It's that time of year. We have family gatherings, eat turkey sandwiches for a week, spend hours making a plan of attack for getting the items we hope to get on sale on Black Friday, and (most importantly to many), it means no work/school for a lot of people. But this should also be a time of reflection, a time to truly set out the things we are grateful for and appreciate them. I mean, think about it. We all know thanksgiving is a time to "give thanks," but how many of us can say we have taken the time to do this? It brings immense peace and happiness to realize that we all have a lot to be grateful for, no matter our situation. I'd like to take time to give thanks for the things I have in my life. First of all, I'm thankful for having such a loving, supportive family (both immediate and extended). I know I can trust them with my life and that they love me unconditionally. I'm thankful for the amazing friends I've been blessed to have. Without them, I wouldn't have the courage to have left an abusive relationship. They have encouraged me and supported me through my busy time in school and have given me advice when I have most needed it. They've also been incredibly fun and helped keep me distracted during the tough transitions and recent changes in my life. I can truly say I love every single one of my close friends. With that being said, I'm thankful for the educational opportunities that have been afforded to me, and I intend to work in a job where I can help make a difference in other people's lives. I was given many opportunities and others should be, too. I'm thankful for my relative good health because although it is depressing sometimes to realize that this anxiety will never go away, I know others are in worse health and that I am still alive and breathing and should feel lucky. Finally, I'm thankful for every single person that I've come in contact with in my life, because even if it resulted in a negative experience, it has helped shape who I am and has made me a stronger, more resilient person. Take the time to think about the things you are grateful for...it will bring a smile to your face and make your holiday that much more enjoyable.
October is Domestic Violence Awareness month, and I clearly remember volunteering at the battered women's shelter every October during high school and spending time playing with the children living at the shelter, talking to the women, and hosting a candlelight vigil to remember all the women that lost their lives to an abusive husband/partner. At the vigil, they'd say the name of every woman, describe the way their partner killed them, and light a candle in her honor. Some of these stories were beyond gruesome; others were just plain unbelievable. I was always the pro-human rights advocate, the infuriated girl that went around telling women to stand up for themselves and not let anyone take advantage of them or abuse them. Ironically enough, I ended up a victim myself. I've always considered myself a strong, independent person. I am seen as the dominant partner in relationships almost all of the time, and I never thought in a million years that would happen to me. But it did. This, like anxiety, also knows no boundaries. It can strike any woman at any age and it cripples you like a bad sickness. It begins to eat away at any self-esteem you may have had and rips you apart at your core. I was with someone who, by anyone's standards, would be described as the "perfect guy." Extremely intelligent, well-versed, humble, multi-talented, attractive, and respectful towards anyone he encountered. And in the beginning, it was like that. But like any abusive relationship, we know the abuser lures the victim only to gain their trust and control, and then the pattern of abuse begins. The emotional abuse began long before the physical. He'd criticize all my friends and try to distance me from them. He would be jealous and controlling and pick an argument any opportunity he'd get. He'd call me fat and lazy, which eventually led to me fighting a battle with an eating disorder. And the word "ugly", "bitch" and "trash" became common descriptors of me. As they say, though, hindsight is always 50/50. When you are in a happy, seemingly stable relationship and the abuse is slow to grow and so subtle, you truly do not notice it happening until it's too late. This was just the beginning, though. There were bruises, bloody lips, choking, screaming, and, towards the end of our relationship just a few months ago, I called the cops as he slammed me to the ground trying to wrestle my cell phone from me and trying to cover my mouth so I couldn't scream. There were times that I was truly scared for my life. His response was always: "Well you made me do it." Or "You disrespected me and asked for it." Or "You slapped me first." (This was after, of course, him yelling at me calling me names while I was almost begging for him to stop, only to see him laughing in my face). I feel now that while physical and emotional abuse are both very traumatic experiences that are difficult to overcome, it has taken a lot longer for me to get past the emotional abuse than the physical. My bruises healed, as did my cut lips and scratches. But my self-worth and self-respect? That is hard to get back. I am not implying I'm perfect...by no means am I nor will I ever be. But the way he'd justify treating me the way he did, I began to believe I deserved the abuse and leaving him was the hardest thing I ever did because despite it all, I thought I loved him. I thought I loved a perfect man who just had an anger problem. I was in denial. I write this because on the outside, none of my friends could have ever imagined the abuse that occured within our relationship. They thought, everyone did, that we were crazy for each other and happily in love. But abuse is real, and most of the time it is behind closed doors so it is difficult to get the victim the help they need. Currently in my life, I can count on one hand the number of people that know about the abuse that I went through with my ex...it is definitely an experience I am ashamed to talk about but only by talking to others and bringing about awareness can we begin to help others and give battered women everywhere the chance to stand up and walk away from the dangerous situations they are in. No one should have to live in fear. It is almost exactly 6 months since I walked away...and I am not looking back. As difficult as it has made it for me to trust anyone, especially men, I refuse to let this ex to continue to have control over me. Everyone has a memory, good or bad, they just can't seem to forget. Whether you remember a specific smell, taste, emotion, or vision, there's a certain trigger that makes you feel like that moment, that memory, just occurred yesterday. My unforgettable memory is so extremely vivid, it's kind of scary. It was the weekend right before 4th of July, 1995, and I was 8 years old. That day changed my life forever. It was the day I experienced my first panic attack, and it ranks as probably one of the most severe ones to date. Before then, I had what I guess would be considered a normal childhood by anyone's standards. I was a lanky, outgoing girl that loved school and whose biggest worry was turning in that math homework. That night, my mom's best friend was getting married. I remember sitting in the living room watching cartoons, seeing my dad putting on his suit and my mom picking out her dress. My younger brother and sister were running around the house, being mischievous and dreading our babysitter's arrival. It was the early evening, and I hear my mom's heels hitting the floor as she's walking towards the living room, getting ready to give us 3 kids the "you better behave and not give the babysitter trouble" talk. It was routine. All 3 of us were supposed to just nod in agreement, stay quiet, and wait until past midnight for my parents to come home. But this time was different. As I saw both my parents talking to us, I started feeling cold. Shaky. Something I had never felt before. My mind was racing: What if my parents die in a car crash on the way to the wedding? What if one of them drops dead of a heart attack? What if someone shoots them and I never get to see them again? I felt faint. I stood up and just yelled "Don't go!" It literally looked like it was straight out of a scene of a movie. My parents look at me, confused, as do my brother and sister. I guess I expected them to just smile kindly, say "okay honey, we'll stay here tonight, no wedding for us," and then everything would be fine. My dad looked at me sternly and just said "behave" as he took my mom's hand and walked into the garage and into their car. An overwhelming feeling ran through my 8 year old body. An intense sense of dread filled me from head to toe. I couldn't let my parents go. It would be my fault if something happened to them because I could've stopped it and didn't. So I ran to the garage, where I saw their car pulling out, and ran in front of their car. "DON'T GO...YOU NEED TO STAY HERE!" My parents now probably thought I was just being spoiled, and they told me to just go inside the house, not to overreact, that they'd only be gone a few hours. The further I saw their car pulling away from our cul-de-sac, the more panic set in. I would not have been surprised in the least bit if I died of a heart attack then and there. My heart was racing, palms sweaty, I felt faint and nauseated and I just KNEW something would go wrong that night. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of the cul-de-sac, in my pajamas, screaming and crying and begging for my parents to come back. That's when they knew something was wrong. I was always a well-adjusted, well-behaved child. The oldest of 3 at that time, I was the one they could count on to be responsible and the good older sister. This child was now screaming and crying and acting completely out of character. So after minutes of my mom trying to console me and convince me to go back inside the house, they pulled back into the garage, my mom brought me inside the house and hugged me until I calmed down and eventually fell asleep. That day changed my parents' life forever, too. They eventually learned they had to deal with the reality that they had a daughter with Panic Disorder and very severe anxiety/depression. The psychologist and psychiatrist I saw were convinced it was partially, if not all, genetic. After all, I came from a loving household, never having undergone any trauma in my life. I had never even known someone close to me, or even an acquaintance, that had died. I was a very happy, well-adjusted kid. But anxiety knows no boundaries. That's why I wanted to write this blog and my experiences throughout my life with anxiety and its different manifestations. Anxiety isn't an illness just for the poor, or unstable, or lower class. It strikes you and shows no mercy. It struck me at age 8, and never looked back. Almost 15 years later, I've definitely had my roller-coaster of experiences with anxiety. I've tried anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, herbs, therapies (both talk and exposure), breathing techniques and other techniques to handle stress, weekly massages, etc. There are times when I am faring better than others, but I have never been anxiety free. It has become a matter or coping with, and not curing, this illness. If there is one thing I wish I could tell myself at that age with what I know now, it would be this: You are not alone. You will get through this. You are stronger than you know. If I were to have a panic attack, where is the nearest exit to me? That is a question I ask myself everyday when I walk into a new building, classroom, or unknown area. Teachers that give assigned seating are the best, because once I claim my seat, I know that the seat closest to the door is officially mine for the rest of the semester. It's a sort of calming feeling to know that. Now, the classes that are a problem are those where you fight for your seat, so everyone tries to get there early. I walk in, see someone in that coveted 'near the exit' seat, and a sense of slight panic runs through my body. Should I ask them if they mind trading seats? Should I just be logical and listen to my mind, which tells me I'm overreacting? Ah. So I settle into the next best seat, feeling a slightly bit on edge the entire class time. :50 minutes later, when class lets out, it is freedom again, and the anxiety subsides. This is my life. Yes, I worried about how I will complete my law school readings, I worry about how I will finish writing that grad school paper, and I even worry about just waking up to go to class on time. I just also happen to worry about how I will exit a building if I were to feel enclosed and panicky, and these extra little stresses and irrational worries are what defines me. Agoraphobia, the fear of being in places where help may not be available, is a tough thing to deal with as a young adult. Being anxious about getting that ideal seat closest to the exit is just one of the many situations in which is arises. Imagine driving down a highway and realizing you are too far to drive back from where you came from, but still too far away from the place where you are going. The panic sets in. What if all of a sudden, you can't breathe? Who will you turn to? You're too far away from anyone. So you start looking for a police station, a fire dept, or (my personal favorite) the nearest hospital. And you start planning the way you will go about getting to that hospital. But then you remember all the articles you've read that mention how the average wait time in the US for an ER patient is over an hour. And the panic grows. And your hands start sweating, you feel lightheaded, and you are having a hard time catching your breath. This is me. This is my life. This is what I've known since the age of 8, and I've learned to accept my anxiety as a part of my life. The (few) times it has been temporarily treated, I feel empty. I guess you can say I don't feel complete without it. For now, I'm just planning my move for tomorrow...how early I will need to get to class to get the seat closest to the exit. It's funny. As children, we dream of the day we're old enough to be allowed to sip that dark, caffeinated drink we see our parents so enjoy at the breakfast table. We think drinking coffee will somehow make us classy, refined, and, most importantly, feel like adults. And then the day comes: We are either with a group of our high school friends at the neighborhood Starbucks trying that cocoa drink for the first time, suddenly feeling like the cool kids. Or we sneak a sip from our parents' coffeepot and wonder whether they truly enjoy the flavor or merely drink it for its ability to help them get through the workday. Or you're like me...too scared to drink too much of it and yet a slave to this coffee, all in one. Scared to drink coffee? This is the story of my life. I am a 22 year old female law student struggling to obtain a JD and Master's Degree at the same time. This blog documents my struggles with GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder), Panic Disorder, and Severe Depression and the way this affects my educational and personal life. Coffee is my savior, as it helps me stay awake during the long nights briefing cases and writing policy papers, yet it's also my downfall due to the caffeine (the one thing sufferers of anxiety must learn to avoid). This is one of the many tugs and pulls that occurs in my everyday life, and this is only just the beginning. This is the story of a girl who looks like she's got it all figured out on the outside, yet on the inside is a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that don't seem to fit together. |