Accepting My Self
When I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder almost 8 years ago, I had already struggled for many years with panic attacks and depression. However, when Zoe began suffering from asthma, I started getting anxious when I was doing normal every day activities, especially if I was trying to relax. I tried to put logic to my emotional state, but logic was not going to help me in this situation. I even put off getting medicine and help, because I saw it as a weakness, one that I needed to fix myself. I am self reliant. I was raised to do things on my own, and to not ask for help. So admitting I could not do this alone was a huge step for me. However, I was embarrassed that I needed medicine to keep myself afloat. I mean, what did I expect would happen with both sides of my family having either anxieties, depression or both?
It was really remarkable how much my behavior changed, for the positive, after only a few days. I felt like a person, rather than a shell of one with outbursts and chest pains. I couldn't believe how long I put off feeling better, and I did feel better. Of course after a month my meds were increased, and I once again felt like a failure. Albeit, not as much of a failure as the initial diagnosis.
However, I have recently fallen into another bout of depression these last few weeks. I thought it was illogical, but after deep thought this weekend I can pretty much state that the depression became obvious since a neighbor passed away suddenly. She was the mother of a little girl my two Ladybugs played with almost on a daily basis. And I was shocked, saddened and confused. We were not close. I spoke to her on the phone often, checking in on her daughter and asking if I could watch her longer. I didn't go to the funeral, because I physically could not convince myself to go. It was a crazy feeling. A feeling of being paralyzed by fear.
My brain never truly stops thinking. I over analyze EVERYTHING, to a fault. Logically I can state that I just had a physical, including my first mammogram, and I'm healthy - physically. I still need blood pressure meds, but that is genetic anyway, so I guess that's going to have to stay. I'm down 40 pounds since Christmas, and I am exercising almost everyday and eating healthier than I have in a long time. But shit happens, and that is where I cannot control my thoughts and feelings.
Unless one reads my blog posts, I have a good feeling they would not know of my illnesses. There...I wrote it. I HAVE MENTAL ILLNESSES. People probably would have no clue. I don't have anything that physically looks abnormal. Yes, I have gained weight from the depression during Ray's illness and passing, but I'm not grossly obese or morbidly disfigured (i.e. third breast, extra leg, etc.). I have always put on a good front. Played a part - the part I'm supposed to be. Because I quickly learned in elementary school that my authentic self was not good enough. I was not good enough for people to be my friend. So I became really good at pretending. So good, in fact, I believed it for a long LONG time.
I was born a giver, and one who could feel and relieve someone of their pain and hurt. I find great joy, but also great exhaustion from this gift. I can successfully let conversation occur without revealing my pain and hurt and emotions. I find myself living in a protective shell, and helping others with their problems as not to deal with my own. I have known my friend, Jahna, for 24 years now. She admits to just recently realizing I suffer from these illnesses. Can you believe it!? 24 freaking years I have been able to love her, and give to her, and be there for her.
But this year I'm done - this year I am 40 and I'm not going to feel sorry if I can't bring myself to attend family events, or have to cancel plans because I cannot bring myself to leave the house. I may not ever be able to eliminate my body from the meds I take for depression and anxiety, but that okay. This is me - take it or leave it.
My name is Michelle, and I have depression and anxiety.
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