My Birthday

Today is my birthday.

I've been dreading it for weeks because I knew I wouldn't receive a phone call or gift from my mom. I knew we wouldn't go shopping together over the weekend or have margaritas or watch Mama Mia together. I knew she wouldn't be able to tell me that she was so happy to have me (and my sister) in her life.

I didn't really want a birthday if I couldn't have those things.

So, at first I tried to avoid my birthday. I told some of my friends not to wish me a happy birthday. I didn't talk to anyone about plans or gifts or fun things to do. I had the perfect cover – Halloween!

I met with my doctor on Monday for a follow-up visit about some medication and my anxiety attacks. I told her that I thought my anxiety was decreasing until the past few days as I was getting ready for my first birthday without my mom. She said that was normal, and that I should realize that the firsts are going to be the hardest. Of course, I know that, and I am dreading the holidays more than I've ever dreaded anything, but I really wasn't expecting my birthday to throw me for such a loop. I learned many years ago that birthdays were a lot like being single on Valentine’s Day – it’s just not that big of a deal to anyone else. I just don’t tend to have many expectations regarding my birthday.

Well, except for my mom to call me and sing Happy Birthday and tell me she loves me.

In a surprise turn of events, I actually had a pretty good day. My employer hosted a volunteer event at Harvester’s, so about twenty of my coworkers and I spent a couple of hours this morning sorting and repackaging food instead of entering data on our computers or answering phones. Hard work in the service of others is cleansing to the mind and spirit.

Then, since it was the official last day for some of the seasonal workers, we had a pizza party (yes, I recognize and acknowledge the irony here) and were able to talk and laugh and socialize in a way that’s not usually possible when you’re working.

Then, I was extremely touched to receive a birthday card from my coworkers. I didn't even know they knew it was my birthday! I felt really appreciated and happy to be there.

About twenty minutes later, a water main broke near our building, and we were told to go home because the water and air-conditioning were shut off, so the building was getting pretty warm, and you’re never thirstier or need to pee more than when there’s no water available.

As I was packing up my things and saying goodbye to some of the temps, a man arrived with flowers! For me! They were beautiful purple daisies and included a card from my sister, her husband, my husband, my dad, and all of our pets. I've never received flowers at work before, and it really is one of those times in life when you want to say to all of the other cube-dwellers, “yep, I just got flowers, people! Take that!”

Despite my good day and positive mood, when I got home, I did something that some of you might see as masochistic or even reckless. And I’m not sure I’d disagree.

I listened to the voicemail my mom left me last year on my birthday. It begins with her singing “Happy Birthday” to me, telling me she loves me, that she hoped I’d had a good day, and that she and my dad would just be hanging out at home, waiting for trick-or-treaters, so I should call her when I had time.

Hearing her voice was amazing. It was startling and disorienting, and at first I couldn't breathe. Then it was comfortable, like being home again after you've been away for a long time.

I listened to it about six or seven times, lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin and my dog’s head on my shoulder. I cried some, but I mostly listened. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Twice, I allowed myself to indulge in a deliberate delusion: that it was a message from this year, and that I was going to call her back in a few minutes and talk about my day.

After setting my phone aside, I fell asleep for two hours. When I woke up, I was disoriented and exhausted, my eyes still swollen from crying. I remembered listening to the voicemail and almost listened to it again, but decided I should get up and take the dog out before trick-or-treaters began arriving.

I was alone in the house, and I felt the loneliness sharply. It’s a really frustrating kind of loneliness, because I know I’m not alone. I know there are people thinking of me and supporting me all the time, but when this loneliness creeps up, it doesn't matter. The emptiness echoes inside me, bouncing off my bones, and causing my joints to ache with grief.

I picked up my phone as I grabbed the dog’s leash, and was stunned. In the past two hours I’d had five missed calls, four voicemails, and twelve text messages. They were all birthday wishes! And nearly all of them mentioned that they were thinking about me!

All the texts, calls, and messages don’t really make it any easier that I’m not getting a call from my mom today, but they are an answer to the loneliness, because even if it’s only temporarily, it has, as of now, mostly eased.

As I’m writing this, it’s nearly 8:30pm, but I'm feeling pretty positive about today, because I think sometimes, especially lately, when things seem so hopeless and empty, these reminders that I haven’t been forgotten and that not everyone has grown tired of me really reach inside me and soothe those aches of loss.

Thank you. 

Kassie and I dressed as Dorothy and Glinda
 for Halloween/our birthdays circa
1990 in costumes our mom made for us.

The Importance of Grieving Openly

I saw The Importance of Grieving Openly on Hello Giggles today. I tend to head over to HG when I need a break at work, or some inspiration for my nail art (yes, nail art). I don't know Becca Rose, the author, but I felt a connection to her today when I read her article.

When my mom died, I felt like it was ok to fall apart. So I did. But after a few weeks and months, I felt like I needed to "get it together" and "stop worrying people." So I tried. But it didn't work.

Something that Becca says in her article is that some of her friendships dwindled while she was going through her grief, but that she had to make the right decision for herself in dealing with her sadness.

...I made a decision that I couldn't afford to put a happy face on tragedy, and so I became brutally honest with myself and others. The friends I had, who stayed through that became my support system. In being honest with them, I felt like I had a net to fall back on. I wasn't alone in my grief, and that alone helped me so much. Those friendships became so much stronger because of what I went through.

This probably hit home the hardest for me. I wouldn't call what I've been going through "sadness" or even purely "grief" -- I feel that my grief over losing mom was a catalyst for the worst major depression and anxiety I've ever experienced in my life, and I've been so worried about worrying other people that I haven't been honest about how difficult it's been.

I feel a gap widening between some of my friends and me, probably due at least in part to not being forthcoming about my state of mind. But the truth of the matter is that I am juggling a lot, and maybe the friends who realize that will return after I've had some time to heal.

There are  friends who have checked on me every day and know -- and have known, before I was even ready to say it -- what I'm going through. I used to feel guilty about the burden I was placing on their shoulders. After all, my emotional problems are not their problems.

But maybe they are, after all? Simply knowing that I can text or call these friends anytime and they would drop everything they were doing to come be by my side is a security I can't describe. It's actually right in line with family, and I'm so grateful and so blessed to have both family and friends to lean on.

I've been doing a lot of putting myself in others' shoes lately, and I know that if a friend of mine needed my support, I would do whatever I could to help and support them. So, I think it's probably time to accept the help, welcome the support, and be real with everyone who cares about me that I haven't been well at all.

I have a plan that I put together with my doctor and therapist that perhaps I'll explain at another time, but I think the main bit of good news I'll leave you with is that a lot of the time, there's a tiny ray of optimism poking through my despair -- and I hope one of these days I'll have the energy and focus to reach some of my goals and dreams. I'll keep you posted.

My dad, sister, her husband, me, and Max on my sister's wedding day, October 13, 2012.

An Exchange

I want you to think about the last 6 months. Think about everything that has happened since you decided to come home early from England in April.

Don’t think of the individual events, think of everything at once. Let everything flash before your eyes.

It’s a lot for a person to deal with, right? Has your heart rate increased? Do you feel overwhelmed just thinking about it?

Yes.

Now, have you had anyone tell you they think you are strong, or that they think you’ve been through a lot?

Yes.

Do you believe them?

No.

You don’t think you’ve been strong or brave?

No.

Why not?

Because I cry every day. I keep gaining weight. I can’t pay attention at work. I can’t finish anything. I have to take medication just to function. I don’t take my dog for walks. I don’t have a real job. I’m so, so lonely. I’m losing my mind. I have no control. I just wish I could sleep for a really long time.

Switch places with a friend, any friend. Imagine you have their life and they have yours. Just think for a few minutes about everything your friend has been through, including her reactions and how she’s carried herself. Think about the talks you've had and how you wished you could help her. Don’t say anything, just run it through your mind – everything your friend has been through in the past six months.

10 minutes later

Why are you crying?

Because no one should have to deal with this.

That’s true, no one should. What do you think of your friend?

I think I feel so, so sorry for her.

That isn't what I asked. What do you think of her?

Long pause.

I think she’s doing what she can to get by. I think she’s in survival mode.

Do you think she is strong? Strong enough to survive and eventually come out of survival mode?

Long pause.

Yes.

Panic

This morning I hauled my butt out of bed and went to Power Yoga at the Y. I am extremely out of shape and about as flexible as a wooden board, but my newly-hired personal trainer said she always attends this class and would help me out. So I thought, why not?

After an hour of impossible stretching and bending, including many modified poses due to my knees’ refusal to straighten and my hips’ screams, I felt physically satisfied, but I was crying in my car. A few of the women there knew my mom, and had just found out about her death. They had questions and wanted to share their condolences. I was completely unprepared. I had expected to come to class, talk with my personal trainer, torture myself for an hour, then go home and make lunch. I wasn’t ready for the questions. I wasn’t prepared for the condolences.

So, I cried in my car for a little while and successfully talked myself out of a panic attack.

Since my mom passed away one month, two days, twelve hours, thirteen minutes and 22 seconds ago, I have had approximately 9 panic or anxiety attacks. It doesn't take much to set me off - a memory, a conversation with someone about my mom, sometimes just thinking of something I wish I could tell my mom about will do it. Before that, I’d had about 7 in the past two years.

I have had a lot of problems with anxiety and panic in my life. A lot of it started because I was teased in school for being overweight. Tears come quickly and easily to me, so I would hold my breath and hold them in until I could get to the bathroom, or until it was time to go home. The only thing worse than being picked on when you’re a little fat girl is being picked on and then letting them see you cry. Assholes.

One day, in the second grade, we were having an indoor recess because of a storm. There were three classrooms-worth of second-graders in one classroom to watch a movie. No one wanted to sit by me, and I ended up having nowhere to sit at all. One of the other teachers (not mine) said that if I didn’t sit down by the count of ten, I’d lose recess the next day. I crawled under a table. They turned the lights off, and under my table, it was very dark. All I could see were the backs of my classmates who would have nothing to do with me, sitting on the floor, watching a movie while it stormed outside.

I panicked.

I started to hyperventilate and sweat. I was crying and choking on my snot and tears. I was dizzy and my legs wouldn’t work. My teacher dragged me out from under the table by my arms and carried me to the nurse. She was barely five feet tall and probably didn’t weigh much more than I did! My mom came to get me and took me straight to the doctor, who informed us that I’d had probably had an anxiety attack.

My mom didn’t make me go back to school that day. We went to McDonald’s and I got a Happy Meal and then we went home and I played with my Barbies. She asked me why I thought I got so upset, and I said I thought it was because I didn’t have any friends and that no one liked me because I was bigger than them. I remember she cried and I felt bad for making her cry.

The truth is, I did have some friends. But I didn’t have a lot of friends until a few years after this incident. I had a couple of good, close friends, but not enough who weren’t afraid of the girls who made it their mission to humiliate me every day.

Ever since then, I’ve been prone to having “freak-outs.” Usually at night. I’ve been in therapy for many years off and on, and I have medication that helps. But sometimes, I let things build up too much because I still don’t want to let them see me cry.

Another major “freak-out” happened during my last semester of college. I was taking a lot of challenging classes, trying to decide what to do after college (which, three years later, I still haven’t decided), planning my wedding, and my mom’s cancer had just returned with a vengeance. I was a mess. I was driving to school where I was supposed to give a ten minute presentation about something I don’t remember, and I was talking to my mom on my cell phone about how much of a mess I was. That’s when I saw the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. How fast was I going? Let’s just say I avoided having to go to court by only two miles per hour. I hung up on my mom and waited for the officer to get out of his car and come to my window. I hadn’t put my new insurance card in my wallet or car yet, so I texted my roommate that I’d been pulled over and asked if she hadn’t left for class yet, if she would mind grabbing my new cards and bringing them to me. As I waited, I became increasingly agitated.  I was going to be late for my presentation. Everything sucked.  I had no money to pay a stupid speeding ticket. Didn’t he have anything better to do than make an ordinarily-law-abiding citizen sweat it in her car?

I panicked.

By the time he got to my window, I couldn’t talk. I was hyperventilating, and couldn’t tell him what was wrong. I could only nod or shake my head. He asked me to get out of the car, and my knees immediately buckled. He told me wait in my car.

Less than five minutes later, I heard sirens. Lots of them. Looking in my rear view mirror, I saw a fire engine approaching.

What? Why?

Right behind the fire engine was an ambulance. Behind the ambulance was another police car with two police officers in it.

Oh my God.

They pulled over right behind the cop, and suddenly, my car was engulfed in a crowd of men. There were four firemen, two EMTs, and three police officers surrounding me, asking me questions, taking my blood pressure, and offering me a bottle of water.

I panicked again.

At this moment, my roommate showed up among the chaos, with a look of panic on her face. I grabbed her hand and forced myself to breathe. After several moments, I managed to get the words out to tell her that I’d had a panic attack and the police officer had called the ambulance and fire engine. She was amazed. I was embarrassed and still panicking. She sat with me while I refused medical attention and refused to go to the hospital. I didn’t need a $300 emergency room visit just to have an irritated doctor tell me I needed to take some deep breaths.

Eventually, all nine men dispersed, leaving my roommate and me alone. I had missed my presentation.

Oh, and the original police officer still wrote me a speeding ticket.

My anxiety or panic attacks have become a lot easier to predict and deal with in the past two weeks, thanks to therapy, medication, writing, a regular sleep schedule, and distance from the night my mom died. I’m trying to keep as many things in balance as I can, especially while I’m not working. I hope I can get back to less than ten attacks every couple of years, but I also know that getting irritated, annoyed, or upset about having them just makes them happen more often, and with greater intensity. Sometimes you really do just have to take some deep breaths and make peace with the things you can’t control, because trying to control them is only a waste of very valuable energy.