More Than My Anxiety

Crippling.

Overwhelming.

Frightening.

Consuming.

Suffocating.

Anxiety is all of these and more. I have struggled with anxiety since pre-adolescence, with it peaking when I turned 15. At that time, I was medicated for depression, which helped manage my anxiety, but by no means controlled it. For the seven subsequent years, I remained medicated, but anxiety always lurked over my shoulder. Whenever I felt the anxiety building, I would shrink inside of myself and make a mental note to avoid whatever situation had stirred it up. Just before I turned 22, I was sure that I had overcome both my depression and anxiety and I chose to discontinue my medication under doctor's supervision. That's when my real work began.

I abruptly realized that the anxiety I had blamed on erratic adolescent hormones was still very much present. Most frightening of all, I had not spent the effort developing coping mechanisms to recognize and quell it. I quickly succumbed to the fact that my anxiety was stronger than me. I resolved that I was weak. I was caught off guard by frequent panic attacks. I was enveloped in anxiety that holed me up inside of my house and inhibited my personal growth. But, I unhealthily suppressed my emotions, avoided reaching out for help, and forced myself to keep smiling.

Then, I became pregnant and my anxiety grew to ever-present heights. I was acutely aware that I was always one trigger away from a panic attack or searching for a giant rock to hide under. Yet, still, I was too stubborn and ashamed to admit my struggles and just kept smiling despite my inner turmoil. Just a few months after Danica was born, clouded by countless sleepless nights and surmounting anxieties, I shouted unspeakable words at my husband. After my emotional explosion, I sat in the silent shadows nursing my infant daughter and promised her that I would find a way to be better. I had hit my limit. I was at my mental rock bottom. The next morning, I bared my heart to my husband, which is something I should have done years sooner. I then began researching my anxiety with an open mind and enlisted the support of a trusted psychologist. 

In the years since then, I have taken a proactive attitude toward my anxiety and have come to respect it. It is an ongoing journey that requires continuous adaptation. But, I have learned:

1. Anxiety is not my weakness, nor does it define me. It is a characteristic of myself, in the same way that I have brown eyes and a tendency to giggle uncontrollably when I'm tickled. It is not shameful, it is just a trait that sometimes creates obstacles. 

2. Anxiety has allowed me to learn how to recognize my true triggers. It is not the sink full of dishes that will hurl me into a panic attack. It is the feelings of inadequacy I have been swallowing, coupled with feeling like I have a full plate with no outlet, sprinkled with the dozens of other tasks that also need to be completed. Recognizing the root cause allows me to be proactive and verbalize my struggle, which pulls me away from my anxiety spiral. 

3. Anxiety has helped me become a great organizer and multi-tasker. Frankly, making lists and staying organized helps me better control it. When my anxiety is better controlled, my head is clear enough to enlist the necessary coping mechanisms and support to prevent it from getting on top of me. 

4. My struggles have gifted me the intuition to see that my daughter's irritability is not pure defiance, it is anxiety. As a manager of my own anxiety, I hope to model techniques and impart my learned tools onto her. 

5. Anxiety has reinforced the value of introspection and stress management. Prioritizing time for my own solitude is an invaluable gift. Keeping my daily stresses managed through talking about my feelings, deep breathing, and exercise has been a life changer. Rather than allowing my emotions to explode, I can digest the stress and effectively work my way through it.

Sometimes it still feels inescapable, but my anxiety has proven that I have the wherewithal to move beyond it. Perhaps my anxiety has been a gift that has just taken time and patience to unwrap.

In the Blink of an Eye

As Danica and Addy twirled in front of me and declared themselves a rock band named D ‘n’ A, Addy asked me, “Mama, why did you just squeeze your eyes closed?” A short while later, as Danica gushed about her plans to someday visit Yew Nork, I squeezed my eyes closed again. A few days passed, and as I heard both girls belly laughing from another room, I caught myself tightly closing my eyes once again. 

This eye-closing phenomenon isn’t from my pesky dry eyes.  It is something that happens each time a tiny, but beautiful, memory is created. It is equal parts squeezing back my tears and trying my hardest to seal a moment into the depths of my memory. Those depths are the banks I will draw upon for my lifetime. For those fractions of a second, the world shrinks to just us. The stack of dirty dishes disappears. The toys scattered throughout the room no longer matter. The deadlines and schedules and daily routines cease to exist for those milliseconds. And in place of those mundane symptoms of parenting, all that is left are the fantastical slices that matter.   

Decades from now, when Mike and I sit alone in a quiet home, I want to squeeze my eyes closed and relish in the memories of belly laughs, mispronounced words, and my sweethearts loving life in ways only a child can appreciate. When fast paces and busy routines turn into unrecognizable calm and solitude, I hope I will have squeezed enough of the precious memories into that reflective keepsake part of my brain. In those later years, I don’t want my pride to come from my bank account, the size of my home, or a stellar work attendance record. I want to know in my heart that I spent my life enjoying the sprinkles of time of that mean the most.  

 

The Forgotten Thank You's

It is no secret that motherhood bounds with love and selflessness. But the extent of those extraordinary characteristics was not fully fathomable to me until having children of my own. So, to my mom, here are just a few of the thousands of forgotten thank you's:

Thank you for not fearing the what-if's and choosing to give me life.

Thank you for nursing me longer than you planned to.

Thank you for letting me sleep in your bed far longer than you ever expected.

Thank you for listening when I told you how much I despised bowling school.

Thank you for understanding that I didn't really mean it all the times I told you you looked ugly when you were getting ready to go out with Daddy. The truth is, I thought you looked beautiful but I knew I would miss you while you were away.

Thank you for not making me wear the pink jeans.

Thank you for taking the time to help me find the pants that weren't bouncy.

Thank you for not laughing when I came home with my "fabulous" haircut.

Thank you for immediately taking me to the salon to fix said fabulous haircut.

Thank you for always telling me I was beautiful, even when I didn't believe you and just rolled my eyes.

Thank you for the cake when I got my first period.

Thank you for letting me make my own mistakes.  

Thank you for trusting me when I said my headaches were getting worse.

Thank you for getting me the help I needed to work through my depression.

Thank you for tolerating the side effects of my anti-depressants.

Thank you for taking action when I spiraled to my darkest place yet.

Thank you for teaching me to trust my instincts, and more importantly, trust my body. 

Thank you for your excitement when I decided I was ready to be married.

Thank you for being an important part of my daughters' lives.  

Thank you for your patience, your kindness, your laughter. 

Thank you for letting me vent when I need to.

Thank you for teaching me the therapeutic effect of the word "fuck".

Thank you for always making me feel beautiful and special and smart. 

Above all, thank you for always making sure I know just how much you love me.

Happy Mom's Day...I love you. 

The Quilt

After we brought Danica home from the hospital in July 2008, she quickly began outgrowing her clothes. Every time she outgrew an outfit, I would tuck it away in a bin in my closet. We had no solid plans for another child, but I was too emotionally tied to part with them. Danica has always done everything with gusto, including growth spurts, so one bin quickly became four. My hoarding saving worked in our favor, because we eventually had a second daughter that was born in May 2012.  Yet still, as Addy outgrew each outfit, I returned them to the bins instead of donating them. There were not underlying plans for another child, but I was still unable to part with them. As time stretched on, I donated some items and passed some along to friends and family, but the bulk of my daughters' clothes sat in bins in my over-crowded closet.

Over time, I started to realize that those clothes symbolized my what-if's. What if I'm not done having babies? What if we decide that three is our number? Or maybe four? What if we have a surprise pregnancy? I certainly wouldn't want to have parted with all of these clothes! My mind was littered with justifications. Eventually, my logic set in and I realized that those clothes were not my attempts at frugality "just in case", but me holding onto the possibility of another baby. Another pregnancy. Another Akers child. Another chance to see the wondrous ways Mike's DNA mingles with mine.

For many reasons, two is definitely our number. But, I still have a hard time accepting what that truly means. I will never again feel the tiny flutters of a baby in my womb. I will never again rest a hand on my swollen belly and whisper promises to my unborn child. I will never again notice waves of contractions and wonder if "this is it". I will never again experience the exhilarating surrealism of labor. I will never again sing Happy Birthday to my brand new baby as she lies on my chest and takes her first breaths. I will never again feel the pride and awe of my daughter latching to nurse for the first time. I am beyond toothless grins and first words. There will be no more three a.m. breastfeedings and strange popcorn smelling diaper blow-outs. No more chubby legs crawling towards an unsuspecting doggy. No more cautious first steps and sing-song babblings. I love babies. I most especially love my babies. I thought, or maybe hoped, that I would feel an overwhelming sense of being done having children. But that's not the case, and I have finally realized it may never be. I may never be without that ache of longing. Having our babies was the first time my heart felt it's fullest. It is when my love for each of them, my husband, and myself grew to capacities I never knew existed. Why wouldn't I want to experience that over and over?

To help me commemorate those indescribable months of growing and meeting my children, I decided to keep each of the outfits that hold my most cherished memories and pass along the rest. Instead of keeping them in a bin for decades, though, I decided to piece them into a quilt. A quilt just the right size for snuggling with my once upon a babies. I know many people far more experienced than me that could have completed it more quickly and beautifully than I did. But this project was therapeutic for me and I alone needed to complete it. I shed many tears and a few too many expletives. I mastered my seam ripper and spent many hours with my once-feared sewing machine. But, I did it. I finished the quilt and I look forward to our years to come with a fresh perspective. I don't want to spend all my energy pondering the what-if's. Instead, I want to spend my time enjoying the children I have and seeing the amazing people they are growing into. They still have a lot of life and love to teach me about.

When Threesomes Work

My marriage is a threesome and I wouldn't have it any other way. Our elusive third wheel is not some seductive temptress or charming, studly man. Instead, our third wheel is bipolar disorder. My husband was diagnosed almost two years ago, but the impact of bipolar has been with us since the start of our relationship. 

Those with bipolar have an emotional brilliance unlike anyone else. The emotionality that most of us require years to experience, can be lived and learned from in the course of a month during a rapid cycle. It is like learning a life changing lesson on 16x fast forward in the midst of a misunderstanding world. Because it is a different path, it sometimes feels wrong and oftentimes feels lonely.

If you Google "bipolar marriage statistics" you will be slapped in the face with gloom. It is estimated that 90% of bipolar marriages end in divorce. It is thought to be one of the most difficult challenges in a relationship. Books, articles, websites, and mental health experts all spout the immense hardships of remaining with a bipolar spouse. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to find a positive outlook on the topic. Welcome to a fresh perspective:

Loving a bipolar spouse is like an elevator ride in a high rise, blindfolded. No matter where you start from, the ground feels stable. You know your surroundings and you feel safe. When you hear the doors close, you know you are going for a ride. Many times, that ride becomes a plummet. Your stomach drops and you know you are heading downward. You have no idea how far down or how long the ride will take. You might reach for the emergency stop, but it's not in the same location for every ride. You both keep reaching, and one of you will find it eventually. When you do find it, your ride may idle for a bit. Take this as a chance to catch your breath. You are still safe. 

Each time you go for this ride, you will acquire new tools to help you navigate. When you use your tools to return to your stable place, revel in it. This is the plateau. Take this time to thoroughly communicate with your spouse. Use this opportunity to build up your arsenal of mutual love, compassion, and understanding. Make this your home base and agree to always return here. 

Sometimes, when you hop back on that elevator, your ride soars high. It is usually a take-your-breath-away kind of ride. You are still blindfolded, but the building anticipation is infectious. When you reach the top and the doors open, peel off your blindfold and enjoy the view together. This isn't a solo ride. Look around, hand in hand, and soak in the experience. Just remember to return back to your home base together. 

You know that new love giddiness and playfulness that happens at the start of a relationship, when the level of attraction and connectedness is so intense? We experience that again every time we return to a plateau. Every time. It is pure bliss to experience that with the love of your life repeatedly. The peaks, the valleys, and the beautiful plateaus make us who we are. We don't get stuck in the mundane, because life carries us elsewhere before we have a chance to get bored. Bipolar will never define our marriage, but it will always be the third wheel reminding us that some statistics can fuck off.

Mackie Augustus Akers exited his life as unexpectedly as he entered ours. My heart is forever touched by his existence and forever shattered by his death.  In April 2005, when Mike and I both lived at home with our parents, I made the best impulse "purchase" possible.  While I do truly believe that pet shop puppies only reinforce irresponsible breeding practices, I will never regret our Mackie.  I went to the pet store to get crickets for Mike's leopard gecko and ended up locking eyes with a sweet, lanky boxer puppy.  Mike and I had long talked about getting a fawn male boxer with a black muzzle as soon as we had a place of our own.  Well, puppy love at first sight clouded my judgement and I rationalized that since our closing date was in rapidly-approaching July, our independence was close enough to bring home this puppy.

 After ignoring Mike's "where are you" calls for two hours, I piled myself, this new puppy, and a bag of crickets into the front seat of my little Honda and we headed straight for Mike's parents house. Mike was knowingly pissed that my cricket-run took an hour and fifty minutes longer than it needed to, and started to make his way outside as soon as he saw me turn the corner.  In that moment, his new puppy popped his head high enough that Mike could see him.  Now, I am not an impulsive person by nature.  I am neurotic, analytical, and make contingency plans for my contingencies.  But, the expression in Mike's eyes as he met his puppy assured me that sometimes impulsivity is sublime.  Mike and I were both head over heels for our puppy, and named him Mackie Augustus.  

With Mackie, came many adventures. Our first emergency vet trip was the result of him eating an ENTIRE box of cat litter.  We then had several emergency visits for various skin irritations and uncontrolled bleeding from his ear flaps.  He was also not gaining weight as expected.  While very compassionate, the vet we were using just wasn't qualified to help our Mackie.  We tried another nearby vet, but effectively spent thousands more dollars on more inconclusive tests and treatments.  By chance, when Mackie was 2, a neighbor with a female fawn boxer suggested we try a vet in Third Lake.  After one visit, Mackie was diagnosed with severe food allergies and a white blood cell count of 11.  A normal WBC count for dogs is roughly between 6000 and 18,000.  Mackie had so few, that the lab technician had to manually count them. This started us on a path of testing various foods and medications.  We also went for bi-weekly WBC re-tests and he consistently had frighteningly low counts.  Our vet eventually suggested we stop testing his WBC's, because he was actually improving despite the test results remaining abnormal. So, we lived our lives with Mackie and fed him the few foods he could tolerate. 

He was an amazing puppy that turned into an even more amazing dog. He had an obsession with licking that continued until the day he died.  He loved to give hugs, too. He was a tall boy and would put his front legs on your shoulders and nuzzle his head into yours. Mackie was hesitant to welcome our second boxer into his life, but they eventually became best buds.  He was the greatest protector, but at the same time the gentlest consoler.  He had a noble pose that he would show us if he was in trouble and it would always diffuse any of our frustration.  I cannot call him a fur baby because his existence was grander than that. As long as I kept a hand on him, he would look into my eyes and listen to all of my whisperings and lick away any of my tears. Mackie accepted our babies into our home. He didn't necessarily like sharing the bed or the couch, but was always cautious to not hurt our girls.  

Because of his health issues, there were many occasions over his nearly nine years where I had prepared myself for his death.  Somehow, though, on this day last year, I was blindsided.  My mom had been over with the girls and me.  During that time Mackie was snoozing the morning away on the couch, which was nothing unusual.  Before my mom left to let me put Addy down for a nap, the girls wanted to show my mom our Christmas tree. I prompted Mackie to get up to go outside, but he just ignored me.  I shrugged it off and said goodbye to my mom. I went back to Mackie again and tried once more to wake him up.  He staggered off the couch and just stood staring at me, swaying a bit like he was dizzy.  I noticed that he had soiled himself and so I carried him into the bath tub.  Mackie hated baths so he typically stood rigidly during them.  As soon as he was in the tub, he laid down and stared at the wall.  I knew then that this was more than just a groggy old dog being stubborn.  I called Mike and told him he needed to come home and then called my mom and asked her to come pick up the girls.  By this time, I had pulled Mackie out of the tub and wrapped him in our coziest blanket. I called our vet's office, but unfortunately the vet was out of the office for a few hours, and I knew we didn't have a few hours to wait.  Mackie's body temperature was dropping and his breathing and heart rate changed noticeably.  I called the vet Mackie had seen when he was a puppy and they told us to bring him in immediately.  I nestled my face close to his, told him I loved him and thanked him for so many wonderful years.  He licked me once and then collapsed into the bed of towels I had made for him.

My mom picked up the girls and took them to her house so Mike and I could be together with Mackie.  Mike held Mackie in the back seat, as I drove us to the vet.  They took us right into a room and the vet was with us in minutes. Apparently, Mackie's spleen had ruptured and he was actively dying. In an effort to prevent his suffering, the vet suggested we help make the dying process easier for him. We chose to do so and Mike and I held him as he released his final breath.  

I have lost many pets, but Mackie's death has been the hardest for me.  It is now a year later, and I am still brought to sobs if I see his picture and I am still breathless when enveloped in a memory of him. He was a guardian, a companion, a playmate, but most of all, a best friend.  

Dear Danica,

I have had this compelling urge to write the future you a letter. There are things I want to say to you, but don't want to muddle your brain with my emotional excessivity quite yet. In all honesty, my dear, you already harness plenty of that for yourself. The depths of your emotions do not make you weak. Instead, they make the future you capable of a love and creativity different than most others. I know that emotional intensity feels tough as a young girl, but as you grow and mature, it will manifest you into an unforgettable, one-of-a-kind woman. I am trying my damnedest as a woman, and most importantly as your mother, to ensure I don't extinguish that for you. I think we are both stubborn enough to not let that happen. 

Speaking of stubbornness determination, your tenacity is admirable. Yes, I actually said that. As unnerving as your persistence can be here in 2014, I am confident it will serve the future you well. I know that you will not settle for anything less than your ideal. I am also certain that you will not accept a no, without an adequate why. I see you living a "been there, tried that, now what's next" kind of life. Please just remember that not everyone can keep up that same pace. 

In addition to your strong tenacity, I also see many of your reservations and hesitations. Part of me wants to inspire you to forage right through them, but I try to bite my tongue. I am learning that you have an intuition much maturer than your chronological age. Waiting for the two to catch-up is going to continue to feel frustrating for both of us. But in the meantime, trust that beautiful conscience of yours. Listen to your inner voice and pay attention to that sour feeling in your belly.  Doing so does not make you a coward. It makes you wise and powerful. 

Through meltdowns and tears, I am grateful for everyday with you. I have learned more about myself and life in the past six years, than all the years preceding you. While some days definitely feel immeasurably difficult, please know that I would not change a thing. Each of those difficult days has an underlying beauty. Don't change yourself for me or anyone else. You will move mountains, just the way you are. 

Love you always,

Mom xoxo