Inside My Head

 

Welcome. What a place to be. In my head.

I started with panic attacks when speaking in front of people when I was about 18--at my girlfriend's off-to-college luncheon way back in the 80s. First time. I stood up to read a poem about her little Subaru. My voice started shaking. My stomach tightened. Thank goodness it was pretty short. Then again when I was working and had to give a report to the president of a pretty large company. Oy. I was perfectly fine until the moment when it was my turn to stand up. This was about ten years later. To put it lightly, I have never wanted to be the center of attention. (I didn't even think I would be able to walk down the isle at my own wedding! But once I set eyes on my groom, I was good to go.)

I've had some episodes of anxiety over the years, two that I can think of that put me in the hospital with dehydration that were diagnosed as something else, I believe. 

As I got older, the more social anxious I became. I've never truly been a social person. One of my best friends once called me a loner in high school. For one thing, my family owned a business. Therefore, from as early as fifth grade, if not before, I was working after school and Saturdays at my father's photography business. There wasn't much time for socializing. Yes, I had friends, good friends, so I wouldn't say that I missed out on socializing. My brothers and I certainly did not miss out! But, as far as after-school activities, there was none of that. Who knows if that is why my wires misconnect in that area of socialization.

Today, I am going into my fourth week of high anxiety/depression. Thank goodness for psychiatrists. I finally got one last January, 2020. Yes. TWENTY TWENTY. Before all hell broke loose all over the world. COVID 19. After all the socializing of 2019, and I mean I had a lot of company visiting me the last six months of the year--non of which were expected. And I don't mean to sound nasty about that. I have always said my doors are forever open to my friends and family. Unfortunately, that has to change. I love everyone, but it wreaks havoc only crazily-complex brain. Come January, I went down. And I went down fast and hard. I found a therapist. That didn't help. I found a psychiatrist. New meds and six weeks later, in the ER with an IV. Finally, clear headed.

Now here I am again.

Twenty twenty, of all things, was comforting. Besides the epidemic, I was comforted by no social interaction, whatsoever. Well, a couple of times with my sons, on birthdays, with heaters on the patio. One year, entirely blissful. Except of course, the fear of catching Covid. But, no visitors, nowhere to go, no-one to see. Just me and my hubby. I even moved him into a different bedroom as he, occasionally, still needed to do some business travel. (He's still sleeps in the guest room which we both seem to be ok with. We are very secure in our relationship.)

Today is the first day of new meds. I am hoping that this is the day. The day. Tomorrow is the next day, even better. This is the hardest time of the day. As soon as I open my eyes. The pounding on my chest. A million things enter my mind. Nothing making sense. I don't want to do anything. What can I do today? Nothing. Get out of bed? Yes. Then what? I don't know. Feed the birds. Then what? Worry. Lay down on the sofa. Worry. About nothing. I have nothing to worry about yet I do. A million tiny things enter my mind at once. Scrambled. My stomach is in knots. I have lost 20 pounds (which any other time would be a good thing).

What can I do? Write. I have written blogs in the past. For several years, I wrote a blog every day. It was my release from raising my kids while caring for my mom. That's what popped into my head this morn when I went through my, "GOD, WHAT CAN I DO TO FILL THIS HORRID DAY?" Write. It's better than sleeping. 

And now it's noon.

Now what?