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.
