Breathe In, Breathe Out.

This weekend, I had my first legitimate panic attack in front of Erik.

Since the beginning of our relationship, I talked about my anxiety candidly. I remember telling him on the night of our first kiss – five days before he asked me out – that I have some issues. He reacted supportively, saying that he would be happy to help me get through tough times. He’s said this whenever I’ve brought it up again. It’s one of the things I found really refreshing about him.

We’ve been dating for just over a year and half. In that time, my anxiety hasn’t truly flared up in front of him. Part of it is that I do my best to prevent it. Part of it is that I always felt uniquely at ease around him. I used to think this was a good thing:  how fabulous that my anxiety stayed at bay while we were together! It didn’t put a damper on anything we did, which is what I hate most about being anxious. After this weekend, I realize I was only putting off the inevitable.

On Saturday night, we went on a dinner cruise with his family – his parents, Natalie, and her husband. I had been dreading this from the get-go. I regretted not declining earlier, insisting that someone go in my place. Still, I was able to put the worry out of my mind and prepare, something I’ve always found calming. I bought two kinds of motion-sickness medicine, acupressure bracelets, and ginger gum. I felt ready.

But as soon as I walked down that pier and heard the boats rocking in the harbor, I freaked. Stepping on board didn’t help – because we were still docked, there was a distinct rocking motion. I panicked.

Tears came involuntarily as I clutched at my bag and focused my eyes on anything but the windows that displayed visually the teetering motion I felt. There was no way I could survive three hours on a boat if it was going to feel like this. All of my well-laid-out plans to retreat to the top deck and put on my bracelets were out the window; I wanted off the boat. Now. And I said as much, through clenched teeth, to Erik, along with I want to go home, I can’t do this, and why are you making me do this?

I could tell he was dumbfounded. In theory, anxiety wasn’t a big deal to him. It was a vague concept, one that he probably interpreted as me being a little nervous about things. To see it in full force, however, was completely different. He didn’t know what to say or do, which just made me feel guilty.

Thankfully, Natalie (who is my best friend of five years and well aware of my anxiety issues) came to greet me and, upon seeing my tear-filled eyes, calmed me down. She hugged me tightly and asked what was wrong. When I told her, she reassured me and told me her husband said that this was the worst of it – once we got moving, it would be okay. I would be okay. And I believed her.

I don’t fault Erik for his reaction, not in the least. He didn’t know. But that’s the thing – he didn’t know. Now, he realizes what anxiety does to me and that it’s possible – and probable – that I’ll have a similar reaction to most new experiences. It was a dose of reality for him, and quite frankly, it scares me. This realization could have a negative impact on our relationship, because he has to deal with the reality that this is “normal.” Is that something he wants to deal with? Is he willing to give up going on cruises – real, week-long ones – together, because it’s something I know is too overwhelming for me?

I ended up enjoying the rest of the cruise, though I will admit I'm relieved to have it off of my mind. But now I've replaced that anxiety with worry, because I never anticipated Erik's reaction to seeing me panic. All I can do is discuss it more, promise to try my hardest to work on it and not let it paralyze me, and ask him to be patient. Trust isn't my strong point, but I don't have much other choice.

Ten Years.

Usually I'm a huge advocate of talking about and remembering September 11, 2001. So far, every year I've either told the story of that day from my eyes or shared something relevant. With it being the tenth anniversary, I expected to feel the same way and want to re-post my story or talk about the day.

However, I've found that this year, everything seems to be triggering my anxiety. I guess I suppressed the more serious emotions underlying the day and that now, they're starting to come out. The last time my dad started telling his story (to my cousin's girlfriend, who'd never heard the whole thing), I had to leave the room because I felt light-headed. When my mom was watching one of the 9/11 specials earlier this week, I felt panicky and started crying.

Instead, I'll just be posting links to things I've written in the past that explain what I went through on this day, ten years ago.

My September 11th
September 12th, 2001
Top of the World (yesterday's post)

I feel that those posts accurately flesh out my experience and I thank you if you take the time to read them all.

As for me, I'll be watching football and catching up on some reading. I'll never ever forget how I felt ten years ago, but I just can't torture myself by watching the footage over and over.

the root of the problem.

Note: Starting off the week before Christmas with a post like this is the last thing I want to do, really. But, I wrote it and need to publish it, because if not now, when? I can promise that the rest of the weeks' posts will all be holiday-based because I'm giddy with Christmas spirit.

I’ve spent the majority of my health issues being bombarded by multiple parties on how I should be better already, how easy it should be, and how the longer this goes on, the more it’s my own fault. My parents were sympathetic at first, but have now joked in a sarcastic and somewhat hopeless fashion that I’m going to live at home forever. My ex constantly checked up on me, told me things I should be doing as if he were my parent, and instilled a certain amount of guilt in me because I was usually unable (or unwilling) to go out.

Basically, I’ve come to believe that I am a sub par member of society and that my value is decreased because of my problems. My relationship would’ve been better if I could go out to dinner or the movies more; my parents wouldn’t be embarrassed to talk about me if I was healthy and had a job. The basis of these statements is accurate - my health is adversely affecting my life - but adding guilt to the list of things I struggle with isn't helping.

The other night, as I was having a down moment and contemplating all of the problems in my life, it became painfully obvious that I have major anxiety issues. I don’t even hesitate putting a name to it – my entire life, I’ve worried too much about things. I've woken up with anxious stomachaches on any day that included something out of the ordinary. I have issues with eating in front of people, even in my own home, and feel flustered before going almost anywhere. Being away from home for extended periods of time – unless it’s someplace that feels like home – makes me tired and ill.

If that sounds like a lot to deal with, it is. But, to be honest, until recently I had learned how to cope with it. I took medicine preemptively to calm my stomach. I laughed off my eating habits, getting through barely half of my meal in public places and eating normally once I returned home. I turned down invitations to go on trips or stay over people’s houses because I worried about feeling too sick or becoming an inconvenience.

For most of my life, I have found ways to temporarily solve the problems and live normally. With the onset of my health issues, however, I have lost those skills. What I have feared most – feeling sick, calling attention to myself, needing to find bathrooms quickly – has come true. They’re not irrational fears if they actually happen.

So what happens now? I make my way through Christmas, New Year's, and my birthday, using my well-practiced tactics. And then I look for a therapist. Honestly, I can’t do it anymore. I'm tired. I'm frustrated. I have to admit to myself that I’m not superwoman, no matter how hard I want to be, and I can’t keep using quick fixes and putting a smile on my face. I can't keep popping pills and eating poorly just to go out, only to suffer for days after. It's a disservice to my friends to show up somewhere and be too concerned about how I feel to fully enjoy myself. Some lovely girls have inspired me and made me realize that it’s okay to ask for help when you need it. I know I have an extremely supportive group of friends who will see me through this and a family who, at the very least, won't judge me for this.

I just hope I’m brave enough to go through with it when the time comes.