My Anxiety: Part One

I frequently worry, and I have for a long time. The physical manifestation of these worries can be observed by those who choose to be observant. Just a few weeks ago, a bus driver in Chicago locked onto my eyes as I hesitantly disembarked - Don't be nervous, honey, she said to me. But how couldn't I be?

• I was travelling alone. I had a train to catch. I was running low on money.
• My stop had either come and gone or had yet to come at all, but I wasn't sure which.
• People were staring at my clothes. People were staring at my luggage. People were.

Of course I was nervous, and of course she could tell. When the world around me crumbles, idiosyncratic breadcrumbs fall behind my feet. Visually, it is quickened breath, teary eyes, bouncing knees, a clenched jaw, and hands that fly from fists to jazz hands and back again. Metaphorically, it is a plea for help.

Since puberty, panic has been Plan A. Though I strive to present myself as a rather self-sufficient young adult, the word "overwhelmed" is one I use often when on the phone with my mother. For years, my life has grown more and more into a puzzle that I cannot put together, and when I can't find a piece, I cry. I pull my hair, I hyperventilate, and I shout to whomever can hear me that I need them. 

I saw a counselor from the end of 9th grade to the beginning of 12th. My grandpa's battle with Alzheimer's had been growing more gory, as had mine with cystic fibrosis. Like any other heterosexual girl of my age, I was in love with a boy who didn't seem to notice me, and a very close friend of mine was diagnosed with severe anorexia. I was unhappy. That same close friend recommended her counselor to me, and I went, spending over $100 of my parents' paycheck every week to snottily sob on a beige loveseat.

Growing up with a life-threatening illness, I was (and am) a faithful believer in medicine. After more than two years, I was diagnosed with nothing, and since I wasn't any better and my meltdowns were only growing more frequent, I stopped going.

The triggers of my anxiety are patterned; I break when I feel lost, unloved, or judged. Unarguably, however, the most debilitating panic attacks stem from my feelings of failure. This is the anxiety that rips into my relationships. This is the anxiety that one social worker noticed. This is the anxiety that diagnosed me with Anxiety.

Tonight, I begin the healing process. Tonight, I swallow a little green pill before bed and lose myself in a packet entitled "Free/Low-Cost Counseling Services in Ann Arbor." But then again, I hate to be lost.

Back-To-School...Senior Year?

Today was my second day as a Saint Joseph High School senior.
I can't believe I'm this old.
What the heck.

I got out of the hospital (as expected) on Monday. Since it was Labor Day, none of the outpatient testing staff was here, so I did bedside pfts. A little less accurate, but helpful nevertheless. I was so happy to find out that my numbers had improved to 75%! After such a successful test, my doctor had no reservations in sending me home. Monday night, however, was a different story.

Basically, I had an anxiety attack. The first day back to school always gets me. Not the first day after summer vacation, but things like coming back from winter break or after getting out of the hospital. I think it's like that for a lot of CFers. We've just spent days and days (if not weeks and weeks) in a clean, quiet, calm environment. It's relaxing. It's safe. People are paid around the clock to take care of you and help you feel comfortable. Coming home from that atmosphere, where you're almost always alone and at ease, to a busy home where you're no longer the center of attention is, quite frankly, stressful. And I don't mean for this to sound self-centered...and if it does, that's not what I intend. It's just a big change. Polar opposites. And boy can I say that I freaked out.

I feel so bad for my boyfriend and my parents. I was going stark-raving mad. Crying and crying about how I wasn't ready to go to school. About how I hadn't completed my homework assignments (which was completely my fault, and really didn't have much to do with the hospital admission) and I had no friends in any of my classes and I had had the most horrible summer of my life. And, looking back, I know how petty and selfish I was being. I had a good summer. There were good moments. But losing your two best friends within two months of each other...it takes its toll on you. My brain is a scary place, right now.

Physically, I feel good. My lungs feel GREAT. My muscles, however, don't. I was too exhausted to use them in the three weeks leading up to my hospital stay, and naturally, I rested for seven straight days when I was there. I'm hoping to get in the gym once I get my PICC line out and get some of my strength back, especially with dance coming up again. It started this week, actually...

That's it, basically. I'm feeling stressed about school and college apps, guilty for my seemingly bi-polar moods and the way I'm taking it out on my loved ones, and just plain tired. But I'm also trying to keep that positivity going. I was only in the hospital for one week. I made it out in time for my last first day. My mom and dad have been so amazingly kind and understanding.

I've just gotta keep dealing with this grief, and try to be happy, again.