Imagine your walking along a path and then all of a sudden a flash flood furiously catches you off guard and any sense of that path you were walking is now indistinguishable. There is just a raging torrent of dark water propelling you to who knows where. That's a little bit what my panic episodes are like. And when you're amongst that swirling, angry torrent, it is easy to lose sight of the fact that, your environment for the most part is the same. The path is still there, the familiar surroundings are unchanged and when that panic flash flood subsides, those foundations of your life will most likely still be there. It just feels like they're not when all of a sudden your main objective is to keep your head above black, panic water and find something tangible to grasp on to.
The relative stability I had been having over the month of June, in spite of all the ridiculous amount of appointments and box ticking monotony, came to a crashing end the last weekend of the month. June 29th started with a hysterical panic attack. In all its pacing, muttering, crying and perpetual hand shaking tick glory. Reality descended into fight or flight mode. Fred well and truly broke out of his box again. So I went back to my survival tool box. Medication, bed, lifestyle, home and garden shows, and lots of hugs. My most important survival tool is having a touchstone for reality. For me, this is my partner. When I suffer from my episodes having him with me is vitally important, on more than a few occasions in the last four months or so, he has had to call in and take the day off work. Not only to care for me, but our children too. And having him around to hug me, kiss me, tell me I am okay and I will be okay, is my security blanket. There is a very real need for me to be able to touch him and hear his voice. He anchors me, when my brain feels lost to me. My rock in an ever increasing torrent of despair. I am terrified he might spontaneously combust. In the twenty one years we have been together, these past few months have been the toughest, which is quite a statement when considering we have six children, four of whom have special needs. We have suffered a traumatic and heartbreaking pregnancy loss of twins at 11 weeks just over 11 years ago, another heartbreaking pregnancy loss of our daughter Hazel at 15 weeks, not discovered until 20 weeks in 2015. We have had our share of challenges and ups and downs. This experience has changed us. It has and still is changing me. Importantly it has made me realise how much I love this man and how grateful I am that he loves me, unconditionally and unreservedly. He watched me break spectacularly, helpless as to how to halt the ever increasing mental and emotional anguish. Now he pulls up his sleeves and jumps in the darkness with me and helps put the pieces back together. Which is still an ongoing process. Who knows what it will all look like in the end? But there probably is not really an end to the process. I do fear that this is just my life now. I will be elderly and dealing with Fred's shenanigans. Ugh. I can't let that happen. I am trying to get better. And if that means that sometimes I retreat from the world, sometimes my children don't get to school and sometimes the man I love has to take a day off so I can sleep off the medication that brings me back down to earth, so be it. It won't be forever. I hope it won't be forever.
I told my psychologist this week that I felt like a failure for having to take an antipsychotic to halt my episode. I felt like I was back to square one. Her response, "Do you feel like a failure when you take paracetamol for a headache? Or Imodium for diarrhea? Or cold and flu medicine?"
My reply, "Of course I don't".
"Well why feel like that when you are just treating an ailment with your brain. You used all your tools, with limited success. Taking a medication you knew would work is not a fail".
I know. I have not failed. I made myself safe. I crashed, but I am back up now and still fighting to get myself well. Stable and functional is a good place to be after a meltdown. Eventually I would like to thrive. I would like my family to thrive. I think it is time we experienced some happiness and joy in our lives. We deserve it after years of struggle and heartache. The path is not clear on how to get there. So perhaps it is time to make our own somehow.
The relative stability I had been having over the month of June, in spite of all the ridiculous amount of appointments and box ticking monotony, came to a crashing end the last weekend of the month. June 29th started with a hysterical panic attack. In all its pacing, muttering, crying and perpetual hand shaking tick glory. Reality descended into fight or flight mode. Fred well and truly broke out of his box again. So I went back to my survival tool box. Medication, bed, lifestyle, home and garden shows, and lots of hugs. My most important survival tool is having a touchstone for reality. For me, this is my partner. When I suffer from my episodes having him with me is vitally important, on more than a few occasions in the last four months or so, he has had to call in and take the day off work. Not only to care for me, but our children too. And having him around to hug me, kiss me, tell me I am okay and I will be okay, is my security blanket. There is a very real need for me to be able to touch him and hear his voice. He anchors me, when my brain feels lost to me. My rock in an ever increasing torrent of despair. I am terrified he might spontaneously combust. In the twenty one years we have been together, these past few months have been the toughest, which is quite a statement when considering we have six children, four of whom have special needs. We have suffered a traumatic and heartbreaking pregnancy loss of twins at 11 weeks just over 11 years ago, another heartbreaking pregnancy loss of our daughter Hazel at 15 weeks, not discovered until 20 weeks in 2015. We have had our share of challenges and ups and downs. This experience has changed us. It has and still is changing me. Importantly it has made me realise how much I love this man and how grateful I am that he loves me, unconditionally and unreservedly. He watched me break spectacularly, helpless as to how to halt the ever increasing mental and emotional anguish. Now he pulls up his sleeves and jumps in the darkness with me and helps put the pieces back together. Which is still an ongoing process. Who knows what it will all look like in the end? But there probably is not really an end to the process. I do fear that this is just my life now. I will be elderly and dealing with Fred's shenanigans. Ugh. I can't let that happen. I am trying to get better. And if that means that sometimes I retreat from the world, sometimes my children don't get to school and sometimes the man I love has to take a day off so I can sleep off the medication that brings me back down to earth, so be it. It won't be forever. I hope it won't be forever.
I told my psychologist this week that I felt like a failure for having to take an antipsychotic to halt my episode. I felt like I was back to square one. Her response, "Do you feel like a failure when you take paracetamol for a headache? Or Imodium for diarrhea? Or cold and flu medicine?"
My reply, "Of course I don't".
"Well why feel like that when you are just treating an ailment with your brain. You used all your tools, with limited success. Taking a medication you knew would work is not a fail".
I know. I have not failed. I made myself safe. I crashed, but I am back up now and still fighting to get myself well. Stable and functional is a good place to be after a meltdown. Eventually I would like to thrive. I would like my family to thrive. I think it is time we experienced some happiness and joy in our lives. We deserve it after years of struggle and heartache. The path is not clear on how to get there. So perhaps it is time to make our own somehow.
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