My Passion Explained

When I remember my mother, I don't remember trips to the mall, talking about boys, borrowing her car, sitting nervously next to her in the principal's office, or any of that other stuff that so many daughters experience with their mothers. However, I do remember her edginess, her depression, the ease with which she would become hysterical and frightened, her countless trips to the ER only to be told there was nothing wrong, and the way she'd spend days on end in her bed. She did not have cancer, she was not mentally handicapped, and she was not crazy. She suffered from an anxiety disorder.

Despite all this, she did all she could to try to protect me and help me to have some semblance of a normal life. Unfortunately, she found she could not handle the intense emotions, obsessions, and fears proved to be too much for her, and she committed suicide on November 25, 1995. My eighth birthday was less than two weeks before.

As with all losses, her death impacted me greatly and was intensely painful and truamatic for me. However, as with all losses, life went on and I came to accept the great misfortune that had befallen my family and I.

Fast forwarding through the years, I developed depression. I was always terrified when I couldn't get a hold of someone. I obsessed over the smallest thing. January 23, 2008, my boyfriend and I were watching Family Guy on TV when it felt like my brain filled up with nothing. Suddenly, I did not know who I was. My heart pounding, my knees weak, I silently stood up and walked into my bedroom. I named the people whose photographs hung on my wall, just so I could ground myself somehow. But it was to no avail. My boyfriend came into the room and I told him I'd lost it, and begged him to call his mother or a hospital or something, anything, I knew I was dying beyond any shadow of a doubt. My heart was racing, I was shaking, I felt like I was going to throw up. My mouth tingled, my brain felt dark, and all I could think about was everything I regretted. I didn't cry. I was past that point.

I was having a panic attack.

I decided to sleep, but I was so upset I had to take sleeping pills to even become tired. I just wanted to die, so I wouldn't be able to feel this way. The next morning I woke up, opened my eyes... and felt the same, although slightly less so because I was groggy from the sleeping pills. God, what was wrong with me?

Luckily, my boyfriend is very skilled at remaining calm and collected in a crisis. He assured me that everything was okay and that we'd find out what was going on. We looked up my symptoms on WebMD, and lo and behold: I had all but one symptom of a panic attack.

For the next few weeks, my brain remained in that haze. Though I did not have health insurance, I saw my doctor from when I was insured and he prescribed me Xanax and Prozac. Terrified of everything, I only took two Xanax for fear I might become addicted.

If I got the slightest bit upset, it could launch me into another panic attack. I was drained, tired, and my memory was almost non-functional. I had no concept of time; I would look at a clock, look away, and what seemed like literal hours later, I would look back at the clock to see five minutes had passed. The days stretched on and on, and I was so tired, and I didn't want to live this way anymore. There were times that I felt like my vision, hearing, or breathing was about to simply cease. They weren't quite gone, but I knew they would be within moments.

It seemed like any negative thing I thought overpowered my brain to the extent that it would surely come out of my mouth. I wondered if I had Tourettes. I wondered if I had a thousand diseases. I probably would have suspected testicular cancer if I'd read the symptoms!

About a month after my first major panic attack, I was diagnosed with dysthymia, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, possible Panic Disorder (you must have attacks for at least six months before you can be diagnosed), and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

With the help of my medication and support from friends and family, I have made quite a recovery. I still have twinges where my heart will start racing, I'll become dizzy, my mouth will start tingling, and I can't get certain terrible things out of my head. I worry excessively and find myself reading between lines when there isn't really anything to read. I realize so many things I think are irrational, but that doesn't stop them. I lost my appetite when everything was going on, and have been struggling to get my appetite back and gain weight as I got down to 88 pounds (I'm 5 foot 3 inches tall). I'm currently at about 93 pounds, so I'm pretty proud of that although I'm still not completely satisfied.

Although I am a very extroverted person for the most part, I have found it extremely difficult to spend time in groups and as a result have lost friends because of their lack of understanding.

I have been met with tons of obstacles on my road to recovery, and possibly the biggest hurdle has been getting people to understand what I'm going through, and that it is very real and very painful. It is partly in my head, yes, but not entirely. Even if it were, it still dictates my life in the worst way. I have to be careful about the situations I end up in, the people I'm around, and the things I might be exposed to-- anything can trigger an attack. Regardless, even my own father still tells me things like, "Mind over matter, Ashley." Yes, mind over matter can and does work in many situations, but what do you do when the matter IS your mind?

I want people in my position to be able to talk about what's bothering them without someone pooh-poohing it or trying to minimize the intensity of the situation. I want people who love someone like me to know how to handle it when a loved one has an attack. I want people who have decided that the truth of the matter is the problem is small to realize that it's not, that it can be a monumental and painful piece of a person's life.

I have learned so much about anxiety disorders, and it helps me to understand myself and to understand what my mom went through, and why she did what she did.

I know that this is a huge thing I'm taking on, and although it seems daunting at times this is one huge task that doesn't overwhelm me because it is just so important to me.

Let's step up, let's make a difference, let's connect, let's support.

http://thedeimosproject.org