally, I would over-analyze my own feelings and reactions to figure out where the knot was, and then work to untie it, but I didn't want to think about it this time. It felt too messy and every time I tried, I came up empty-handed.
By the day of the doctor appointment, things were starting to become more clear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment that the therapy wasn't working as well as everyone thought it would. I also felt indescribable frustration that, after six months of therapy, (in some ways) I felt that, not only had I not progressed, I had actually regressed, now to the point of needed to be medicated. I also felt terrified that, even with medication, I would feel this way for the rest of my life: trapped in my own irrational thoughts and fighting physical urges to behave in ways dictated by the anxiety. I think finally, and maybe most importantly, I felt that I really wasn't in control of this situation at all and that in spite of my best efforts, I was in a situation that had gotten beyond me. Anyone with anxiety knows that, at the core, control is the issue, so coming to the realization that the anxiety had a hold on me, rather than me on it, was very difficult for me.
I went into the doctor's office and she said, "so, what can I do for you today?" I told her what the therapist said. She said that she had read the letter and asked how I felt about it. I told her that I was very frustrated that after half a year of therapy I still felt like my thoughts were still so unrelenting, etc. She said that she has patients that come in and, regardless of what they want, she insists that they need to be on medication. She said I wasn't one of those patients and seemed concerned that frustration was at the root of why I wanted to be on medication. She said that six months of therapy wasn't really that long, in the grand scheme of things, and (though she didn't say this) I suspect that her concern was that I wasn't being patient enough -- that the therapy was working, but not as quickly as I wanted or anticipated it would and that it was unreasonable of me to expect myself to be "perfect" after only six months.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be on medication, so I didn't push for or against. I just continued talking to her about how I was feeling, and that was the point at which I said I was "terrified" that I would feel this way forever. And, as I said, that's when the switch flipped for her. She said, "Okay, I think you do need to be on something. The fact that you used the word 'terrified'..."
And so off I went to Safeway with my prescription. The last reason I think it was so hard that day -- sitting in that parking lot -- was that I had never really been 100% certain that I did indeed have any kind of an anxiety disorder/mental health struggle. This felt like the first time in my life that I had professionals saying, "you need help. You need therapy and you need medication." So I think this was the first time in my life it felt really real. This wasn't something I was making up. I wasn't just being dramatic. This was a real thing. And it was a real thing that I couldn't control. And that was scary. And that was hard.
But, I took the pill, and I have continued taking the pills. And it's been okay. The side effects have been nearly non-existent, although now, nearly a month in, I will say I am fighting fatigue.
I have been so fortunate to have so many people checking in on me. I've got a great deal of love and support and the ears of many so, although it's a battle, in no way do I feel that I'm fighting it alone.
This post is too long, so in a separate post, I will talk about how things have been since starting the medication and I will also talk about the history of anxiety's presence in my life.
So, you made it this far -- text me your Starbucks order and let's pick a date <3
Today is Saturday, September 3. Twenty-five days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of a Safeway, holding a prescription for an anti-depressant. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes. I couldn't get out -- partly because I didn't want to and partly because I looked a hot mess. Every time I thought about getting out, I started to cry, and I didn't want to walk into Safeway looking like the joker with mascara running down my red face. I figured I would wait the crying fits out; they took longer than I had anticipated. Eventually, when I felt I could make it fifteen minutes without crying, I walked in. I was still wrong. As I walked around the mall, Starbucks in hand, waiting for my prescription to be ready, I still cried.
The next morning, the tiny pill stared at me, daring me to take it, and - a moment later - daring me not to take it. Fuck you, I thought, as I washed it down. I felt strong, and weak, and scared, and proud, all at the same time. I wished my next therapy appointment wasn't a month away.
I posted a picture of that first pill on Instagram. I said that I was scared to take it. I was scared it would make me feel sick (nausea is my anxiety trigger/phobia). I was scared it would make me feel so tired, I would have difficulty taking care of my boys, my house, and being productive at my job. I was scared I would lose all interest in sex. But, to be honest, I think I was most scared that it wouldn't work at all. As I said to my GP when I sat in her office the day before to discuss whether or not it was in fact time to call the medication in, "I'm terrified that they won't work and I will feel like this forever." That was the line. That was the moment she put her head down and wrote the prescription.
I have dealt with anxiety and strange tendencies for the entirety of my life, but, back in February when both of my kids had a stomach virus, it really spiralled out of control. I knew it had taken hold in a more severe way than it ever had in the past and that I needed help. I made an appointment with my therapist (who I have seen in the past for the exact same issue), but I couldn't get in right away. I felt nothing short of desperate for immediate relief, so I also made an appointment with my doctor, hoping that she would prescribe me something. She wouldn't. She felt that I was still "functioning" and that my anxiety wasn't negatively effecting my relationships, my job, my ability to sleep, etc. Looking back, I think she was wrong: I wasn't sleeping and I had essentially locked myself in a room downstairs. This, folks, is not functioning. But I didn't say anything and the doctor said that she wanted me to see a therapist and try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) first. If that wasn't moving me forward, we would talk about supplementing with medication. I agreed and told her that I already had an appointment with a therapist that I liked.
The truth is that when I went in to see the therapist, I wanted her to echo my sentiment that I should be on drugs. (I know that only psychiatrists can prescribe medication, but I was hoping that she would agree with me and I wanted that confirmation from a professional.) But she agreed with my doctor. And so, I saw her once a week for the first two weeks, then once every two weeks for a month, then about once a month. I had completely put the notion of medication as a treatment option out of my mind and moved forward with the therapy.
Fast forward six months to July. I hadn't been in to see her in well over six weeks. The summer had been busy. She was on holidays. I was on holidays. As she asked me how I had been, and I said that, truthfully, I was frustrated with myself and my lack of progress. I felt that I was consistently and more frequently engaging in behaviours that feed the anxiety and irrational thoughts (in future blog posts, I will give actual examples of this) and that I felt that, in that way, I was actually getting worse. In addition, my worry about the kids getting sick would often consume my thoughts. In the past, I felt like there were "safe zones" - like in tag or hide-and-go-seek. But I was at the point now where nowhere, no situation, provided me relief or freedom. It was exhausting. During this session, and throughout the past six months, I honestly had not given medication another thought. As I told my therapist that I almost felt like I'd regressed, as opposed to progressed, I still wasn't thinking about medication; I was just venting my frustrations and being honest.
She told me that she disagreed with me and that, in spite of some of my behaviours, I had absolutely made progress since February. She said that part of the reason I might feel as though that isn't true is because I am now significantly more aware of how irrational the thoughts are, where as before, it was simply the track that repeated in my head. (I only half agree with this. I'm a pretty self-aware person and I did know -- for the most part -- how irrational some of the thoughts were and why they weren't "normal," but I do think that I have more clarity with respect to the boundaries of "normal" thought patterns and the behaviours that follow. She also said that, in spite of my desire to allow my decisions and actions to comply with the demands of my anxiety, the fact that I would still follow through with an original plan was evidence of progress. (For example, leaving the boys with my parents for a few days and going on the trip to Saskatoon, just Jeff and I, instead of cancelling it in fear that my kids would get the flu that my dad had just three days before). She said Past Amber would/might have cancelled the trip. I don't know that I agree with that either, but I might have changed plans (i.e., taken the kids with us instead of going alone, etc.). So, at the end of my appointment, I was caught completely off guard when she said, "have we talked about medication before?"
Immediately I wanted to cry because my first thought was, "she doesn't think I've made any progress." Knowing exactly how I think, the next words out of her mouth were (again) reassurance that I've made really great progress, but (the inevitable, always annoying but) she thinks I am in the "red zone" of anxiety a lot. She said that the intensity of the "red zone" makes it challenging for me to utilize and practice the tools I've been given over the course of my therapy sessions. I know what to do to manage the anxiety, but when I'm in full-on panic mode, and my thoughts run rampant, my heart rate nearly doubles, and I start shaking, my body reverts to fight or flight, and trying to use the strategies she's given me to calm myself down is exceptionally difficult when I'm already swimming upstream... and I can't swim.
She said she would write a letter to my regular doctor advising her of how our sessions were going, but suggesting that medication was, in her opinion, necessary.
The days leading up to the doctor appointment were very difficult.
For some reason, I really struggled with the idea of taking the meds -- a reaction that came as a surprise to me. In the two weeks I had to wait to get into my doctor, nearly every time I thought about it, I cried. I couldn't figure out why. It really wasn't feeling like I failed. I have/had no problem with "needing" medication. The stigma associated with mental health didn't bother me. I didn't feel the need to hide it from people in my life. I'm a very naturally open person. So what was my problem? Normally, I would over-analyze my own feelings and reactions to figure out where the knot was, and then work to untie it, but I didn't want to think about it this time. It felt too messy and every time I tried, I came up empty-handed.
By the day of the doctor appointment, things were starting to become more clear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment that the therapy wasn't working as well as everyone thought it would. I also felt indescribable frustration that, after six months of therapy, (in some ways) I felt that, not only had I not progressed, I had actually regressed, now to the point of needed to be medicated. I also felt terrified that, even with medication, I would feel this way for the rest of my life: trapped in my own irrational thoughts and fighting physical urges to behave in ways dictated by the anxiety. I think finally, and maybe most importantly, I felt that I really wasn't in control of this situation at all and that in spite of my best efforts, I was in a situation that had gotten beyond me. Anyone with anxiety knows that, at the core, control is the issue, so coming to the realization that the anxiety had a hold on me, rather than me on it, was very difficult for me.
I went into the doctor's office and she said, "so, what can I do for you today?" I told her what the therapist said. She said that she had read the letter and asked how I felt about it. I told her that I was very frustrated that after half a year of therapy I still felt like my thoughts were still so unrelenting, etc. She said that she has patients that come in and, regardless of what they want, she insists that they need to be on medication. She said I wasn't one of those patients and seemed concerned that frustration was at the root of why I wanted to be on medication. She said that six months of therapy wasn't really that long, in the grand scheme of things, and (though she didn't say this) I suspect that her concern was that I wasn't being patient enough -- that the therapy was working, but not as quickly as I wanted or anticipated it would and that it was unreasonable of me to expect myself to be "perfect" after only six months.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be on medication, so I didn't push for or against. I just continued talking to her about how I was feeling, and that was the point at which I said I was "terrified" that I would feel this way forever. And, as I said, that's when the switch flipped for her. She said, "Okay, I think you do need to be on something. The fact that you used the word 'terrified'..."
And so off I went to Safeway with my prescription. The last reason I think it was so hard that day -- sitting in that parking lot -- was that I had never really been 100% certain that I did indeed have any kind of an anxiety disorder/mental health struggle. This felt like the first time in my life that I had professionals saying, "you need help. You need therapy and you need medication." So I think this was the first time in my life it felt really real. This wasn't something I was making up. I wasn't just being dramatic. This was a real thing. And it was a real thing that I couldn't control. And that was scary. And that was hard.
But, I took the pill, and I have continued taking the pills. And it's been okay. The side effects have been nearly non-existent, although now, nearly a month in, I will say I am fighting fatigue.
I have been so fortunate to have so many people checking in on me. I've got a great deal of love and support and the ears of many so, although it's a battle, in no way do I feel that I'm fighting it alone.
This post is too long, so in a separate post, I will talk about how things have been since starting the medication and I will also talk about the history of anxiety's presence in my life.
So, you made it this far -- text me your Starbucks order and let's pick a date <3
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