Anxiety - what my father taught and didn't teach me

6/15/14

Today is Father’s Day, and I was thinking about my father as I rode my bike this morning.  He passed away a number of years ago.  My father was a good man.  He worked hard, and he travelled a great deal for his job, but he loved his family.  None of us had any doubts about his love for us.  

I have my suspicions that he also experienced anxiety - possibly even panic attacks.  He never, ever talked about it, but there were little clues that emerged over time that make me wonder if he suffered as I do.  I could be wrong.  

Over the years I have tried to figure out why I was never comfortable talking about my issues with panic and anxiety with my parents.  My father was a mental health professional, but he did not invite this type of conversation.  My father employed a “mind over matter” approach to life.  He even said this out loud  when we would complain about something physical - “Mind over matter kids”!  

Ok - this approach doesn’t work for panic attacks.  I know - I tried.  For years and years.  The message I received from my father was something akin to “stuff your feelings and deal”.  So I did.  What happened was that a little problem ballooned into a big problem over time.  I thought that I just wasn’t strong enough, that my mind wasn’t big enough to get over this matter.  These thoughts are not exactly confidence builders.  

I think I was throwing out signs that not all was well in my world.  Perhaps my parents noticed, and just didn’t know what to do to help me.  Perhaps it scared them.  I’ll never know for sure because my father isn’t around anymore, and I can’t have this type of conversation with my mother.  I cannot resent them, however.  Both of my parents had it hard growing up, and I doubt that anyone taught them or showed them how to deal with their own anxieties.  I have tried hard to be a different kind of parent to my own children.  When I began to notice signs of anxiety in both of them, I encouraged them to talk about it.  I got them help.  When I told them that they shouldn’t be embarrassed about needing help for anxiety, I listened to my own words, and started to seek help for myself.  How could I look at my own children and tell them that counseling and meds were ok for them, but not for me?  

My father taught me how to love, and he had an amazing sense of humor.  I am forever grateful to him for teaching me that humor is a perspective, and that it can be nurtured.  Maybe he knew that if you can laugh at something, it isn’t quite as scary.  Maybe he tried to teach me that by example.  Maybe he knew more than I thought.  

Postpartum Anxiety Blues -

When my firstborn came into my world 21 years ago, he captured my heart in the way that babies do - utterly and completely.  They don’t warn you in those baby books how fiercely you’re going to love your baby.  They should include a chapter called “Walk through Fire? Oh Yes You Will!”.  For me, that level of concern for my baby took a wildly unhealthy turn. I have seen it referred to as postpartum anxiety, and sometimes anxious symptoms are lumped under postpartum depression.  I called it “the anxiety channel”.  

My brain worked overtime conjuring up horrible things that could happen to this tiny, vulnerable little bundle that I was charged with protecting.  It struck me how helpless my son looked in my arms, and the world I knew suddenly seemed fraught with danger.  The endless loop of frightening scenarios played in my head all day, and all hours of the night when I was up feeding or soothing him.   I left a tape in my VHS player (Yes, VHS.  This was 21 years ago, people!!) that I could play in those dark nighttime hours.  It was a comedy, and as soon as I nestled in to feed my son, I pushed the play button, and could distract myself with a few moments of laughter to drown out the anxiety channel.  I could switch over to the comedy channel for brief moments of time.   Unfortunately it seemed that every time I turned on the real tv, there was a news or talk show that dealt with another potential hazard to babies and children.  I’ll never forget surfing the channels one day, and stumbling on a talkshow about sexual predators.  I quickly changed the channel, only to find a segment featuring baby and child abduction.  My worry started to expand - not just to my son as a baby, but my son as a toddler, then as a child, than as a teenager, and on and on.  And I was robbed, by my own mind, of being in the moment with my new baby.  

I tried to reach out to let other people know of my distress.  My doctor, a parent, a friend - all of whom responded with “well, that sounds pretty normal.”  It was NOT normal, but I guess you had to be inside my head to know that.  I recall the blackest day - I had just put my baby down for a nap, and was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to shut out the thoughts.  And I had that most awful thought - there is a way out of this.  If it doesn’t stop, or gets worse, I can silence all thought.  Ironically, just knowing there was an exit door made me relax.  (Literal exit doors make me relax too - but I’ll go into that more when I talk about my troubles in theatres and restaurants.)  I knew I was not ready for the suicide option - I had a baby who needed me, and I couldn’t abandon him.  So I put my head down and made it through each day and tried to let some light into my world.  

How I wish I could go back and talk to the “new mom” me.  I would tell her to gather all the information she could find about anxiety. I would tell her to be a little more assertive with her doctor.  I would tell her to journal out her fears - hold them up to the light, then shrink them down.  I would tell her to reach out to friends - not to suffer alone in silence and put on that mask of “yep, yep, doing great over here”.  I wish I had believed that people wouldn’t judge me if I told them the truth.  And that many people know first hand about obsessive worry.  I would tell “new mom me” that there are going to be some rough days ahead - stretches of real things to worry about, and then moments and hours of genuine joy in watching them grow up. And that life only comes at you one moment at a time, then one day at a time, and the majority of those days are just fine.  And you will find others who are struggling and you will reach out to each other and get through.  

I almost chose not to have another baby.  I didn’t think I could go through that hell again, but I armed myself with postpartum info and gathered my courage.  And I’m grateful to have my other “baby”, a beautiful 18 year old daughter.