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.