More Than Fine

Just a few weeks ago, I was wrapping up a skype session with my emetophobia therapist. I had the calendar on my phone pulled up like I usually do to mark down our next session. For several months, we met with consistency every Thursday evening for an hour. Then, after some considerable progress had been made on my part, we transistioned to every other week. Occasionally, one of us would have a schedule conflict and it would then become three or four weeks between our sessions. But the tone had started to change. I wasn't having to work as hard to peel back the layers of my anxiety. I was becoming more comfortable with my own vulnerability. I noticed that we were talking more about "life stuff" and less about throwing up. The pictures and videos (yes, videos) of people being sick were becoming less gruesome and more, well, just people getting sick.

"Well, you tell me when you'd like to see me again," she said.

*blink blink*

What? I needed clarification.

"You've worked really hard to get to this point and you've got all the tools you will ever need when you start to find yourself feeling anxious. You're ready to just go and live your life now, and see how your emetophobia reacts with it. But my guess is that you're gonna be just fine. More than fine, actually."

This was it. She was breaking up with me. Not only that, but she was employing the whole, "well, it's obvious that you're moving on to bigger and better things, so now it's time for me to let you go" tactic. I sat there for a second, stunned, and looked down at the following Thursday's date on my phone. The fact that it was pure white nothing-ness was terrifying. Keep in mind that up until this point, I had been gradually exposing myself to pictures of vomit. First it was pencil sketches, then cartoons, then on to actual pictures of puke piles- chunky vomit, watery-vomit, dried splotches on roadways and floors. Then on to pictures of people mid-heave with their heads hanging over toilet bowls and trash cans. And finally, the last level of desensitization: watching entire video clips of real life people tossing their cookies for one reason or another, complete with sounds: carsickness, stomach flu, one too many shots of crappy vodka and one poor, unsuspecting girl who had her roommate spike her morning coffee with syrup of ipecac. (Why anyone thinks this stuff is worthy to 1) be shot on video and 2) be put on youtube, is truly beyond what I can comprehend. But maybe that's why I'm in therapy to begin with).

The point is, that moment of realizing I was being "let go" was in many ways more petrifying to me than anything I had experienced up until that point in my therapy. What now? I wanted to argue with her, that no, I wasn't ready. I was like a college graduate who had dutifully completed all of her degree requirements but was suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought of actually walking across the stage and accepting the diploma she had worked so hard for. Suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted it. I was afraid that if I allowed myself to believe that I was finally strong enough to stand with my feet firmly in place, that maybe it would all be an illusion and the ground that I thought was so steady would give way beneath me.

We have some friends who live out on the west coast that got a real kick out of the devastating earthquake that shook the east coast last August. Not because they were insensitive, but because we all flipped our nut over something that they probably experience a couple of times a year. Unfortunately, for them, earthquakes are inevitable, so the only thing they can do is practice being prepared for one when it hits. The safest places are in doorways and under sturdy tables. (Whatever you do, don't run outside like I did and look up at the sky to rule out the rapture). Since our friends have young kids, they do their best to drill them on what to do without freaking them out in the process. Children in schools participate in earthquake drills on a regular basis and practice quickly getting into position under their desks or the cafeteria tables. My friend's youngest daughter asked her one day why they couldn't just hang out under the table all the time, just in case. And to that, her mom simply said, "because that's not really living, sweetie. That's just being afraid to live."

As I reflect on the first few sessions I ever had with Anna, I remember that she never promised me a life without anxiety. She did, however, promise me that I could start living again, in spite of it. But it requires that I resist the urge to hang out under my dining room table, for all of the "just in cases," that 99% of the time never come to fruition anyway. There's nothing wrong with taking shelter when a storm comes out of nowhere, but once it passes, it can be easy to forget that we're supposed to crawl back out, hug our loved ones, and begin to rebuild.


Lyrics from a song that was always on repeat during some of my darker times. . .


"When I wake in the morning, I want to blow into pieces

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

When I'm up with the sunrise, I want more than just blue skies

I want more than just okay, more than just okay

I'm not giving up, not giving up now

Not giving up, not backing down

More than fine, more than bent on getting by

More than fine, more than just okay."


(Switchfoot, More Than Fine)

Coping With Anxiety: Alter Egos and Words of Reassurance

Phobias are weird, complex creatures. I've always thought of my emetophobia as an extension of me, in some perverse way- kind of like my alter ego. Some performing artists claim to have one that appears when it's time to go on stage. Beyonce's alter ego is called "Sasha Fierce." So for the purpose of this blog post, I used an online alter ego name generator (proving that there is in fact, a website for everything and also that I clearly don't have enough to do this morning). Anyway, according to this generator, my alter-ego's name is. . . brace yourself . . .

Silky Shalanda.

(I can't make this stuff up).


Kristin is the one who gets things done. She's the one who performs in front of groups of people, thinks on her feet, rolls with the punches, and enjoys taking risks. She's adventurous, spirited, often seeking out the comical in the mundane. But the minute her stomach starts to turn, twitch, or do anything else deemed "unusual," Silky Shalanda shows up. Total party pooper, this one. In the past, Silky has been known to cook her chicken until it has the appearance and taste of burlap. She doesn't want to do anything too strenuous, risky, or otherwise FUN because what if that would make her get sick? One of her more annoying habits was to ask "do you think I'm going to throw up?" Silky Shalanda's husband Jake- a.k.a. "Loose Goose Lucifer" (again, can't make this stuff up if I tried)- got tired of answering that question, but he almost always politely obliged her.

Old habits die hard, it's true. And so it seems, alter ego's have a knack for popping up long after they've worn out their welcome. I'd rather that Silky vacate the premises indefinitely, but she does come around less and less these days, thankfully. In the meantime, I've set a few personal and realistic goals in regards to my anxiety and one of those is to stop asking inane questions (to be fair, I've always known they were inane, but again, old habits are hard to break). As a little girl, I remember asking my parents quite often if I was going to throw up nearly every night at bedtime (I had a scary projectile vomiting experience when I was about 4 that woke me up in the middle of the night and that I suspect was the catalyst for most of this). I asked them this same question every night, like clockwork, even when I felt fine. And every night, they'd reply- "no, you're not going to get sick." (Sometimes it was more like, "for the love of God, NO, stop asking THAT!" But you get the idea....) At the peak of this phobia a few years ago, I once again found myself asking the same question to Jake. And his response was the same as theirs, often times in the same weary tone of voice. . . "No, babe, you're not going to throw up. I PROMISE you." It's kind of like asking him, "hey, do these pants make me look fat??" Any husband who doesn't want to ultimately end up sleeping on the couch knows that there's a very correct answer to this question. In the same way, my husband (God love him) had become conditioned to giving the correct answer when I asked him if I was going to throw up. Of course not. It's what he knew I wanted to hear in that moment.

Now, if I really stop to think about it, there are a couple of obvious problems with this scenario. I'm asking for reassurance about what my body is doing and ironically, I'm the only one who really knows what's going on. Anxiety? Heartburn? Stomach bug? IBS? Even *I* don't ultimately know if I'm going to get sick, so why on earth would my husband or parents know? As a child, I think it's one thing to take your mommy and daddy's word at face value because they're your world and often times, your sole source of comfort. But as a grown adult...well, I should know better than to rely on anyone else's interpretation of what's going on in my small intestines. (But hey, that didn't stop me from trying).

My emetophobia therapist just posted a blog article on seeking reassurance from other people in times of anxiety. Check it out, because whether or not you struggle with a fear of throwing up or being sick, EVERYONE struggles with anxiety and part of our nature as human beings is to seek reassurance in times of stress- it's how we cope. But, as her article points out, it can often do more harm than good, especially in the case of this kind of anxiety. When you tell a loved one that "no, you're not going to get sick," you unknowingly reaffirm that this is something they should continue to be afraid of and, to go one step further, that it is something actually dangerous to them. Every time I asked my parents- and consequently each time I asked Jake- if I was going to throw up, their well-intentioned words of consolation were actually doing more harm than good. (And to be fair, had they said, "well yes, Kristin, I think you are probably going to throw up..." there would have been mass hysteria, so I can't blame them). It's tempting to want to do whatever we can to console the people that we love and to, in the very least, temporarily take the edge off of their fear. But it's a very short term solution to what is often times a long-term battle.


So the answer to that question is different these days. The last time Silky Shalanda showed up (which was several weeks ago) and asked Jake if she was going to throw up, he simply replied without missing a beat, "I don't know. But I DO know that you're going to be okay, no matter what."

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but oddly enough, Silky Shalanda left after that and I haven't seen much of her since then.

So now, this will become my answer to Ella and Milo when they need reassurance, for whatever reason. I know that I'll be tempted to tell them what they want to hear, but I hope that I remember my therapists words- and my own personal experiences- so that I promise them only what I do know. And that is simply: "mommy will be right here, no matter what happens."

Small Word, Big Perspective

Have you ever realized how much power is taken out of something if you were to place the word "just" in front of it? Lately, I've been thinking about how much anxiety could be reduced in my life if I started implementing this one, simple word into my vocabulary more often. Most people who struggle with different forms of anxiety have trouble contextualizing certain situations. They tend to make bigger deals of things that don't necessarily need to be big deals.

This word sneaks it's way into our daily conversations probably several times a day without us realizing it. Phrases like, "It's just a little bump- you're okay." "It's just a cold." "It's just for another five minutes." It's just a thing. It has the ability to take the edge off of just about anything, almost instantly. (On the flip side, there are things in our universe that we will never be able to downplay and that, quite frankly, would be completely inappropriate to even attempt to. It will never be "just" cancer. "Just" a divorce. "Just" war. "Just" a job loss. They are devastating on so many levels and often leave us feeling powerless against them).

But what about those little things that suddenly seem bigger than they should be? In those cases, perhaps all we're missing is a little bit of perspective- and that is surely the one thing in our life that we always have control over to some extent. So instead, what if it was just an off day? What if it was just a bad meeting? What if it was just someone else's opinion? What if that meant that you didn't have to let those things define you after all?

I think this is particularly helpful with anxious situations. I've been putting this into practice a lot lately, asking "what if it was just throwing up?" And I'll be completely honest- It took me longer than I'd like to admit that maybe, just maybe, the world wouldn't end. Maybe life would go on, just as it always does. I think it took me so long to admit it because I knew that it would mean coming face to face with the fact that all of the effort I put into worrying and avoiding and obsessing was all for nothing.

Ouch.

Of course, I'm not claiming that this is a quick fix for any kind of circumstance. If something in your life is in need of becoming "just" something instead of the reason you're constantly reaching for your pepcid tablets or Xanax, it's ultimately going to be boil down to an overall posture- not simply a change in your vocabulary. Identifying those things that trigger stress/anxiety is often half of the battle.

Are there things in your life that demand more of your time and attention than you want them to? You have control over that. Redefining your perspective = redefining your reality.

Germs, Germs...

It's only a matter of time before your kids experience their first "throw-up bug." And I know what you're thinking- so what? It's true that for most people, this is not a major consideration when it comes to having kids, but it is for some people who struggle with emetophobia. Some emetophobic women ultimately decide that they won't ever have kids because children, as we all know, are walking petrie dishes. It obviously crossed my mind, although never in the sense that I swore off having a family. I just wondered how I would react, or if I would be able to "hold it together" for my kids' sake. I wondered if- despite my best efforts- they might still pick up on my fear and become afraid of it themselves.

Ella got it for the first time when she was 13 months old- in the summer, oddly enough. I heard her coughing in the middle of the night, went into her room to check on her, and saw that she had gotten sick. The phobic part of me wanted to run and get Jake first, but the Mommy in me took over and I was instantly overwhelmed with empathy as I scooped up my scared little girl out of her crib (at which point she proceeded to puke all over me as well). In the moment, I did what I needed to do, caught off guard by my own intestinal fortitude. Thankfully, Jake helped with the clean up while I consoled her as best as I could. I was 9 weeks pregnant with Milo at the time, so I became even more anxious at the thought that I wouldn't be able to discern "stomach bug" nausea from the "first trimester" nausea I was already battling. I remember we finally got Ella back to bed and she slept through the rest of the night. I, on the other hand, laid out on our couch and shook from my frazzled nerves, too afraid to let myself go to sleep for fear I would wake up sick too. (Neither Jake or I caught it).

This is just one of many instances over the last few years that prompted me to get a handle on the anxiety. Not just for my sake, but for the sake of my family. There are few things that I have learned to be absolute truths as a mommy, but one of them without a doubt is this: when your kids are sick, they want YOU. Not Daddy. Only Mommy will do. (Heck, to this day, I still want my mom when I'm sick). So while some moms might aspire to be able to ride rollercoasters with their kids, I want to be the mom that can sit there and hold her daughter's hair back while she barfs into a trashcan, or rub my sons back when he feels sick. The truth is, as someone who has dealt with emetophobia, I may never be totally nonchalant about vomit- ever. But I do believe that I will get "throw-up grace" on throw-up days- that ability to be strong, present, and (hopefully) cool as a cucumber when my kids need me.

So when those times happen, I will not put myself (or them) in a plastic bubble. I will not. No matter how much I might want to. {Repeats mantra}. But so help me God, I will clean and sanitize the shit (literally) out of my home when these unwanted intestinal visitors come around. Hey, it's my prerogative. And because I'm probably much more OC about it than the average person, I've collected a lot of good cleaning/sanitizing ideas and tips over the last few years and just recently came across this post to on how to get rid of the germs AND do it in an eco-friendly way. (There are some pretty good suggestions in the comment section too!)

So do all of your fellow germaphobes a favor and check it out! Good stuff! :)

"What's That Smell??"

There are few things I find more disgusting than, say, pulling a sippy cup of old milk out from it's week-long hiatus under our sofa. But lucky me.... today's treat was a pile of dried puke in the corner of Milo's room (and it clearly wasn't from Milo). This is definitely another first. I guess I never thought I would just happen to stumble upon something like this, in part, because I'm usually pretty tuned in to Ella when she says her stomach hurts. Honestly, I figured if she did get sick, (if it wasn't all over me), then she would probably tell me or show me, or somehow I would just know.

Rewind to a few nights ago though and it makes sense: I brought Milo in to his room to feed him and put him down and told Jake that I smelled throw up. He came in the room, sniffed, looked at me and said, "you and that NOSE." Shook his head and left the room. I said, "it's called mom nose and it's quite accurate, thank you very much." I can tell the difference between teething poops, regular poops and dairy allergy poops, smell spit up from across the room, differentiate between a carrot and sweet potato stain on a shirt just by sniffing it, and of all things-- I know vomit when I smell it. Everyone does. It probably takes all of us back to our days in elementary school when some poor kid didn't make it to the bathroom and then the janitor whipped out that horrid orange stuff. Ugh.

So now, I'm stifling the urge to say, "I told you so!"- only slightly stronger than my urge to gag and run for the Lysol. She must have gotten sick while she was playing, then just moved on to something else. I never heard a word from her about it. She has told me that her tummy hurt over the last few days, but she also tells me this often at bedtime as a stall tactic, and has otherwise seemed fine. So for now, I'm just grateful I didn't have to fight going into my "stomach bug OC" mode because well, I didn't know about it. On another level, it's in some way reassuring to me to know that it wasn't even a big enough deal for her to say anything to me, even though I hate that she was sick and I didn't know.

So, lesson learned from my two year old (and one that I'm unfortunately dropping some bones to have to re-learn myself): Life is too fun to let a little puke ruin it.

Slow and Steady

There's no other way to say it: some days, it's still hard for me to accept that anxiety is a regular part of my life. It's not who I am, but it sure does feel that way. On the one hand, I know I'm making progress because I probably wouldn't have setbacks (at least, what I perceive them to be). Ironic as it might sound, I know that If I'm feeling uncomfortable/nervous/anxious, it's usually because I'm doing something to push the envelope and that brings a bit of perspective. On the other hand, it's been five years. FIVE. On my own self imposed time-line of recovery, I was supposed to be sky-diving by now. Maybe running marathons. Getting a degree in clinical psychology so that I can help people through this very same process. (See the problem?)

I never thought of myself as a competitive person. I think I assumed this because I never played a lot of sports and I always associated being competitive with something like running up and down the field with a hockey stick, or maybe getting so pissed in a tennis match that I break the racket over me knee. Turns out, I am pretty competitive- it's just not super-obvious. I don't want to do something unless I know it's going to be the best at it (competitive meets perfectionism). I don't want to do something if I think I'm going to fail miserably (competitive meets passive-aggressive perfectionism. Oy). And I especially love to prove people wrong- defy the odds. If you want to motivate me, just tell me I can't do it.

The irony of this anxiety though, is that I'm not out to prove anyone wrong but myself. Not a single person in my life in the past five years (or ever, actually) has said to me, "Kristin- you're in way too deep and there's no way you'll be able to do ____ again. Might as well throw in the towel."

The only person saying those things to me is me.

So, a couple of truths for today, in case anyone else can identify....


Truth #1: I would feel a lot better about myself on those particularly anxious days if I talked to myself the way that all the people I love in my life talked to me.

Truth #2: There is no deadline to recovery. Slow and steady wins this race.

"Do-Over" (and over and over and over)

I've often made mention of Ella's obsession with Yo Gabba Gabba. Because of that, I frequently walk around the house/grocery store/Target singing their very crack-infused but catchy songs. One of Ella's favorite's is "keep trying, keep trying, don't give up, never give up. . ." She'll sing it to herself sometimes, when she's trying to fix a toy or buckle herself into her carseat. I'll hear her saying in her sing-songy lilt, "keep trying Ewwa, keep trying, don't give up. . ." A-freakin-dorable.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning to get some bloodwork done. I've been suspecting that I'm anemic due to the fact that I've made several dietary adjustments as of late. That, and I'm bruising like an over-fondled bag of apples, not to mention I'm seriously fatigued (you know, more than just your average mom of two). So I walked in to my appointment today when a) I'm already exhausted, lightheaded, and slightly nauseated b) I'm incredibly hormonal (that gets it's own letter) and c). I hate the doctor's office. I seriously can't stress that enough. Every time I go, I have to find my Zen place, do deep breathing and sing silly songs in my head (how's that for quirky?). Ever since I developed my anxiety disorder, doctor's offices have unfortunately served as a reminder of the dark place I lived in for the period of 3 years after Jake and I were married. Even now when I'm clearly stronger, better and more confidant, it still requires a ton of mental and emotional energy for me to go to appointments, and multiply that times fifty when I have to get bloodwork done. Before I can stop myself, I've already fast forwarded the horror movie in my head to the last scene when I'm passed out on the floor because I got woozy, or worse, I've thrown up my breakfast/lunch/iced grande half-caf two pump classic Americano from Starbucks.

The demons of emetophobia still beckon from time to time. Most days, I find that I have both the mental and emotional capacity to beat them back. Some days I can even knock them into next week (whatever that means). But today, I let them get the best of me and told myself that I simply didn't have it in me to sit in a lab with a needle stuck in my arm. So I excused myself quietly from the waiting room, gave the receptionist a lame excuse (read: big white lie) and left. Luckily, she penciled me in for a later time today. I came home, flopped down on the couch with some lunch and every intention of taking a nap (for real, this time) and switched on the TV. Of course, it's always tuned to Nick Jr and when it came on, I immediately recognized Plex, Brobee and the others and wouldn't you know, they're singing "keep trying, keep trying, you'll get it right, you'll get it right."

I know it's crazy that I'm about to wax philosophical off of something akin to a 22 minute acid trip, but the show has some merit in the lessons it teaches. (Seriously people, don't bite your friends. It won't end well). Ella and Milo will both inevitably have their share of missed opportunities and set-backs as they grow up. That's just life. But in this household, those situations will only be deemed failures if nothing is learned from them. Lucky for them, they have a momma who is well-acquainted with having to try, try again- for things that many people wouldn't even give a second thought to. A couple of things I intend to pass on to them:

-It's okay to get beat down, but staying down is simply not an option.
-Showing up is half the battle.
-Victories are victories, no matter how seemingly small and insignificant they might be to someone else.
-When you're offered a second (third, fourth, one hundred fifty-fifth) chance, you take it and say "thank you."


Now- lucky for me- I get to put all of these into practice again today at 4 pm. (I'll be that annoying person sitting in the lab singing the Yo Gabba Gabba songs under my breath). :)

"WWNPD"

Or, "What would normal people do?"

This has become my mantra over the last several months. But first I have an announcement: I'm not normal. (Shocker, I know). But really, who is? So for me, maybe this mantra should go one step further and say, "what would someone who isn't emetophobic do?"


Before I go any further, let me just preface this by saying that this is not a "hooray for me" post. I'm far from celebrating nor do I want to give the appearance that I've got my shit together. We all- every single one of us- have crap to deal with. We have our vices. We have weaknesses and sore spots and bruises and scabbed over injuries. And while we come to understand that the pain will eventually subside, we also know that the scars sometimes last forever. The anxiety can feel like it will last forever too. I know for a fact that there are so many people who struggle with anxiety and phobias, but would never speak out about it for fear of being labeled a freak or a weirdo. This has been my struggle. It's tempting to want to take that fear and make it your identity and let it define you for the rest of your life. Maybe for some, it's anxiety over work. For others, it's a fear of never measuring up. For me, it's this.

So what would a normal person do? (And by normal, I mean someone who doesn't fear their own body). In essence, they just do life, one day at a time, like everyone else. They don't over-think things. They don't obsess about what they're eating and whether it could potentially make them sick. They don't avoid public transportation, or refuse to go places where they might be exposed to other people being sick. They ride rollercoasters at amusement parks. They get pregnant and have babies. When those babies get a little older and get the stomach flu, they sit with them and wipe their faces and tell them that they're going to be okay.

I have to remind myself more often than I would like, that I am, in fact, going to be okay. And not only that I'm going to be okay. I am okay. Better than okay. Even after five years of struggling with the anxiety associated with emetophobia and six-plus months of intense cognitive behavioral therapy, I still have many moments throughout the day when I have to ask myself, "what would a normal person do?" The answer for me is actually found asking that one simple question. Because I know that if I want to be normal (unafraid of throwing up), then I have to act normal. Some days, it means I eat chicken without asking whether it's cooked thoroughly. Or that I let someone else drive the car and be a passenger, forfeiting my illusionary sense of control and risking the (unlikely) chance I will get car-sick. Other days, it will just mean being a mommy- being coughed and puked on (yep, it happened and I lived to tell about it), making multiple trips to the doctor, and purposefully doing things outside what I consider to be my comfort zone for the sake of being present with my kids as they grow up. There are days when I'm still scared of throwing up. But the days that I choose to move past the "what ifs" and focus on the "here and nows" are trumping the days I choose not to.

And for now, that's all that matters.

It's Not What You Think

I've put off writing about this topic because it's a tough one to even know how to articulate. I always try to find the humor in every day circumstances, but sometimes, there isn't any to be found. Musicians play, dancers dance, babies cry and writers write. Even when it hurts. Even when there's no clear way to end the words. As with anything in life, I've learned that it's about the process- and even more about the discipline- than it is the finished product, although the artist in me still strives for perfection every single time. And every single time, I will fall short. It happens.

There's a quote from a song I like that says, "Life perfect, ain't perfect if you don't know what the struggle's for." For four years, my struggle has been against anxiety. It's true that life wouldn't be nearly as precious to me now if I hadn't had to fight to find my identity and my own degree of normalcy since 2006. Since then, there has rarely been a day that I don't wake up on the front line of a continual war against- well, me. My own body. My racing mind. The subconscious circuit of lies and "what ifs" that are on constant replay. I liken it to being tuned into a bad radio station with a bunch of negative talk and static. Often, there is no volume knob or dial to tune into something different. Not too long ago, I had a painful realization that I had begun to accept this as "the way of life" from here on out. This revelation scared me more than the panic attacks themselves. But having already spent thousands of dollars on counseling, psychotherapy, and refills of Klonopin and Xanax (which, thankfully, I don't need to take anymore), I had begun to have expectations of little more than obtaining a mute button for my own back-stabbing mind. Realistically, I still don't expect the negative voice to go away. I can only hope to muffle it until one day, it just quits trying.

It's not what you think.

I don't need to go and sit in my car by myself and do deep breathing. But sometimes, it's the only way I feel safe. It may never have crossed your mind while standing in the Kroger check-out lane that you have. to. get. out. But I think it every single time I'm putting groceries on the belt. It takes everything I have in me to make myself stay because for so many years, I've trained my body to simply run.

It's not what you think.

I may try to look put together, but don't be fooled. Each time a panic attack hits, I turn into the woman who weighed 120 lbs and was a few steps away from being hospitalized. For a few minutes, I become the wife who almost lost her husband before she ever made it to her first anniversary because the stress was almost too much for either person to handle. People find it funny that I don't leave to take the trash out without a dab of concealer and some lip gloss (and it's true), but it's less because I'm a girly girl and more because I've learned to hide behind the makeup.


It's not what you think.

An introvert I may be, but I still want to hang out with my friends. But if I begin to feel anxious, I'll make up reasons to not be able to see them. I know I have a choice, but it never feels that way to me at the time.


It's not what you think.

Whatever excuse I gave you for needing to leave, it's probably a lie. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I've made a habit out of lying to the people I love so that this "thing" is never what they think it is. It's never the truth. Even when I know that the only person it truly hurts is me. Sometimes, I hope I'll start to believe the things that I make up because those realities seem easier to live with.

What is it about saying, "I'm scared" that's so hard? So many times I've wished I were afraid of heights or planes or spiders. I tell myself if I could only see it, just put my finger on it, I could kill it and move on.



But then I think, this thing that has a grip on me- perhaps it's not what I think it is either. Perhaps it's actually nothing but a bully, sucking all of it's energy and ego by preying on all my truths and twisting them around until they're unrecognizable. I watch my daughter's reaction when she doesn't get her way. Her face turns a reddish-purple, the inevitable high pitched wail that could peel the paint from the wall follows, something is usually thrown and then she crumples into a dramatic ball on the floor. A tantrum, in it's most classic form. (I can't wait for that to happen in Target one day). So it seems that my mind has become quite adept at throwing it's own tantrums, vying for my attention, which I've been all too willing to give it over the years.

It's not what you think.
"How will your daughter ever know what strength looks like if she always sees her mommy run?"
It's not what you think.
"And you thought you should have another baby? How will you be strong enough for them both?"
It's not what you think.
You're never safe.
It's not what you think.
The ending is already written. You can't change it.
It's not what you think.



Maybe, just maybe, It's not what I think, either.

Ode to Zofran

 

Ok, time for me to out myself.

I have struggled with a terrible fear of throwing up for most of my life.  Not exactly sure why it became something I feared so much, although I think I have traced it back to a lovely midnight projectile vomit episode that woke me from my sleep when I was about four and scared the pants off of me.  It was the first time I can remember being sick like that.  Ever since then, I have had an unusually strong aversion to it- more so than the average person- 'cause lets face it: no one I know leans their head over the porcelain throne for a horribly gruesome two minutes and then declares, "God, that was fun!  Can I have another go at it?"  I was not a sick kid and in fact, can remember every time that I did throw up.  Out of my 26- almost 27 years of life, I can count the "incidences" on two hands.  Not very much.  My anxiety over this "normal" bodily function took on a whole new life, though, when I was diagnosed with a panic disorder shortly after Jake and I were married.  I had been having random panic attacks that ultimately led me to be afraid that I would throw up.  If I was anywhere in public- a restaurant, the grocery store, sitting in Starbucks even- I would start to feel an overwhelming sense of urgency to get out immediately because I was afraid I would end up throwing up in front of everyone.  Weird?  Yes, but that is me in a nutshell.  Irrational?  Very much so, but aren't all phobias?  I stopped doing anything that I thought might cause me to be sick: no working out, no eating weird food (which eventually became almost no food at all), no hanging out with friends (unless they came to our house), definitely no singing or playing in public like I used to (I don't know how on earth I would have been able to get my music degree had this happened before I finished at VCU).   To make a long story short, emetophobia- better known as the fear of vomiting- had me trapped inside my own nightmare.  Surprisingly, I learned that this is the 5th or 6th most common fear (not that that made me feel better).  If nothing else, it was reassuring to know that I wasn't the only person who had or would ever struggle with such an odd thing.

Thank God that I was able to overcome it with the help of some good meds, a good psychiatrist, and an incredible counselor.  I'm also thankful it didn't deter me from wanting to experience what I believe to be the greatest thing of all: motherhood.  Well, I can only speak as far as the pregnancy part of motherhood at this stage in the game, but you get the idea.  I was definitely worried about the morning sickness, especially considering the crappy luck my mom had.  I figured I better just brace myself for the worst, as it was probably in the genes. 

  I still remember how shocked I was to see two bright pink lines when I took my pregnancy test on that late September morning- first, because it was only our second month of trying (our first month of *really* trying), and secondly, because I just did not *feel* pregnant. I mean, where was the nausea?  We've all seen the shows on TV: woman is sitting with her husband/boyfriend at a nice dinner but then she immediately turns green, cups her hand over her mouth and runs to the bathroom to throw up.  This is always the dead give-away.  So predictable too.  Nevermind the missed period.  Too many women I've known have puked their guts up long before their pregnancy test turned positive.   My mom was so sick with me- throwing up morning, noon and night- that her doctor threatened to hospitalize her if she lost any more weight.  Nothing worked to ease the nausea and vomiting for her, and she- like so many women- suffered through the miserable first 13 weeks. (This was back before the miracle pill that is Zofran).

I remember calling my best friend later that day to tell her.  I said, "I feel great!  I still have an appetite..." (I was actually more hungry than usual at that point) "...and if I didn't have the positive pregnancy test sitting in front of me, I would never even think I was pregnant!"  And she just laughed before she said the three words that I've come to totally despise,"You just wait."  I have found, increasingly in the last several weeks, that people just love to tell pregnant women this. Friends, family, even complete strangers.  "You think you're tired now, you just wait..."  You think your boobs look big now, you just wait..."   Oh nice.  My hormones love you so much right now for saying this to me.  *Post coming soon dealing with this particular subject: The top 10 Things Pregnant Women Hate to Hear."  Get ready*  

Apparently, for most women, the nausea and morning sickness doesn't really kick in until the 6th or 7th week.  When I took my test, my period was not even late.  I got an early positive, so it put me right about 3 weeks 5 days, or something like that.  Lovely.  I started the mental countdown: 2 weeks until I feel like shit, 1 week 3 days until I begin the puke-fest, 5 days until my life as I know it is over....(okay that's a little melodramatic, but you get the idea).  I knew that this was, by far, going to be the worst part of pregnancy for me (considering everything else went smoothly).  What- pushing a watermelon through my hooha?  Yeah, no sweat.  Not compared to morning sickness.  I figure if I do throw up during labor and delivery, I'll probably be in too much pain to care at that point, but hopefully the epidural will take care of that.  At that moment, I just couldn't stand the thought of waking up every morning and making a dash to the toilet to be sick.  Or smelling something "not quite right" and gagging to the point of puking.  

So I just took it one day at a time.  Around 6 weeks, I started feeling "off" and had a significant increase in my need for coca cola.  (I still drink a little coke just about everyday now and it has been the one thing that always tasted good to me when I feel queasy).  By bedtime in the middle of the 6th week,  I was not doing so well.  By that point, I was doing anything and everything to figure out what would help the queasiness: I found that sucking on peppermints actually made me feel worse, I loved fresh lemon in water, and lived off of mashed potatoes, dry cereal, and chicken noodle soup on the worst days.  Given my history, it didn't take me long to call my OB and ask for something to help.  I did not even want to pretend to try and be strong.   I just wanted to not feel nauseous and gaggy.  (And okay, I may have embellished a little bit, but to be honest, I didn't feel like giving her my unique struggle with emetophobia).   She called in a prescription for Zofran, so the next time I found myself sprawled out on our couch at 1 in the morning in my own personal hell, I popped one of those little miracle-workers in my mouth.  15 minutes later, I was a whole new person.  

And so, my love affair with this little white pill began.  I bow to any woman that has struggled through her pregnancy without ever reaping the benefits of this drug- whether they are just mentally and emotionally much stronger than I could ever be, are blessed with intestines of steel, or just didn't have it at their disposal then.  I credit it with helping me get through the worst of those first 13 weeks and have never hesitated to sing it's praises to other newly pregnant women.  That being said, it isn't the cheapest drug to get, but it was well worth it in my book.  I never threw up, although there were a few times I felt like I could.  It didn't always take the nausea away completely, but it helped.   I still had times during the day when I wouldn't need to take it at all and could eat normally, well before I hit the second trimester.  By the 10th week, I was feeling noticeably more human and by the 13th week, I had come out of it almost completely.   This is not to say that I don't still take it now.  Occasionally, I still find myself needing one randomly.  To be honest, it's more of a security blanket of sorts for me these days, but it just helps to know it's there if or when I do find my gag reflex being uncooperative.  I think I may "stock up" on these little white wonder-pills when the stomach bug is running rampant- "just in case."

Of course, even in my greenest moments (with or without the Z-pill) I was ever cognizant of the tiny peanut-size of a reason that I was feeling so bad.  And it made me smile- it will be all but a distant memory come June. :-)