If I’m not anxious, am I still me?

 My therapist informed me this week that lately I have been presenting as having my anxiety under control, but now am showing signs and symptoms of “mild depression.”

I have mixed emotions about that diagnostic statement. Firstly, yay! A thing that I have battled for my entire adult life is well managed and all my interventions, lifestyle changes, medication, and hard, hard work of wrestling with the trauma dragons of my past is working. Am I cured? No, unfortunately. I have what they call “generalized anxiety disorder” which means, according to a psychiatrist I used to see way back when, that on a scale of 0-10 of anxiety where 0 is blissfully unaware and 10 is fingernail-picking, pacing, heart rate slamming, and crawling out of your skin….I’m at about a 2 when “I’m doing well” and a 0 may not ever be feasible for me. 

I liked that diagnosis. It gave me a reason, an etiological path, a clue to my sometimes bizarre behavior and paralyzing fear. Anxiety can be easy to treat. There’s pills. There’s meditation. There’s mantras to repeat in an attempt to self-soothe. There’s camaraderie. And it’s easier to talk about, even with virtual strangers.

Depression is, well, depressing. Sure, there are pills. And lifestyle changes. And the “easy” ones — diet, exercise, sleep, and stress management. But there’s also fatigue. And discouragement. And shaming. And questioning. And the self-doubt and the lie that I like to believe, which is there’s something to blame it on.

The reality is, there isn’t just one thing. Or at least that’s how my brain and body handle depression. There’s lots of things to think about and ascribe symptoms to. It’s January. It’s post-holiday blues. It’s grief. It’s fatigue. It’s healthcare worker burnout. It’s life. It’s the reminder that sometimes when you make plans and go to put them in motion, by the time you’ve done all the things to get yourself out the door, both physically and metaphorically speaking, the plans are gone. The opportunity disappeared. The intention disintegrated. 

They say that anxiety and depression are related. No one has ever been able to tell me how. Is it a complicated and branch-filled family tree where anxiety’s aunt is depression’s cousin? Were they identical twins separated at birth, raised in different environments, each becoming a monstrous black hole? Can you have one without the other? Do you treat them separately or throw them both together in a cage and let them fight it out? And cross your fingers that the “right” one will win? 

And if one wins, what about the other one? Do you mourn the loss of them? Recognize that they weren’t all bad and that you were able to use your greatest weakness into your greatest strength? That people likely connect with you on a level different than most because of these diagnoses? Because of how your brain is wired. Because chemicals are trapped in one area and not getting to some parts of the brain in a timely manner. Do you continue being kind and gentle with yourself and acknowledge them and how they might be helping? Do you keep them locked up and hidden and only bring them out when it feels safe? Do you go on with the lie you tell yourself that no one knows your secret, when in reality, the things you hide are behind a glass door and visible to all?

And if you have learned to accept these diagnoses and understand how they operate and why they make you feel the way you do, then what? And when you own them and make friends with them and treat them with respect and listen to them with love and grace and offer them what they need only to find them disappearing…who are you then? Who am I without my anxiety? Who am I with effective treatment and managing the symptoms and understanding the mental illness and with acceptance and limiting and controlling the amount of disorder it has on my life? Who am I without my anxiety to lean on as a crutch, or as an easy explanation. Who am I without my anxiety in the driver’s seat and instead it’s in the backseat, along for the ride, munching on snacks from the gas station a few miles back, and asking when the next bathroom break will be? Who am I as now my depression gets a turn and it’s her time in the spotlight? And where do I sit in the car? Am I a carefree backseat passenger with anxiety as we goof off and play “I spy” as we gaze out the window? Or am I in the front passenger seat acting as a co-pilot?

Or, and this is the most terrifying truth of them all, am I in the driver’s seat finally having found the power to tell them where to sit and informing both of them that from here on out, I’m in charge and I call the shots? And if I do that, how can I keep hiding from my trauma demons if I’m the one driving the car?

Who am I and how, indeed.

It is what it is

 My dad unexpectedly passed away a year ago last week from a heart attack. 

In a weird and possibly slightly macabre way, I had been looking forward to that day passing on the calendar. The non-emotional and practical part of my brain assumed it would get easier. 

Last year was the dreaded firsts. The first Easter without my dad and I comparing notes on the myriad of colors of peeps candy available and which color tasted better. My birthday without him where I wouldn’t hear the words he has said every May 17 for as long as I can remember: “Good job on another big year.” Followed by his birthday in early June where I would treat him to strawberry shortcake at one of our favorite restaurants: burgerville. 

Those were the hard ones. Oddly enough Father’s Day wasn’t too bad nor was Fourth of July. It wasn’t until around about Labor Day that the sadness and emptiness really creeped in, seeping into what seems like all parts of my life. I missed our conversations about the warm weather stretching into late September and the weeks where the days start getting shorter around mid- October or so. He would patiently explain to me (again) what was happening with the sun and the moon and the seasons and the darkness. Sometimes I would feel better and be able to power through the shock of the arrival of late sunrises and early sunsets. Sometimes not. Either way, he would repeat every time, every year, it is what it is.

A glib response? Yes. Helpful? No. Comforting? Not really. But in a meta type way, him saying it is what it is and the grammatical and semantic frustration of that saying also became symbolic of it is what it is. 

I naively thought that the one year anniversary of his death would be a turning point. I thought I wouldn’t feel so raw and so robbed. I thought my grief would level out and maybe even plateau for a bit, giving my heart and brain a break.

I guess this is yet another first without him. Navigating my feelings and trying to cope with loss. Wading into waters that seem to have both no depth and an unfathomable deep drop off just short of the horizon.

The water near the shore that I spend most of my time wading  in is cold, but the shore is close and I can hop out anytime and stand on a beach towel in the sand and examine my feet for any chips in my toenail polish. But the real stuff is farther out. Where a life jacket is necessary, where I’m in danger of both hitting the bottom — or worse, realizing there is no bottom and it never level outs. 

I hate both those places. I wish my dad was there on the beach collecting driftwood to make us a fire to roast hot dogs. Where he would spread a paper towel on the log for us to display the rocks and shells we found while beachcombing. The reality is that all three of those exist. Both together and separately. They each need each other to grieve and continue moving forward. I don’t like it, but I guess it is what it is.

Regretting the resolution

 One week into 2023 and I’m already regretting my resolution to write a blogpost every week. 

The thing is, writing is easy for me. I can churn out sentences that have elegance, flair, heart, humor, and hit close to home without raising my heart rate. Until, it’s something that’s going to be graded or reviewed or edited or published. Then the “it has to be perfect before anyone can read it” demon appears. And boy, is she loud. 

I initially wanted to write about my drinking problem and how I have very clumsily navigated addiction and recovery since I got sober on July 4, 2014. But the loud presence in my brain has taunted me all week with insults, fear, questions, and accusations. Accusations that I have no business writing about a drinking problem because I have never sought official help for it, I just quit. I never went to AA, rehab, counseling, sough professional help, and never got a diagnosed as an alcoholic. Except by myself. I diagnosed myself and gave up alcohol on the Fourth of July. A couple of years ago, I wrote a beautiful piece on that part of me and my identity and shared it on Facebook. The response I got was overwhelming. Mostly positive with messages of support and encouragement. Also, disbelief and people who argued with me and the label I put on myself. (Years later, they told me that my sharing made them feel like they were looking in a mirror and they were in denial then. But not anymore). And denial is a place where you can be stuck and no one questions or criticizes you. You’re there and you can bind yourself into a cocoon and a lair of lies and stay there. I know denial and I know how to live there comfortably. Ish. 

Denial feels to me like that the inside of the genie bottle on the old show from the 1960s, “I Dream of Jeannie.” It was a small living room with plush couches and jewel-toned throw pillows and it was neat and tidy and perfect and safe. And also, boring and an illusion. I sometimes wonder if I’m there with my journey in my writing. I often deflect compliments people give me about it and/or I get embarrassed and feel self-conscious and I dive into my own little self-constructed emotional and mental genie bottle. 

However, lately I’ve noticed the host (me) getting a little huffy with the guest (also me). They argue and arm wrestle and don’t ever resolve anything. So, the guest (me) packed her bags and left. And I insisted the host join me. At least for a couple of days. She likes it here, out in the open. On this blog that probably very few people will see and/or will read. That’s not a self-deprecating insult or a complaint. Just a reality. And it feels like a safe transition. A smart place to launch from. However that evolves and what it looks like. I climbed out of that web of binge drinking and arguing with myself that I had a drinking problem. I stopped arguing and conceded that I had a problem and the solution that made the most sense to me at the time was to quit. I didn’t know how or what I was doing, but I tried it anyway. Amazingly enough,  it worked and has continued working. The same could be true for my writing. I don’t know what I’m doing, how to beautify a blog, how to publish a book, but I’m going to do what makes the most sense to me right now. And that is to write. Right here, right now, from out in the open.

Dear Professional Valerie, 

I'm a big fan of yours. I'd like to start writing -- officially. But when I tried to start a new blog today on my very old laptop, it was slow and all the websites want money and I got discouraged very quickly. I have a blog from a long time ago that is already set up and has been sitting there patiently waiting for me. Do you think it's okay that I use it? It's almost 10 years old, but I gotta get all these words and thoughts in my head out. 

Sincerely Yours, Amateur Valerie 

 

Dear Amateur Valerie, You should absolutely start writing! I hear you have many people in your corner cheering you on. How wonderful. It's been my experience that encouragement and support from those who love and care about you is invaluable. Do YOU think it's okay to use an old blog? You're the writer. You own the blog. You own your life. You may do whatever you damn well please. Best of luck and be sure to mention me in the Acknowledgements Section of your first book. 

Very Truly Yours, Professional Valerie 

 

 Dear Professional Valerie, You're absolutely right. I do own all of that. Thanks for the reminder. You seem smart and confident. How do I get those things? They appear at times and at other times are nowhere to be found. What's your secret?

 Sincerely Yours, Amateur Valerie

 

 Dear Val, May I call you that? I think we are going to be great friends and you seem like a nickname type person. If I knew how to answer your question succinctly and if I had figured out how to make it sustainable, I'd likely be already be a best-selling author and motivational speaker. My best advice is to be yourself. Even when you don't feel smart or confident. Actually, ESPECIALLY when you don't feel smart and/or confident. 

 

Very Truly Yours, Professional Valerie 

 

 Dear Pro Valerie, I'm not sure if I'm a nickname person. I might have to think on that. In the meantime, sure, call me Val. May I call you Pro Valerie? Sincerely Yours, Val 

 

Dear Val, Good call. I like the sound of "Pro Valerie." When you can articulate your thoughts about nicknames, I'm here. Sounds like you like to think and ponder a bit before you talk. 

Very Truly Yours, Pro Valerie 

 

 Dear Pro Valerie, 

You hit the nail on the head. I do enjoy a good pondering and do spend quite a bit of time in my thoughts. Sometimes it gets me into trouble and I overthink. Oddly enough, the opposite is also true and sometimes I don't think AT ALL and what's in my head just comes out of my mouth. That also gets me into trouble. Fortunately, I look good when I'm in trouble and can often talk my way out of it and/or through it. I get that from my dad.

 --Val

 

 Dear Val, 

There's that confidence! I knew it was there. Sometimes you just have to dig for it. Also, you sound a bit sassy. Has anyone ever told you that?

 --Pro Valerie 

 

Dear Pro Valerie, 

Why, yes. I have heard that a couple of times throughout my life. It's getting more pronounced as I get older. I like it. This conversation seems to be going well and you've been a big help already. Do I have your permission to share it on my blog? Albeit, my very old and chronically neglected, and possibly out-of-style and not quite retro, blog? 

--Val 

 

Dear Val, 

Of course you do. That's nice of you to ask. Just remember, you own everything that has happened to you. I read that from a famous writer. I can't remember which one. 

--Pro Valerie 

 

Dear Pro Valerie, 

Another excellent reminder. Good think I contacted you. I'll hit publish on this in a bit and then go hide. I always forget how terrifying "putting yourself and your art and talent out there" is. Does it get easier with practice and repetition? Lie to me if you must. 

--Val 

 

Dear Val, 

It absolutely does and does not get easier. It's a both/and. Just like many things in life. YES. Hit "publish" and pat yourself on the back. That's an important part of the writing process. Let me know how it goes. Talk to you soon. 

--Pro Valerie 

 P.S. Happy New Year and welcome to 2023! You're going to like it here. I promise.