I was writing something else entirely, when it occurred to me that I never actually sat down and wrote about what *happened*. I realized I keep talking about this Anxiety Pit without really telling the story of how I got down there in the first place.
To tell you the truth, I was never really anywhere else.
I've struggled with depression and anxiety throughout my life, starting around age seven or eight. From then on it became a formidable obstacle to my every day life, boulders in the forms of phobias, depression, and panic blocked my path. It was difficult for me to leave the house, and almost impossible to nurture my relationships with my friends. Typical parts of highschool social life were denied me by my fears and forebodings; things sleepovers were almost impossible. I developed an Eating Disorder (anorexia, non-purging bulimia) as a means to cope with and manage my phobic, anxious, depressed feelings. This is basically the most brief overview of my mental health that I can give. My mental health story is one full of ups and downs, better times and worse times, and I wont go much more historically in depth here, though I'd be happy to answer questions.
What happened last year? I tried to live in San Francisco and it was there, through no fault of the City's, that things began to unravel. We left the bay in defeat when the person who was about to be our landlady attempted to make off with our money and leave us houseless. We returned home to the open arms of our two dearest friends who let us live in their backroom. It was the actual, most perfect living situation I've ever been in; full of laughter and empty of passive aggressive negativity. In spite of this positive beauty, I sensed an eerie change within the first few days. It was a nameless, shaky, shiftiness in my foundation.
It wasn't until we all went to Hollywood for a relaxing, outdoor concert that I was able to name it. It was there that I had a panic attack that left me in the fetal position in a parking garage. It felt like forever. Like whole days came and when while I was in that concrete, probably piss stained corner. In reality it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, a half hour tops. I was embarrassed, and I felt so so ashamed. In the days and weeks that followed I found myself unable to go to work, and when I did, I found myself unable to stay for the full day scheduled. I can't fully wrap my brain around how fortunate I was to have a job that was understanding enough to make space for me in the place that I was in.
Before long, I was unable to leave the house at all. I has hardly able to leave my bed. I needed my husband to escort me to the bathroom and wait outside so I could pee. Bathing was even harder. Cooking or engaging in the household was impossible. Everything felt dim and dingy and desperate. Something needed to change.
And that's where these writings come in. I talk about my forays into medication here and here.
There isn't a whole lot on this blog, and what is here is sporadic and choppy. And now that I've written this post, I feel like everything is kind of out of order. Its bothering that this isn't a chronological story, but rather one full of flashbacks that disrupt the readers flow. Readers? I don't think there are any of those. And that's okay.
But if you are out there, and if you're reading this, thank you.
-A.H.
