My father was very ill with heart disease starting when I was around five years old until his death some twenty years later. There were numerous opportunities to become anxious during those two decades: surgeries, close calls, and certainly my dad experienced the the isolation and depression that comes with being chronically ill when your other friends still go to work every day. Other than a few isolated occasions, anxiety was a term I would have rarely applied to myself. Anxiety was something that happened to other people, particularly those who didn't know how to plan. Or maybe anxiety happened to people who just didn't have something far more serious to worry about.
About a year ago, I went through a very unexpected change in my employment status. Afterward, I started having paralyzing anxiety attacks. This time, anxiety became a ball and chain. Until I had the right medication, there were few times I wanted to leave the house. What if I saw someone or something that reminded me of the old work group? People don't know what to say or how to handle situations when one person has been laid off and one person has escaped such a fate. I know the survivor's guilt well.
These attacks were much worse than worrying about an overdue library book. Some of the concerns I had at the time were real: will I find another job soon? Will the job be a good one? Will I have to take a big pay cut? Will I have to work for someone I don't respect? What if I have 'lost it' and don't have the same career drive that I once did? Will I perform as well as I did before? Will I still receive 5/5 on my performance reviews? Will employers see me as used goods? What if I have to take a job that has a really long drive? What if I take a job that requires extensive travel? What if the new boss isn't understanding that I have more doctor appointments that the average bear?
The panic attacks came more and more frequently: at night and during the day; when I was alone, and when I was with others. These panic attacks kept me from doing what I needed to do, which was find another great job.
I talked to my doctor about anti-anxiety medication. Then I started seeing a counselor to determine how I could stop having these awful panic attacks. The panic attacks were like a train, and once that train started, that train wouldn't stop on a dime. Sometimes I couldn't get the train to stop at all - it would run all day and all night. Going to a counselor seemed like a great idea so that I could understand what my mind was doing, and how I could make it stop.
After confirming that I knew most of the mind distraction techniques that can help with anxiety, she also tried to teach me some self-calming meditation techniques. Meditation makes me really sleep. The counselor wanted to learn more about my family - not so much my immediate family, but how my parents grew up, what my parents' siblings lives were like. What were my grandparents like when they were young? The counselor wanted to learn whether the root of my anxiety was tied to any specific situation, or whether my entire upbringing was charged with anxiety. I didn't think that either of those statements were true.Providing the counselor with answers to her questions was difficult. My immediate family was very close, but once you step into great uncles, cousins, and my dad's pre-parenthood years, I didn't have the answers needed to explore further.
(If you know me well, you know that I can give a smile when I feel like I'm dying inside, and usually do. The Smiling Stoic mask I have has been a source of trouble before - managers who didn't think I was taking them seriously, doctors who thought if I am smiling then surely I don't feel that badly. Naturally, I wasn't going to give that counselor any useful information that would be helpful in her task of trying to help me. That would have made her job too cliched and then my time and money would have been well-spent. Best to keep up my stoic smile and create an expression that would keep the sessions with the counselor cheerful.)
Eventually, the counselor and I ran out of things to talk about. You could say she gave up on me when she hit a will and I wasn't forking over any new territory. The counselor's recommendation was to do more research on my family. I wasn't about to tell her why I might be anxious. She seemed like one of those Chicken Soup for the Soul people who might toss a copy of it at me at any moment. I kept shields up so I wouldn't even have to slap the book away.
I wasn't ready to start digging until the tenth anniversary of my dad's death. On that day, it seemed a loving tribute to want to know more about my dad's life and those of our extended family. The details I'm discovering are so wonderful to know - how could I not smirk when I learn that my dad had a similar sense of humor to mine? I know I will have to write about some of what I learn. I believe that part of me will escape the anxiety trap if I can tell the story - and not pretend everything is fine as I do so.
