I am continually amazed and thankful for the wisdom that comes with age. I turned forty this year and I have to say that it wasn’t one of my favorite birthdays. Quite honestly, I was in a funk for a few days before and after “the big day.” There is absolutely nothing that sounds fun and cute about being forty years old, but I have ultimately realized, while forty may not be cute, there is a distinct wisdom that comes packaged with having lived almost half a century. When I look back over my life, some things just make so much more sense now. Events in my life that tormented and terrorized me when I was younger seem so insignificant to me now. Most of the things on which I placed insurmountable importance when I was in my twenties and thirties, I couldn’t care less about today.
One period of time in my life stands out among the rest as one of the most traumatic and life changing. I was in my late twenties and I had two small boys ages two and four. I took every aspect of being a mother very, very seriously and I put a lot of pressure on myself to make them and everything for them, perfect.
My parents were going through a divorce after a very rocky twenty six year marriage. It certainly wasn’t any big surprise and being that my sister and I were adults, I honestly thought that their divorce would be just a mere technicality, the signing of papers. That couldn’t have been further from the truth. The divorce started out bad and quickly took a turn for the worst. Each side set up their own camp and the unfortunate casualties, caught in the cross fire, were forced to choose sides. When I refused to choose, I became public enemy number one, a traitor. The fighting between camps was unbearable and I would get weekly phone calls from family members telling me what an unappreciative, insensitive, horrible person I was, with no regard for anyone but myself.
I was mortified at how hateful and vindictive these people who had raised me could be. The people who told me they would always love me, no matter what. The very people who convinced me that, “you can’t count on anyone in this life but your family,” had turned on me like a pack of vicious dogs fighting over a piece of bloody meat. I was absolutely devastated.
Having troubles in my own nine year marriage, on top of everything else, made me feel like I was living in a pressure cooker. I did pretty well for about a year and then the weight of the constant stress started to take it’s toll. I started having frequent, severe, anxiety attacks. These attacks caused a feeling of sheer terror and panic, equivalent to the feeling of being on a doomed airliner or being trapped, with little air, in a small space underground. Most unfortunate was that every time one of these attacks would occur, the overwhelming feeling of impending doom was so severe that there was no meditation, breathing technique, or rationalization that was going to convince me otherwise. All of my senses were heightened and my body’s fight or flight response was on full throttle. Heart racing, sweaty palms, trembling, darting eyes, shortness of breath, rising heat from head to toe and tingling hands would precede an escalating feeling that I had to get out of wherever I was or I would absolutely lose control.
The attacks started out relatively mild but quickly progressed to a debilitating level. At my worst point I didn’t want to leave the house at all, I was absolutely terrified of these attacks. I did leave the house, because I had to, but I cried all the time and was so anxious, even when I was at home. I started pacing, because I was too anxious to sit or lay down, I literally trembled inside and out, all day, every day. I couldn’t sleep, I stopped eating and began losing weight, a lot of weight. With my functional ability so obviously declining, I obsessively worried about my children. What were they going to do without me? Who would take care of them? What would they think when they were told that their mother lost her mind? I was unaware that it was thoughts like these that were fueling my anxiety
My primary care doctor was prescribing me one antidepressant after another and nothing seemed to be helping. In fact, some of them actually made things worse. One of my dear friends finally intervened and got me an appointment with a Psychiatrist. She drove me to the appointment, I can remember that ride like it was yesterday. Sobbing uncontrollably, I just knew that as soon we stepped foot in that office they were going to throw a straight jacket on me and transport me straight to the nearest psychiatric ward. More anxiety fuel.
When I walked in, there were no white coats and no straight jackets, just a gentle faced Asian man, sitting behind his desk wearing a navy blue dress suit. He looked at me with the most caring eyes, his demeanor convinced me that he didn’t think I was crazy at all, even though I was sobbing uncontrollably and could barely talk. He explained to me that I was suffering from Anxiety Disorder and he could give me some medication that would help me. He put me on a combination of anti-anxiety medication and an antidepressant. Most importantly he offered me an explanation as to why none of the antidepressants had worked for me before. Antidepressants can take up to two weeks to start working. He assured me that the anti-anxiety medication would give me some relief from my symptoms until the antidepressant started to take affect. I clearly remember how I felt after I took the first dose. After about thirty minutes it felt like someone had turned off the pressure cooker. My mind was so quiet and calm. It was the first peace that I had experienced in a very long year and a half. I thanked God and then drifted off into a restful sleep.
Two weeks later, at my follow-up visit with the Psychiatrist, I hadn’t had one anxiety attack. I was actually starting to feel like myself again. The doctor confirmed that I had been in a very bad state at my initial visit and that he had been very concerned about me. He recommended that I continue with the medication and make an appointment with a Psychologist to help me understand some of the feelings that I was experiencing. I will never forget him or his gentle eyes. He helped me to escape from the cycle of anxiety that had consumed my life. With his help I was able to stand up and continue peacefully on my journey to where I am today.
I have not spoken, at length, about that time in my life until very recently. Partly because I didn’t want to give it energy and partly because I was embarrassed. Today at work, we were discussing a patient in a similar situation and I found myself telling my story, out load, with no shame or embarrassment. After I finished the story, I was kind of surprised at myself, speaking so assuredly and with such candor. After hearing the entire story from my own mouth, I thought to myself, “It’s no wonder I had a nervous breakdown, my whole support system was crumbling down around me at a time when I needed it the most.” I was amazed by how clear it all seemed. I wasn’t fragile, crazy, or mentally ill. I was simply a young girl with a huge amount of responsibility, a walking casualty of a raging family war that had robbed her of the only life she had ever known.
There is no amount of money that could convince me to trade the wisdom of my forties for the cuteness of my twenties and thirties. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll go shopping today and get myself some bigger pants. I want to be ready for that middle age spread everyone keeps talking about.
