So, Facebook has this app now that allows you to look at
posts from you and your friends from a year ago. It’s called “On This Day.” So, I was cruising through that earlier this
morning, as I was sitting on my back patio, watching a lady bug. And I saw this post from this day last year that
read “I just spent the last 50 minutes sitting on the patio watching a lady
bug.” Wow. What are the odds? Same thing, same place. 365 days later. That’s weird.
Coincidentally, this is not the first time the “On This Day” app has
reminded me that my life seems to be following the same pattern as the years
pass.
A couple of weeks ago, I came home to a dead gopher on my
front porch. I posted that on
Facebook. Then, one of my girlfriends
countered with my post from a year ago.
It said the same thing. So, naturally, I found some humor in the idea
that my life is repeating itself, to the day, every year. It can only mean two things: 1.) I’m
really boring. OR, 2.) I really am the definition of insanity. Either way, I feel like there should be some
change or variation or something else.
Then, I realized something more terrifying than realizing that the
internet knows exactly what you said and felt one year ago. I realized that the lady bug post was the beginning
of the monumental meltdown that I almost didn’t survive.
Last year, on this day, I was getting ready to take a week
off and head to New England to visit with some of my favorite people. I was trying to get the house cleaned up and
get my shit packed and blow this popsicle stand for a little while. There was going to be wine and laughing and
music. I should have embraced it. I don’t take time off. And being able to enjoy people who are so
very important is an added benefit. But,
as I sat there, watching that lady bug on April 6, 2013, I just couldn’t find
the motivation to do anything else. So I
just sat there. And watched the lady
bug.
Well, I finally got some stuff together in the following
days, and I got in the car to drive Radley to my mom’s. She was going to keep him for the week I was
going to be gone. As I made the three
hour trip from West Sonoma County to the Foothills where she lives, nothing
felt right. By the time I got there, I
was shaking so bad that she felt it when I hugged her. She looked at me and begged me not to go on
this trip. She said “Angela, I don’t
think you can drive yourself home. You absolutely
can’t travel across the country.” And I
said “I have to go mom.” And so I
went. Not to New England, but back
home. I felt so obligated to myself, to
my friends, to the airline for the $500 ticket I had purchased two months
earlier, that I couldn’t not go. When I
pulled into the driveway that night, I went and finished packing. I was fucking going. The next thing I knew, I was texting my
little bro to tell him not to pick me up in the morning to take me to the
airport.
He tried to come over to see what was wrong. He had no idea what was going on. Neither did I. I just knew that I was paralyzed with an
unidentifiable emotion. I pleaded with
him not to come over. “I just really
need to be by myself.” I absolutely did
not need to be by myself. I didn’t know
that. I just knew that I didn’t want
anyone to see me acting like a crazy person. So, he let it go that night, and the next night. The third morning, though, he showed up at my
front door and said “Breakfast. That’s
not a question.” I didn’t want to
go. I just went. Because I had to do something.
I could barely dress myself and I tried to tell Conrad it
wasn’t a good time. He looked at me and
said “Did you eat yesterday?” I just
stared at him. “Did you eat on Friday?” I had nothing. “For fuck sake, when was the last time you ate,
Angela?” I just stood there. He loaded me into the car and we drove to
Hallies. He tried to order me the crab
benedict, on account of it’s my favorite.
I just looked at it and avoided eye contact. I was so humiliated. And he was really scared. So, we left and when he dropped me off, I
could see he had no idea what to do. I
really wanted to tell him that I was going to be OK, but I couldn’t. It was so bad, my little brother couldn’t
even tell me that it was going to be OK.
I spent the rest of the week hold up inside the house, too afraid to
leave. I did my very best to sever ties
with the people who were important to me.
I made it very clear to everyone who tried to make contact with me that
I didn’t want them in my life anymore.
It was textbook.
After nearly two weeks of feeling completely out of control,
including spending one week of “vacation” exiled to my house, I had to go get
Radley. I had no idea how I was going to
drive up to get him. I called Mike and told
him he might need to go get him from my mom.
That’s I really started to lose it.
If I can’t take care of my son, they will take him away from me. Then, in a brief moment of reprieve from the
overwhelming darkness, I saw a hazy fog.
So, I wrote. I wrote about all of
it. Not all of it. This is actually the first time I have written
about all of it. But I did write about
my feelings and the panic and the self-destructive behavior that I had been so vehemently
committed to over previous weeks. The
writing didn’t solve the problem, but it did offer a release. Finally, some freedom from the ugly place I
had shackled my mind to. And that’s
where this blog began. Right in the
middle of an emotional tsunami.
When I saw that Facebook post this morning from one year
ago, I found a little irony in it at first.
Then, I got really scared.
Because just like at this time last year, I’ve been feeling a little out
of sorts. I really don’t want lady bugs
to be my emotional kryptonite. But more
importantly, I REALLY don’t want to ever feel that way again. I panicked.
A lot. And I started
shaking. Then I remembered that I was
shaking because I just weed wacked the yard.
That actualization didn’t really help calm me down, though. So, I put Radley in the car and we went to
get ice cream. By the time we left the
creamery, I felt out of control. So, I
thought, maybe I’ll write about it. I
decided not to sit at the kitchen table, where I have written every other blog
post for the last year. I brought my
laptop out to the wine table, and revisited the morning, and clearly, the last
year, as well. Somewhere in this process,
I have been reminded that I live with an illness. Not an illness that you can see at first
sight, but an illness all the same. And
I also am reminded that I have some limitations. My mind words different than many others. I won’t ever be the light of a party. I won’t ever be able to maintain my composure
in public situations. I won’t ever be
able to feel comfortable in every situation.
But I do know how to recognize the problem and change my behavior to, at
least enough to survive.
I get asked about my anxiety a lot. I think because mental disorders are common
and I talk about it, when other people think its taboo. People come to me a lot after they have had a
panic attack and feel comfortable enough to tell me about their
experiences. Probably, because I have no
judgment, and clearly, I can relate.
There are, also, other people who talk to me about my anxiety because
they love someone who suffers from it, too.
And let’s be honest, if you have never been incapacitated by what
happens in your mind, you can’t possibly understand how those who have
feel. Recently, a dear friend asked me
how he should deal with the people he loved when they were at their emotional breaking
point. I told him “you can’t fix this
for anyone. When you try to fix it, you
are patronizing and enabling them. You
need to empower them by being there when they need you and encourage them when
they need it. To which he responded “keep
doing what you’re doing, girl! You’re
going to make anxiety your bitch!” See….Empowerment. Although it is not as easy as just kicking
your emotional deficiencies in the ass, when you know your limitations and you
have people who support you, regardless, it doesn’t have to own us.
Now, I’m gonna go watch a lady bug.
-Inner Peas
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