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.

The Beginning

My name is Hannah.
I'm seventeen years old.
And I have cystic fibrosis.

I was born on August 2nd, 1995, right on my due date. I was healthy--perfect oxygen, perfect weight, perfect everything. There were no problems, so I went home.
As I got older, my parents starting to notice things that set me apart from other kids my age. I was hungry all the time. We're talking seven bowls of cereal before preschool, and still heading out the door starving. I also coughed and wheezed all the time. In the first 5 1/2 years of my life, I went into the ER seven times because I couldn't breathe. My pediatrician diagnosed me with severe asthma, and put me on every asthma medication in the book. But it wasn't helping--I was getting worse.
Finally, after years of pain and unanswered questions, I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis a month before I turned six. If you're not sure what that is, here's a basic explanation. In the 1950's, children with CF weren't expected to live long enough to attend kindergarten, so the mere fact that I survived to be five is astounding. Now, every baby is tested at birth for cystic fibrosis so this exact situation doesn't happen.
I went in to the hospital to be treated with IV medications, and in the next few months, my parents became experts on how to treat my disease. And because of my seemingly mild symptoms, I was able to have a very normal childhood. It wasn't until the fifth grade that I was admitted once again. We were told that I had cultured for pseudomonas, a common "bug" in CF patients. After this admission, things began to change.
Throughout middle school, I repeatedly retracted pneumonia, causing me to go into the hospital 1-2 times a year. And that's how things have held up until today, the end of my junior year. In the sixth grade, my lungs were functioning at 95% (a normal person's function at 120%.) The lowest they've ever been was during this past summer--44%. And today, they're hovering at around 70%.

The main purpose of this blog is for me to help other people, whether they be other CFers looking for someone who can empathize, or educating someone who's never heard of the disease. I'm not sure if anyone is ever going to read this--and if not, that's okay, too. Writing is something I'm passionate about. Something I enjoy. So I think I'm just going to put my thoughts out into the world, available for others to borrow.

Sounds like a plan, Stan.