I had an anxiety attack yesterday.
Was it the worst one I’ve ever had? No. But it was a big deal.
The worst part of my attacks is not the crying, or the lashing out in anger at my family. The worst part of the attacks is the thoughts in my head from the tiny, little she-devil.
I had just woken up from a nap and gone outside to hang out with my family. I did something slightly embarrassing, and my husband teased me about it. Usually, that wouldn’t have bothered me, but yesterday, it was a giant trigger. I made an excuse to go inside, and sat in my bedroom for the next hour, crying.
I wasn’t crying because he teased me, I was crying because the she-devil in my head was telling me that everyone else was laughing at me and thought that I was an idiot. She told me that I am so dumb, no one even likes me, and I should be extremely embarrassed about what had happened. She made me want to avoid my family and just be by myself, because none of them want to be around me (or so she said).
These attacks are hard. Even though I know that they’re not real, that my family loves me, and they don’t think those things about me, it’s hard to rationalize that in the moment that I’m having an attack.
The hard part is that the only thing that really helps these attacks to not happen is my medication, which I have had a hard time remembering to take lately.
In my family, we have a history of having hormonal imbalances that cause depression and anxiety. Therapy may help our depression and anxiety, but the only thing that will really help us cope with it and stave it off is medication. Being this way makes me feel… Broken.
I remember as a teenager, my sister and I were both in deep depressed states. We had a hard time eating at normal times, and we had a hard time sleeping. So we would congregate in my room and hang out, eat junk food, watch movies and maybe cry out our feelings. She was the only one I could confide in about my depression and anxiety, because I knew that she understood how I felt.
We both just dealt with our depression and anxiety for a decade. Eventually, I had the biggest breakdown I have ever had, and my husband was done. He took it upon himself to make me an appointment with a doctor and got me on medication.
It’s been a life changer. I still feel broken. But I can function. As long as I take the medication, that is. I have a wonderful husband who doesn’t understand the way this illness makes me feel, but he is supportive. I have sisters who are going through the same emotions and thoughts that I am that I can talk to and we help each other cope with our attacks.
I don’t understand why I am the way I am. I don’t understand my own thoughts and emotions, and I wish that I had better control over my own mind and body. But that won’t happen any time soon. I am afraid, but I’m a work in progress. I’ll keep plugging along and trying each day.
Becca's thoughts 