Sunday, March 27, 2022

On A Scale of 1-10

I don't know what it's like to not be stressed. My anxiety runs high about one thing or another at any given moment. I come by it honestly, if not unnecessarily.

I haven't lived a day without heartburn since I was 13 and probably earlier but I didn't know what it was. I popped Tums like candy for years until I discovered ranitidine over the counter. They say that's going to give me cancer, so they removed it from store shelves. Now I take famotidine every morning. I don't know the difference, but it does the same thing. I don't worry about the potential cancer, surprisingly.

My cuticles are the longest sufferers in my anxious state. I pick at them until they bleed. I cannot stop. I do this in moments of alarm, when there seems to be nothing concrete, when I'm uncertain, in public and in private. So pretty much all the time. You can always tell when it's been a rough week.

I fall asleep with the television on. If it's too quiet, my brain does not stop replaying the day's events. I will assess every single decision until I've convinced myself it was right or wrong. The TV gives me something to focus on. It has to be something I've seen before, otherwise I pay too much attention and I get wound up about losing sleep.

I take responsibility for my quirks. I don't eat and exercise like I should, and I admit my nocturnal rituals may be more habitual than helpful. I blame my mother for my abysmal cuticle care. I deal with it all.

But sometimes the famotidine wears off too soon:  too much day, not enough antacid. Sometimes I don't have a Band-Aid in my purse: too much cuticle blood, not enough first aid. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and the TV has already turned itself off: too much nighttime, not enough distraction.

On a scale of 1-10, I learned to live life hovering close to a ten at an early age. I vacillated between "this is normal" and "what's wrong with me" for years. At slumber parties I would be in awe of girls who could fall asleep in silence. I envied women with healthy, pink cuticles, and hid my own in shame. I asked myself why I am the only one among my friends to develop a discerning palate for reflux remedies? Not all antacids are created equal.

Some people have no problems unwinding. It will take me days to come down from a high anxiety event. It will weigh heavily on me.

All this I accepted as part of who I am. But, in January 2021 the anxiety reached a peak that sent me to an edge I had not seen before. It scared me.

During a webinar for journalists reporting from potentially dangerous situations my mind hit a brick wall. It's an off-hand comparison I've made hundreds of times in moments of fatigue, but this time it felt like my thoughts hit a wall and would not move forward or beyond what I was hearing.

U.S. Capitol riots. Coronavirus pandemic. Protests in the streets. Journalists targeted. Bullet proof vests and flack jackets. Media credentials weaponized. It was too much. My entire body rejected it.

My brain began spinning like a boat with no pilot. My heart raced, dizziness and nausea washed over me, and I thought I would vomit. I tried deep breaths. I tried slowing my heart rate. I put my head down. It felt like more than one of my worst fears coming true: I thought I was having a heart attack, which would leave me laid out on the floor in an overweight heap in an office that wasn't even mine.  And no one would see me. Or worse, someone would see me. I couldn't decide which would be more mortifying.

Moments like that are a self-fulfilling prophecy. I was terrified of dying on an office floor in front of my coworkers, wondering if any of them actually knew CPR or whether any of them would actually perform CPR on me. Those fears turned into a higher heart rate, shallower breathing, and anxiety that skyrocketed past a ten. Round and round it went. The numbers on my FitBit were proof.

I tried to convince myself my blood sugar was to blame. Maybe it was too low. Maybe it was too high. Maybe it was something I could manage, control or wait out. But in my heart I knew it wasn't my heart or my blood. It was my head. I somehow understood that I did not need to be alone at that moment, so I shuffled next door to my boss's office.

"I am not okay right now," my voice shook, "I've never had a panic attack before, but I think if I did this is what it would feel like." More nausea.

My boss cared for me, allowing me to sit in his quiet office for as long as I needed. He brought me apple juice. I didn't know what to do with myself so I announced I was going home. He drove me there and made me promise to call my doctor. I made an appointment for one week later.

I worked from home for the next few days which left me an even bigger wreck at the end of each day. I slept on the couch because it allowed me to fold my body up tighter around my anxiety. I never turned the television off and simply looked for other programming when HGTV reached the end of its broadcast day at 2 a.m. I reasoned with my brain to stop worrying about anything and everything that was out of my control. No such luck.

I called every morning to see if my doctor could get me in sooner. No luck there either.

Finally, I found myself masked and topless, lying on a cold table with electrodes stuck to my chest. I held my breath for the EKG. I breathed deeply for the stethoscope. I answered many questions. My doctor told me I did not have a cardiac event.

"Then we need to talk about something else because I can't live like this," I begged through my mask.

Selfie in my doctor's office

Then and there, my doctor prescribed Citalopram. I was only vaguely familiar with SSRIs. Citalopram treats anxiety and depression. She also hooked me up with an antihistamine "until the SSRI builds up in your system". It takes a little time, but I swear within 24 hours of the first tiny pill I was already feeling better. Maybe that was all in my head too, but it didn't matter. Results mattered.

That same day I timidly returned to work. I felt mentally weak and childlike, even embarrassed for my display of leaving the week prior. I felt like any sudden movements or loud noises would send me spiraling. I made it through that day with what I call my Spotify "peaceful mix" in my headphones. Each day, each pill helped me get to a much better head space. And in the weeks that followed, I talked with several people who helped me get more comfortable in that new place.

I have not always done a very good job of protecting my mental health. I, like many journalists, compartmentalize the things I see and hear every day. I make light of terrible things. I mutilate my cuticles in lieu of drinking. I get short-tempered. I also try to rise to the occasion in high stress situations and lead teams of people through them as best I can.

I know my mental health has changed dramatically since January 2021. Now, I protect it. I treat it. I pull the plug on what's not working. I make no apologies for my personal time and what brings me peace and joy.

I also still sleep with the TV on, take heartburn medication daily and turn my cuticles into raw meat. I do my best.

On a scale of 1-10 I'd say I do what I can.

Sunday, November 28, 2021

The Thanksgiving to Remember (or forget)

"I don't want to alarm y'all, but I'm feeling nauseous."

Words you never want to hear from the person sitting next to you in a packed car going 85 miles per hour down the interstate.





My Thanksgiving takes me to Houston every year to see my extended family. We sit elbow to elbow around the table, eat delicious food, share stories, laugh and enjoy each other's company. For me, this is usually the only time I see my cousins all year. I must do better. 

The next day, Black Friday, we all opt outside. We pile into cars with all the leftovers and head down the road to "the property" in Brenham, Texas for fresh air, more family, and more good times. It's tradition. A full day of snacking and catching up around the bonfire. S'mores and Starburst when the sun goes down. Then it's back to the city.

I rode with Matthew, Abby, Michelle, Baby Lynnie and two dogs. Matthew was behind the wheel. We were picking on him about calling 911 about debris in the road earlier in the day. Michelle and I were in the back seat with the baby. I was holding a tray of dehydrated fruit and nuts. There was not a lot of room.

What is typically an hour and 45 minute drive took a bit longer after those fateful words from Michelle, who, mere seconds after alerting us to the brewing situation, became the latest victim of a brutal stomach bug that had already taken out several members of the family.

Matthew quickly pulled into a random parking lot. Michelle lost her leftovers, declared that she felt much better and we were off again. Each of us felt comfortable enough to laugh about the near miss. We shouldn't have.

"Pull over."

85 miles per hour and five lanes of traffic to cross... it just wasn't quick enough this time. It happened. In the car. We made it to the curb of an exit ramp outside a busy shopping center (again, Black Friday) and Michelle jumped out to finish what had begun. 

Abby and I pulled our shirts up like masks. 

Poor Michelle, who once again announced that she felt much better (like we were believing that again), obviously took the brunt of the situation, along with the dashboard. 

The damage was done. And we now had to handle it. In a parking lot. With not much more than baby wipes and the clothes on our backs. Michelle was a trooper and did the bulk of the cleaning. I'd like to say I helped, but I did not. I cannot handle throw up. Abby and I stood behind the car and giggled at the absurdity of the situation and secretly prayed that neither of us got sick. I make no apologies.

Did we need a little help? Sure. But not police, fire or ambulance. Somewhere in the dash cleaning process, Michelle managed to hit the car's "redial" button which called 911 loud enough for us to hear outside the car. The dispatcher thankfully did not send anyone our way. We had enough of an audience with the shoppers dodging our car, which was now parallel parked outside a restaurant. The show we were putting on was ridiculous.

Abby, Matt and I rallied and came up with enough wipes, stray tissues and a t-shirt or two to clean the car. But there was still the matter of the smell.  Pro tip: if this ever happens to you, just dip into your travel kit of essential oils and sprinkle some peppermint into your air vents.

Then came the question of clothing. Abby took this one for the team, giving Michelle the leggings off her body, and wrapping Matt's puffy coat around her waist like a skirt. Michelle flashed a handful of drivers on the interstate putting on the pants. We had reached rock bottom.

Or so we thought.  Baby Lynnie finally got wise to what was going on around her, and also gave back everything she had eaten in the past ten hours. Poor kid. We blamed the smell.

With two puking passengers and our peppermint oil hack doing the trick, we stuffed ourselves back in the car and finished the final 45 minutes home drama-free. The tray of dehydrated fruit and nuts stayed behind.

Because I was apparently the only one in the car that had not succumbed to this holiday malady, I felt like a ticking time bomb. 48 hours later, I think I'm in the clear. I think I dodged that bullet.

I'm glad everyone seems to be feeling better, and I hope everyone who got the peep show Friday night appreciates the humor of the situation as much as we did.


Heaping helping of THANKS to Michelle for suggesting that this adventure become a blog post!
I love you!


Thursday, December 31, 2020

Stolen Holiday


If you know me, you know New Year's Eve is my favorite holiday. Not so much for the champagne and revelry (which I fully support), but for the newness. The fresh start of January 1. A new calendar year comes so full of hope and promise. The days ahead can be whatever you want. Resolutions make the world go 'round for weeks, at least, sometimes longer. And I am here for all of it.

This year, though, I am having big feelings about 2021. I'm in a strange place in my heart tonight, feeling cheated. I feel robbed of my favorite holiday. An illness that threatens me and everyone I know has made off with my sense of security and hopefulness like a bandit. And I'm angry about it.

Here is where I am right now: it is cold and raining outside on New Year's Eve. I have one more day of work at the end of a very long two week stretch with no break. I am weepy. Not doubled over sobbing, but sniffly enough that I have a tissue. Fireworks are popping in the distance and probably will until about 1 a.m. I ate too much for dinner.

I've been struggling this holiday season. I had plans and broke them and it broke my heart. The weight of the pandemic was  more than I could carry to the people I love. My fear of potentially making someone sick outweighed my desire to hug and be hugged by my family. And I'm here to tell you that if you haven't been hugged by someone who loves you unconditionally in months, that pain is real. A shoutout to everyone who lives alone and works from home, and to those who come home to an empty house. I feel you.

I am frustrated that my life feels so small tonight. I keep trying to find more bigness, but the worry squeezes things back down to size. Favorite restaurants reduced to soggy takeout, groceries ordered and dumped in the back of the car, Facetime, Zoom, texts, Amazon delivery days. Masks.

Emotions I will not tie to any specific thing, but also lurking under the surface: resentfulness and jealousy, both irrational and ugly.

I messaged a friend recently and said, "I'm so sad about 2020 and what I feel is so much wasted time."
What I meant was, I wasted time. Days, weeks and months feeling aimless, tired, overwhelmed, annoyed and afraid.

I asked my friend, "How do you just not see your family and friends? How do you lead a team when you are never in the same room with them? How do you keep moving forward when the whole world is stuck?"

I also wrote to my friend that I feel very strongly about creating goals for myself in 2021.

As I write, my Christmas tree glows in the corner, reminding me that the people, places and things I love and miss are actually close. And that sort of feels like optimism seeping back in. So I will grab hold of that for now and list the beginnings of the plans that I have sketched out for myself in 2021:

1. Do more of what makes me happy
2. Find new ways to overcome anxiety
3. One road trip per month (i.e. learn the fine art of car camping!)
4. Reach out more 

As always, pandemic or not, I leave myself plenty of room to succeed in my goals, while noting there is equal space to fail. And as always, I continue to work on granting myself grace whichever direction my chips may fall.