A Brief History of My Anxiety

Today some high school chums are gathering to visit with our band teacher. He's here for music festival I believe and I have not seen him in about 20 some odd years. I recall him being funny, talented, and a wee bit feisty. I rather want to attend, but here's the thing: It means going out in public and spending even more of my weekend with people.

People? Arrrgh!

I don't expect you to understand this at all, but aside of my extremely introverted nature, I am also one of those who experience anxiety. I spent yesterday evening with a small group of friends having a delightful time. Today I planned to keep to myself to recharge, but oh yeah! There's this thing, which requires being around people again. It's going to drain my battery again. But it's so much more than that.

Lucky cat. I'd get asked never to return if I pulled an escape like this today.

I make jokes about being a hermit, a recluse,  as well as a crazy cat lady. As with all good jokes, there's a healthy dose of truth in them. It's been a few decades since I first recognized that something was a little different. Teens always have that feeling of pressure or isolation or feeling different, but I actually started to develop a real sense of dread about some things and situations. It impacted my ability to do math first. I could do problems, I could talk through them, I could explain how to do them in class, but put a fricking algebra II trig test in front of me and I'd most likely bomb it. That lovely reaction followed me to college. Thankfully, my professor recognized the issue and willingly gave me time after a test to work through the problems the way my high school math teacher did. I eventually passed.

Sine! Consine? Umm, tangent maybe?!?

The anxiety also impacted me in band. In junior high, I got moved up a band class unexpectedly. Not only that, but I received a solo as third chair; my other two section members  looked at me quizzically. I didn't get it either, but I played that solo and it went fine. Then in high school, I got first chair and a solo again. However, things started falling apart. It came time to play a solo at a concert and I totally choked. I sat there, frozen, and my choice was clear: Sit there dumbly or flee. Maybe puke. I felt like puking, but I sat there dumbly as the poor second chair fellow took up my slack. This teacher coming to town today might not remember that event, but I do. Vividly. I got teased for it. I was too afraid to admit it, but something paralyzed me that night, and it would return.

I played French horn, but you get the idea.

The next year, I had another freaking solo that I could play just fine as long as no one was listening. One of the trumpet players who I had known since grade school commented to me after I practiced it before class that I sounded great. Now I just needed to do so in front of people. Instead, I wound up having my first ever full blown panic attack in the ladies' bathroom at a small school somewhere in Idaho...maybe it was Washington. I can't recall, but there I was on the floor of the women's bathroom trying to breathe. I'm fairly certain my band teacher will recall that episode. I sat out the concert that night and my second, two years my junior, played that solo from then on.

I'll just be over here...blending into the background thanks.

I'd like to say that my anxiety stopped there, but that'd be a lie. I don't have panic attacks like that anymore thankfully, but I have had other fun symptoms that make going out of the house to meet up with perfectly friendly people a real struggle. It's a constant state of awareness and needing to weigh the risk versus reward of social situations. I have missed work at times because I just couldn't bring myself to the leave the house. It's like all my muscles are tense and I am wound to hyper-awareness and again the idea of bolting is preferrable to staying in whatever situation I happen to be in at the time. For example, I luckily had a friend at my 10 year reunion who helped me escape. I could feel the panic rushing that night and the drone of voices just pushed me to my breaking point. If she hadn't facilitated my escape, I know I'd have had another full blown panic attack. Most likely in the bar bathroom this time. I learned never to go to a social event without my own set of wheels that night.
I have canceled plans with friends because I was so overstimulated that I couldn't form coherent thoughts. The ruminations that keep me awake at nights about stupid little minutae won't give up. The heeartbeat that thumps and flops in my chest. Irrational worry and scenarios play out in my over-effective and adept imagination. The little voice inside that just tells me that no one really wants to listen to me talk because I'm not all that interesting or noteworthy. Crumpling into a crying ball of snot and trembles when it feels like walls are closing in. Looking at people I meet with skepticism and doubt as to their trustworthiness when they've done absolutely nothing to warrant my suspicion. I have been irritable over situations that totally didn't warrant my over the top flash of rage. I immediatly regret when my irritability gets out like that, but it's apparently part of the anxiety joyride.

What? It's totally fun. Really.

Before you feel compelled to message me solutions or to call, text, or comment about therapies. Don't. I appreciate it, but I do have certain things that help me manage most days. Yoga is lovely. Binaural meditation beats help. Breathing techniques are good.Time alone helps. Diablo 3 helps. Listening to my cats' purrs helps. Dancing helps. Blogging helps. Protecting my at least 7 hours of sleep a night helps. Medication though can suck it. Between the low sex drive, inability to orgasm, socially inappropriate sweating, and night thrashings, I just don't want more pills.

Admit it. There's something enormously satisfying in seeing Mr. Rogers flip off the camera. Fuck you Cymbalta, Effexor, and Paxil!

Anxiety disorders suck. That's the short of it. People who have them, do the best they can. I don't want my anxiety to ever conquer my joy of living, but it's incredibly difficult some days. I look at the young poeple who come to school every day, and I feel respct for each and every time they choose to keep putting one foot in front of the other despite their crushing anxiety. Drawing from the well of personal courage takes immense strength and fortitude. May yours be ever full.

Awkward Family Dinners

For the past two Easters, my rather obsessive nephew has inquired why I don't go to church. With his older siblings, the "I don't believe as you do was" enough. Not so with obsessive boy. He needs an answer that makes more sense, which I was somewhat ill-prepared to do the first time, but I was ready with the "It isn't my thing" response. This mollified him...for a year.

Not as awkward as having dinner with this family, but it was uncomfortable.

Last year, he asked as we all sat around the dinner table awaiting our stomachs to make room for pie. He wasn't going to let it go this time, so my sister stepped in with the Mom-voice. I'm not sure if she was saving me from being put on the spot in front of the whole family or if she was trying to save Mom from having to hear out loud and at a formal Holy Day meal that her youngest daughter does not believe in God. Perhaps a bit of both, but her son caught the tone and "the look", and let it go. I figure I better have more fodder for this year's meal than some platitude or general comment that can be interpreted to mean I still hold an inkling of belief because if you've read any of my previous posts, you know that's not true. 

Nope. Still not buying it.

As a result, I started formulating my explanation. It needs to be specific enough to satisfy a bright boy's curiosity without also causing too much discord I suppose. Trying to put it into words and concepts is a challenging task because as psychologists point out, it's the curse of knowing. I know what I know and how I arrived at this knowing, but trying to explain something with which I am so familiar presents a daunting task. Here goes anyway.

I'm sure this chart would make total sense to him.

I boil it down to a sense of awe. I'm not the first to arrive at this distinction. Faithful people tend to find awe in contemplating God and the mysteries of their faith. I find my awe through other modes. 

How's that for perspective? 

Walking the Neighborhood

Going for a walk in my neighborhood at different points in the year allows me to witness the changes in the area. Right now of course, the sun is brighter, temperatures warmer, shrubs are budding, flowers pushing through the soil, and birds are calling. Spending time just observing the changes fills me with peace and awe. It fills me with a hope of the summer's warmth and renewed baby bunnies and birdies that will soon make their appearances. Today's walk was made even more glorious because I had another witness with me; my sweetie came with me. Holding hands and strolling around our little corner of the world brought a calm and peace along with the hope.

This would be a very fine walk to take during different seasons. 

Gazing at the Moon

I've done this ever since I was in high school and had to wake up before dawn and deliver papers on my route. It was the first time I really noticed how gorgeous the moon was. In winter, the moon reflected off the snow brings a wonder that I've never felt elsewhere. It's sublimely beautiful with the clear blue light bright enough to see without the help of streetlights. Even trudging through a foot of snow bundled in my winter gear while frost collected on my eyelashes couldn't take away the serenity and quiet meditation of basking in the moonlight. 

The cold, the quiet, the light of the moon. A cup of cocoa and a snuggle by the fire. Bliss.

Sitting beside a Lake

Just sitting. Not talking. Not listening to music or being otherwise distracted. Just sitting and drinking in the beauty of a mountain lake fills me with wonder. Hearing the scamper of small creatures, the call of raptors, the gentle bloop as fish jump quickens my tranquility. At these times, nature in its perfect glory reveals my own thoughts, flaws, and needs. The introspection and calm gives me a feeling of being connected to all things on a far deeper level than sitting in a pew ever could. 

Pews aren't as comfortable as a buttrock by a lake.

Cuddling with my Cats

I'm sure it works the same with other pets, but I have cats. I've had a dog whom I loved, but she was not so inclined to quiet contemplation. Cats though know how to zen. I can drink a cup of tea, stroke one of them, listen to him or her purr, and explore whatever thoughts or concepts need to be hashed through. Both of my kitties are quite good at being conduits for meditation. They can't both work their mojo at the same time as they are not buddies, but either one individually quite successfully centers my focus and  brings about a balance.

Not Hissy. Not Link. Not ever.

Dancing

It's easy to lose myself in dance. Sometimes a 6 minute song seems like too short a time, other occasions it seems to extend time. I find that fascinating. At times, I feel like I lose awareness of performing and just transport to a harmony of rhythm where my body frees itself from pain or worry. Dance connects me  beyond myself to ideas and expression outside my physical being. When I watch my fellow dancers, their performances lead my mind away from the mundane and allow me glimpses of their creative being. It's truly fantastic to be a part of such a community.

Ignore the pink. No pink to see here.

Drumming

My husband and I play doumbeks. We do this because I am a belly dancer and learning the rhythms is vital for a dancer. My husband enjoys getting to drum for the dancers. Sometimes the rhythm lulls me into a meditation. When it's a rhythm I know well, I can put my hands on auto-drum and relax my mind for a time. Drums are a very earthy activity for me; I get a groundedness that I don't often feel outside of drum circle.

Dude! Where'd my drum go?

Watching Science Documentaries

How can someone not feel awe when watching The Universe or Planet Earth? Listening to Neil DeGrasse Tyson or Carl Sagan lead me through the Cosmos makes me feel small and mighty all at the same time. Traveling the depths of the ocean in a submersible that reveals first ever footage of live giant squid helps me connect to the strange and glorious creatures that share the planet with me. The diversity of life alone generates untold amazement. Documentaries give me a sense of purpose and a sense of responsibility that I endeavor to abide by. Considering humanity's place in the web of life reveals keenly a duty and obligation to protect, understand, and honor our enormous fortune to be here at all. I never felt any of that during services or prayer.

Hello, beautiful. 

Studying Art

I've recently discovered a Facebook page called I Require Art. They post a lot of Vincent Van Gogh, which pleases me greatly. It's delightful to scroll through my newsfeed and happen upon a work that draws me in. It transports me somewhere I've never been in a time that I would otherwise know nothing about. Impressionists, post impressionists, expressionists, I don't care. Art pulls me out of myself to other places. It's a glorious transcendence that suspends time and encourages my mind to take a journey. It's quite unparalleled in its impact.

 

Ever been jealous of people in a painting?

Orgasming

Don't lie. If you've had one of those full body orgasms that make you forget everything around you, you have felt time and space shift. It's awesome. I won't share this one with the nephew mind you, but when I'm fully intimate with my husband and my mind and body come together with him, it's beyond this worldly plane. It's gratifying, satisfying, and mystifying in its all too brief burst of pleasure. I simply can't tolerate any kind of spirituality that doesn't recognize and celebrate the glory of sex as natural and beautiful in and of itself without being bound to only procreation or male and female coupling. Orgasms are divine. 

I may need a moment to catch my breath.

I may add more to this list as time goes by, but maybe not. I feel quite contented in any of these pursuits, so I don't feel a need to spend an hour a week standing, kneeling, reciting, or devoting myself to something I don't believe. Religion does not provide the peacefulness that I feel I require to sustain me. Maybe if the nephew asks this year, one of these explanations (not the sex one) will help him and anyone else within earshot, to understand my choice to walk away from Catholicism, Protestantism, and any other -ism that requires belief in a deity. But that doesn't really matter though because it makes perfect sense to me. 

You Can't Have My Goat

Sometimes I review items in my news feed and I get irate. I'm sure I'm the only person that happens to.

Skeptical goat doesn't believe that.

I do a large amount of my reading online anymore. I even have to pace myself because some of my favorite online periodicals limit the number of articles I can read on their site. It really harshes my nerdy revels.

Wait a minute. How'd that get in there? I don't spend time online looking at pics of Tom Hiddleston. I'm a  serious reader of important stuff.

The other night though, I came across an article in my news feed that got me all annoyed and feisty. This was right before I went to bed mind you. Not the best time to get all hopped up on self-righteous indignation and outrage. Consequently, I saved the article for later digestion and put the phone down so I could get some shut eye.

I can be mature. Sometimes. Sometimes I  like to put on pajamas and watch cartoons, too.

Whenever I come across a posting that tries to elevate my blood pressure like that, I have to pause and examine what about it gets my goat. I usually tend to take some time away before fully reacting. Other times, I just unleash a torrent of expletives to make the Merchant Marines proud. I'm sure my hubs and the cats appreciate my tirades.

Take cover!

Anyway, this article had one of those headlines that I typically avoid because I know it's likely to make me grumpy in some fashion. You know the kind: Real Men Do This or Happy Couples Always Do 10 Things That You and Your Partner Never Do. The implication of course being if you don't do those things you are not a "Real Man" or you and your spouse cannot possibly be happy if you don't also do whatever activity is in the article. It's tiresome and I therefore usually avoid the bait. Not this time though. This time I clicked, read, and spat at it like it was a spittoon in a Western saloon.

  

Not entirely sure what's going on in this sculpture fountain. Maybe it commemorates a spitting contest gone bad.

I reread the piece today. Right away I looked for the source of the information. It was a survey of 1000 some odd readers of Glamour magazine. I know what you're thinking: it's totally scientific and therefore worth all my angsty rantings. Then I read the original article. That's right, the one that set me off was an excerpted article from a different, longer article, which is always a logical way to get accurate intel.

This sandwich is a more reliable source.

What set me off? Good question. What set me off was the excerpted article highlighted the conclusion that 63% of those who responded to this absolutely to be believed academic journal that they would never be with a man who had slept with another man. Not be with as in slept with, but just not date at all. That same percentage of 63 though, said they'd not want to be boxed in by traditional labels of sexuality preferring a more "fluid" branding. Riiiiight. So let's get this straight here (see what I did there? Nudge nudge, wink wink), the group of women who supposedly responded want to be in more sexual fluid terms, but by gasharoonies, if their sexual stream washes them ashore of a man, he better not also be sexually fluid. While the members of one 63% might not be the precisely same members of the other 63% group, it's still not making sense to me.

Explain it to me, Johnny Depp! You're my only hope.

The original article, while of course suspect given the source, actually has some interesting reading material on people's experiences and perspectives. I find it suspect simply because I have to wonder how many are actually true and how many are fiction from the minds of staff writers. What? Too cynical? Whatever. Fiction or not, it's good reading about other perspectives.

You also need a working bullshit meter.

For me though, as long as a partner is a consenting adult who at that moment wants to be with me, I don't see why their past partner gender identification really matters. If we've eliminated the prospect of sexually transmitted cooties, I'm good. If my hubs had told me he'd slept with a guy before me, I wouldn't tell him to hit the highway. That'd be completely hypocritical of me. You see, I'm one of those women who doesn't want to be boxed in. I'm with my husband because he was that one person I never really got out of my system. He was that one person who I felt drawn to. Our wedding song was "It Had to be You" for  a reason. However, I remain open to the notion that I very easily could have fallen for a woman. If Death were to take my husband from me, I know I could conceivably find a second marriage with a woman. Thankfully, that is now legally possible.

Don't be getting any ideas there, Death. I see you thinking of things to do, junk food to eat.

My point is this: when it comes to gender issues and sexuality, we've still got some work to do and it begins with critical thinking, ensuring that everyone has the basic human rights of pursuing their happiness, and a willingness to examine our own consciences and practices...And avoiding clicking articles we know will piss us off.

Poof's Passing and All Its Implications

We lost our Poofus this week. It was sudden and painful. Poof had a check up this fall and got his shots renewed. The vet said then that Poof did not show his age. His heart sounded good. Lungs good. Weight good. Then a few weeks after that, he seemed to be ill. He stayed in the bottom cubby on a cat tower, rowred when you tried to touch him, and wouldn't eat. I was thinking we'd have to take him to the vet when he bounced back as if nothing was wrong. Little did I know that this is typical of something called saddle thrombus.

Poofus as a kitten. 

On Thursday morning, my husband was getting ready when he heard a thud and a cat mreowr in a distressed way. He found our 14 and half year old black long hair on the floor, in pain, and unable to move his back legs. Hubby whisked him to the vet. Poor Poof never liked riding in a car, so add together his panic over the pain, the legs, and the car, well Poof was just about beside himself in terror as was my husband. By the time I finally got to review my husband's texts and get my work life settled for the rest of the day enough to where I could come home, Poof was gone. Not only did he have the saddle thrombus, but x-rays and tests showed numerous tumors in his lungs. Poof had lung cancer. We never knew. It seems cats are particularly good at hiding such things, so unless they drop weight and stop eating, there's not really any notice that something is wrong. Poof showed none of that leading up to Thursday. The only real solution to Poof's pain and anguish was to let him go as peacefully and humanely as possible. My husband had to do this without me, and as sorry as I am that he had to, I am also thankful that he made the choice. It was the right call.

Our handsome Poofus. As he was meant to be.

Poof is now wrapped in his favorite yellow blanket and buried beneath our tree within the herb garden. Poof loved that yellow blanket. He wouldn't settle in at night unless the blanket was visible and available for him to curl up on it. I was not prepared for how warm he still was when we picked up his body from the vet. Poof was not small by any means, but his lifeless body felt so much heavier as I carried him to the truck that day. I am thankful that I got to see him and bury him here at the house. Unfortunately, his death brought up so much more in my thoughts.

Indeed. To accept life means to accept death.

I've spent a lot of time wrapping my noggin around death. Over the last few years, I've grappled a lot with accepting death, what death means, what happens after death, and how to grieve. I've lost my grandmother, my mother in law, my old boss and mentor, and two friends. So much death, and none of it peaceful or reassuring. In fact, it's been one painful, awful, gut-wrenching death after another. One friend died of complications with AIDS. My grandmother was in terrible pain and was restless in her death throes. My mother in law- don't even go there. She died of fucking cancer, too. It was devastating and she wasted away. I still maintain that the doctors who kept brushing her off with "It's hemorrhoids" need to be bitch-slapped and their licenses revoked for such gross misdiagnosis. Anyway, then my former boss suddenly died out of the blue. While I was in for my surgery, another friend was in having heart surgery, which ultimately proved too much for his body and he too, passed.

All right Death, where's my pizza and pickle chips? 

I accept death as part of what it means to be alive. I accept that the afterlife is little more than a comforting tale to make death seem somehow less final. I think all that talk of souls, and Heaven, and loved ones looking down at us from the cosmos, or even the Rainbow Bridge is just hooey and rubbish. It' not remotely comforting to me. I appreciate people offering those thoughts. It's  kindness and let's face it: death is awkward and uncomfortable. Consoling the grieving is difficult. My discomfort does not change the fact that poeple mean well in their attempts to comfort.

Death may be final, but the love we share while living is eternal~Don Williams Jr.

What is comforting to me though is the option we have to sign living wills or do not resuscitate orders. You see, Poofus trusted us to take care of him. We loved him, gave him a home, and accepted the responsibility that at some point, we might have to choose to let him go as peacefully as possible. It baffles me that humans are not afforded that right without all these stupid laws and debates over physician assisted suicide. If I could have saved my mother in law the agony of her drawn out death, I would have. If I could have helped my friend avoid tumultuous death filled with pain, I would have. Just as I would not want Poof to endure chronic pain , paralysis, and lung cancer just because it was possible to prolong his life, I would not want anyone I love to go through that. I would want them to have a choice in how they die as well as how they live. I want that choice.

Whether you believe A or B is right, that's your choice. Period.

I believe that choosing to die on our own terms is a right to be protected and respected. I know others will argue and say that I'm cold, heartless, or lack respect for life. I disagree. I think that if someone has received a terminal diagnosis and wants to go out before that awful death rattle has a chance to echo in people's ears, then I will hold their hand and witness their rite of passage from life. I think that's the compassionate and loving thing to do. We do it for the furry ones in our lives, yet somehow we cannot extend that grace to our fellow humans for whatever reason. Often people say  it's not up to us to play God. Whatever. First of all, I don't believe in God. Second, we "play God" all the time. We have developed in vitro fertilization to help couples conceive. What is that if not playing God? If we can play God to create life, then we can damn well play God to end it when needless suffering is the alternative.

That's my truth.

For my part, I have every intention of putting these thoughts in writing and legalese so that it's on record. It's going to take me some time to get it all together, but anyone who reads this now knows my views. I hope you will speak up for me when I cannot. I hope that if some tragedy befalls me before I can get it all finalized, at least some of you can support my husband if needed. My family will not take kindly to a choice of euthanasia, but if given choice, that's mine. I do not fear death. Perhaps it's easy to say that now because I am not terminal. Maybe. However, should the word "terminal" ever pass my doctor's lips in a conversation about my future, this is my stand. I'll move to Oregon if I have to.

Poor Nicole. Good thing Oregon has death with dignity laws.

I miss our Poofus Ferocicus. I miss him waiting for me to get out of the shower. I miss him waking me up when he thought I had hit the snooze button enough. I miss him coming in at night to scold me for looking at my Facebook before bed instead of just going to sleep. I will continue to miss him. I wish another choice could have been possible, but I know that letting him go was the right choice. May I have that confidence when next Death comes to remind me of what mortality and compassion truly mean.

Good bye my Poofus. I miss you.