Holiday Limbo

This year, the holidays are shit.  B and I have agreed to split.  We decided to stay together through the holidays for the kid's sake and due to the housing arrangements I have worked out, I actually can't go anywhere until February.  The house is HIS and we aren't married so I have to be the one to go. Believe me, this has me questioning the kind of man I have been with for the last 8 years.  

I also have to find a full -time job.  In January.  In a never-ending recession.  I love my current job but I don't make enough to support myself so I also have to walk away from that.  Since NY has no common-law marriage, he is not required to give me any personal help with the move and so I have to walk on eggshells hoping not to upset him so that he will be willing to let me have the car that is in his name and maybe help me pay rent if I get stuck. We have agreed to try to split custody 50-50 so I can't depend on child support payments to help me.  Just the kindness of his heart.

Needless to say, I have not been very enthusiastic about decking the halls (B actually got tired of waiting for me to do it and about a week before Christmas he did it himself).  I just can't force myself to care for the house anymore and have let the mess get out of control.  I had to buy gifts for Ben's family since we have agreed not to tell anyone but our parents until shortly before the move.  Gifts we normally would have purchased together had to be purchased by me because I don't feel like I can tell him what to do and he didn't want to spend the money (even though they buy gifts for both of us and L).  I am broke and miserable and just want this to be over.

We haven't talked to L about it yet.  She's only 5 and she is a worrier.  I don't want to give her any more time to obsess about it than I need to.  I figure a week or two before will be plenty of time.  Luckily, I am moving into my mother's upstairs flat and so I can play it off like "We will be staying over at grandma's for a few days each week for a while..."  and then work on answering questions as they come up.  

And the fucking snow.  

I am stuck in the house with him and honestly I want to just sleep it away.  As I have literally $12 to my name right now because I bought gifts, and because they don't bother to keep the street I live on plowed, I am going to be here all weekend.  He gives me no space in the house.  The only place I have to myself is the bed.  He could spend some time in his office or his basement man cave but he doesn't.  He sits in the living room and watches Sons of Anarchy or plays on the Wii while the kid plays with her Barbies and coloring books.  He acts like I am not here unless L needs something.  Then he lets me know.

I desperately need to get out.  I need to have some fun.  Simple fun, nothing extravagant.  I am so worried about my finances right now and my living situation sucks and I feel like I am going to make myself insane.  I mean, how can anyone really "sleep" for 17 hours a day and feel normal?  (I used the quotation marks because I mostly just lie there trying not to have panic attacks thinking about how my whole world is being uprooted).  I just want to go to a movie or see a crappy band.  But I have no money for that so I just sit here.

I am not doing well.  I keep trying to tell myself that this is what we need to do, and I really believe that we need to be apart, at least for a while. I want to be myself for a while.  I want to be able to be Ls mom without constantly being angry and snippy.  I want to be responsible for myself and not have to answer to anyone about my every move.  I think that I would be coping better if I wasn't stuck in this limbo.  Just waiting for the end to actually happen.  It's like knowing you are going to be attacked and waiting for it for months.  The stress mixed with the boredom of waiting for the big event is exhausting.  

I wonder if any of you have ever experienced this?

Just a little crazy...

I freaked my therapist out this week.  I went in on Wednesday as I always do and she immediately asked me what the hell was going on.  I haven't been feeling depressed at all lately.  In fact, I was completely out of my mind. She told me my eyes looked funny.  That I seemed agitated.  That it seemed like I couldn't help but interrupt her. 

She made me an appointment to see the doctor for an evaluation. 

I didn't FEEL like there was anything wrong.  In fact, I felt like I was fully recovered.  Like the depression had been defeated. 

But I KNEW this wasn't right.  At first, I was happy to see the old, crazy me re-appearing after all these years.  The girl who flirted and said inappropriate things and made guys think they had a chance was back.  She was frantically wanting to go out and do something - ANYTHING because she couldn't sit home.  But in the few days before seeing my therapist, I had become almost crazed.  I have been obsessing and rambling and not able to stop my mind or my mouth. I have been forgetting to eat and not wanting to sleep. I have been impulsive and reckless. I have been unable to get anything done at work because I couldn't stop and concentrate on any one thing for more than a few minutes. 

The doctor asked me a lot of questions.  My answers (at least to me) seemed to indicate that this was just a weird little bump for me.  That perhaps I was just overly stressed or "acting out" because B and I have been having issues. 

But as he questioned me, he also asked me about the time in my 20s that I refer to as "back when I was a crazy bitch".  Something started to seem obvious.  Although this was not "mania" in it's classic form, there were certainly characteristics of mania, and a pattern of these "periods" followed by severe anxiety and then a crash into the depths. 

He threw out the words "hypomania" and "bipolar II".  He said he didn't want to officially change my diagnosis yet, as it wasn't sufficient to cause impairment to my life...not yet, anyway. 

Although the option was given to me to start on a mood stabilizer to mitigate any future episodes, I declined.  My feeling was that I would wait and see if this is actually a recurrent thing or if I really am just acting crazy because of other factors in my life. 

Two days later, I sit here on the verge of tears, wanting nothing more than to go back to bed and hide. 

Fuck.

Update and other crap

OK.  It's been a long time since I posted anything here.  For a while after my last post, I was feeling a little better and was terrified that if I posted I would be jinxing myself and I was sure that the depression would seep in again.  So I avoided it (And isn't this a typical thing that depressives think?  That we couldn't POSSIBLE be just getting better.  Must be a fluke.).  But don't be offended.  I was avoiding posting on my other blog too...the one where I bitch about my (lack of) parenting ability. 

Then I DID start to feel like shit again, and I was afraid to post because I didn't want to just be whiny and miserable to the world.  And nobody wants to hear about how shitty I feel (because that's why you go to a blog about depression, right?  To find sunshine and kittens dipped in cotton candy?

No kittens were harmed in the making of this cotton candy.

So the weeks and months went by and I continued to do the therapy and the Depression and Bipolar meetings and gradually started thinking that there was more that I could do.  I needed to get my grove back.  And I am not talking about needing to go to Jamaica and bang Taye Diggs like Stella did (although I am sure that couldn't hurt).  I am talking about trying to remember who I was when I wasn't depressed.  Clearly there WAS at least some time in my life when I wasn't so miserable, right?

See what I mean?

Turns out that when I was a smart-assed, loud-mouthed, sarcastic and cynical, I had the ability to laugh shit off.  I could make some snide comment, get a laugh about it and move on.  I had to find my inner bitch again.

Now, I know what you're thinking.  "Selena, you sound like you were a total asshole back then, and all those things sound pretty negative."

Yeah, I kind of was (am).  But I wasn't stuck in my own head all the time.  I wasn't walking around constantly feeling guilty about the million ways I was not living up to everyone's expectations of me.  I was just me.  I was free from the bullshit and able to keep moving (even if my direction was questionable). 

So I decided to get fake nails (which, by the way, I absolutely hated up until recently because (1) I am just NOT that kind of girly girl, and (2) it makes me think of the "real housewives" of whoretown).  This may seem like something insignificant and vain, but seriously, I haven't felt pretty or polished in my appearance in a long time.  This was my obvious sign to myself that I needed to begin to give a shit about how I looked and felt.  The nails need upkeep and so did I.

Real Housewives of Barbieland
from wetpaint.com

I also started blogging again and have found my awful sense of (cruelty?) humor again. 

And also, I started watching food documentaries. I don't recommend that you do this unless you want to quit enjoying eating.  I watched Food, Inc. and Fast Food Nation, which made the thought of eating fast food or Hamburger Helper completely repulsive.  Then I watched A Beautiful Truth (you can also get it on Netflix) about the Gerson Therapy, which talks about the idea that perhaps eating whole, natural and plant-based foods can prevent and sometimes reverse certain diseases.  It was a slippery slope from there.  I have since watched every documentary remotely related to nutrition and food and realized that there is likely a connection between the crap that I have been eating and my feeling completely awful for most of my life.

About 3 weeks ago (after watching A Beautiful Truth) I started taking a Multivitamin, a B-Complex, and Probiotics.  I also am working on cutting down my coffee intake to 1 cup a day (which makes me EXTREMELY sad) and eating vegetarian 3 days a week (at some point, I will only eat meat as a supplement to my plant-based diet).  And I have to tell you, I FEEL PRETTY GOOD!

They want you to eat them, I swear.

I am not dragging all day and I am not needing naps.  I just seem to have a little more patience with the stupidity of others (although don't fu**ing push it) and am generally in a better mood and more able to find the humor in things. 

I am not really into trying weird foods, and I am also not really willing to risk the process of coming off my medications just yet, but I have to tell you, the improvement is dramatic.

I would highly recommend trying to cut down on meat and adding some B vitamins to any of you who are still struggling with depression even with medication.  The worst that can happen is nothing, and you might even find that you feel a little better.

I probably shouldn't make all these comments about how great it is because I tend to suck at sticking with things and am often guilty of sliding right back into my awful habits, but for now, this is working.

Try  Family Vegetarian Cooking for some seriously awesome recipes. 

I can't look...

I haven't been able to post anything in a while.  It's not because I am feeling awful or that I am lying in bed all day unable to move.  Quite the contrary.  I am doing well.  I am functioning.  But the truth is that I am terrified. 

The anxiety is starting to creep in again.  And I am starting to worry.  I am worried that I am not going to be okay.  I am worried that I am not actually getting better.  I find myself wanting to sleep.  I want to be left alone.  I don't feel like going to work.  And I feel like if I give in to these things, if I allow myself to feel bad then the bad feelings will come flooding through and engulf me and I will again drown in the undercurrent.

I have contemplated sitting down for 20 minutes and just posting SOMETHING in my motherhood blog.  But nothing seems worthy of note.  Lila is behaving and I am not getting angry at her so much.  I haven't posted in weeks and I want to pretend like I just have nothing to say but the truth is that I am just afraid.  If I stop for a few minutes and put it down, if I acknowledge that I am still frustrated and annoyed and feel like pulling my hair out, I will be looking right into the face of my demons and looking at it will somehow allow it to take over.

I feel that way now, writing this.  Like I have been doing a great job of running and dodging and staying ahead of it.  And now I have stopped to see if it is still there behind me.  You know what happens when characters in movies stop and think their pursuer isn't there anymore, right? 

Journal Entry 2

Support groups are strange. 

I have been attending a support group for Depression and Bipolar disorder for a few weeks now and there are a few things that I would like to discuss.

First off, I generally hate support groups.  When I was younger (because I was kind of a bizarre teenager), I used to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.  I didn't have a drinking problem.  I was just fascinated by the idea of sitting down in a big group of strangers and talking about feelings and unloading.  I also tried Al-Anon and some other groups but AA was really my preferred group.  I went to a group for "young people" which included folks from the ages of 14 to about 30.  I credit my attendance at these meetings with the fact that although alcoholism is practically an inevitablilty in my family, I rarely (hardly ever) drink, and when I do I know when I have had too much.

The thing about these meetings was that after a couple of years of attending them, I started to realize that they were really sad, miserable places to be.  For every person who shared a story of overcoming their problems and leading a much more fulfilling life, 10 people told of how they were struggling and sad and lost everything.  They usually ended with a somewhat sarcastic "but I am sober" and a shrug.

Then, 15 years later, I had something of a breakdown and realized that I was willing to do ANYTHING to climb out of the depths of misery that I was living in.  I was referred to a support group and told that I might find some "comfort" there.  I cringed. The group meets on Tuesday nights and since I was desperate I decided I would go. 

The first week I skipped out, making the excuse that I had just come home from the hospital and needed to rest.  The truth was that I imagined the group as a gathering of the TRULY CRAZY where the wacky old cat lady and the creepy decrepit widow and maybe 3 other nutjobs would mourn the loss of their respective youths and would commiserate with eachother for the entire hour and a half, stopping only to sip from their cold fake-creamered decaffinated coffees.

The following Tuesday came and Ben asked me if I was going to go.  I SAID yes, but my eyes apparently screamed "NOOOO!  DON'T MAKE ME GO!"  He offered to come along, "you know...for support or whatever."  I knew then that I had no good excuse not to go.  I couldn't fall back on the whole "There are creepy people there," excuse because as a sane person he would point out that I had never been there and so I couldn't really predict what the group would be like.  I also couldn't just squirm out of it at the last minute because we would have to make arrangements for someone to watch Lila while we went. 

We showed up and I was instantly comfortable. These were not lunatics or homeless people.  Most of them did not have the somber, downcast look of the mentally ill.  These were people like me.  Some of them even smiled and laughed as they chatted together before the meeting started.  It was a large group and there were several stories of being diagnosed, medicated, therapied (my own created word), and recovered.  Some of them shared advice about doctors or programs or just simple tips for getting through the worst days.  Overall, I knew I had found something that would give me a much-needed couple of hours of relating and socializing without feeling like I was oversharing for talking about the dark that has weighted on me constantly for much of my life.

 

An observation from many years of experience

Things are more difficult for me than other people.

This is not the depression talking or some kind of strange paranoia. 

This is based on a lifetime of seeing what most people see as simple, routine situations becoming these extremely stress-filled, complicated ordeals for me, at seemingly (and THAT word is how I know this isn't the depression talking - because I am willing to cede that I am doing something wrong) no fault of my own.

Take this whole "getting a therapist" thing. 

For most people, if you are referred to a therapist (or doctor or basically any organization for that matter because my terrible luck doesn't discriminate), you do the paperwork, and go through the hoops and within a few days, you have your appointment and therapy commences. 

For me that simple outcome is just a fantasy.  Because although I was TOLD that I was all set and someone would call me at the end of the week, it has now been almost THREE weeks.  I have called.  The first time I called, I was told someone would take care of it.  The second, I was given the voice mail of a person I was told could help me.  I actually left a few messages for her and never heard back so I called again and was given an "Office Manager." She told me she would speak to the person IN CHARGE of assigning me to a therapist and call me back by the end of the day.  When I didn't hear from her by 4:45, I called back and got a voice mail.  Still I am not in therapy.

But this isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened to me.  I cannot tell you how many important medical forms have been "misplaced" or conversations have been forgotten. 

When I was pregnant, my OB ordered blood work to test for spinal abnormalities.  As a hypochondriac, I pleaded with him to call me whether the tests were positive or negative and stressed that (because I am crazy) I was REALLY worried about this.  I never heard back from him, and when I called, the nurse looked at my chart and had no idea what I was talking about.  I was freaking out for weeks until my next appointment.  When I finally got in to see the doctor and asked what the results of the blood work were, he looked at me with a blank stare.  He had NO IDEA what I was talking about.  He looked at my chart and shrugged, saying that he doesn't remember ordering the test.  "I HAD BLOOD DRAWN!" I said.  "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO WITH IT?"  Did they feed it to the vampires?  Use if for alien research?  Where the fuck was the TWO VIALS of blood they sucked out of my arm?  He didn't have the slightest recollection of my original panic attack or my request.  I obviously changed doctors immediately.  But when my new doc ordered an additional ultrasound to check on the spine, my insurance refused to pay it claiming it was "experimental or not a necessity" even though the doc personally wrote a letter explaining the situation with my former OB.  I ended up having to pay for it.

This kind of stuff happens to me all the time.  I have strange issues with bank accounts, problems with payments never being received, so-called "professionals" who totally blew me off, and electronics that just flat-out hate me.  We used to have a DVD player that WOULD NOT WORK when I tried to use it.  I would put a disc in and it would tell me there was no disc.  I would eject, make sure I was placing it right, clean the disc, turn it off then on again, check to see if it was upside down, and it would still not work.  Ben would go over, hit "eject" then put the disc back in and it would work with no problem.  He didn't blow into it or anything.  He just wasn't me. 

On several occasions I have attempted to review my behaviors to ascertain in what ways I contributed to this chaos.  I have had people listen to the messages I am leaving to make sure I am not coming off as an asshole or anything.  I have kept notes and records of conversations because I thought maybe I was getting confused about what was actually being said.  I repeat things back to people like, "so you will call me by the end of today then?" and they seem to agree with what I think I am hearing.  I just can't put my finger on anything that I am doing wrong. It appears that I just have really shitty luck. 

Journal Entry

I am feeling less optimistic than I was a few days ago. 

I have yet to hear back from the counseling center so I STILL don't have an appointment with a therapist or doctor.  I desperately want to start this process because I feel like I am losing momentum every day.  It may just be hormonal.  Or it may be that I succumbed to the placebo effect with the adjusted meds and that is now wearing off.  Or I may just be having a couple of bad days.

I don't know.  I am worried but trying to talk positively to myself and tell myself that it's just a little bump and that a few bad days does not foretell my falling back into the deep. 

I have a support group meeting to attend tonight.  Hopefully I will get some advice and inspiration from the people I meet there.

Today I focus on what is right in my life:

My daughter started preschool yesterday (her second year) and is excited and hungry to learn new things.

I have a partner who provides for us all and tries his best to love us and make us laugh.

I have a job that I am good at and a new project that is challenging and satisfying.

I am healthy and mobile and functioning.

Most importantly, I have people who read my blog and validate my observations and make me feel a little less crazy.

It's not so dark

I feel the darkness abating. 

I have been out of the hospital for two weeks now and I am settled back into my life.  With the addition of the Trazodone for sleep (and to help with the anxiety that jolts me awake in the morning like a fire alarm) and the low dose of Wellbutrin, I think I have stopped my free-fall and am now able to feel around and look for a way to climb back up. 

I am not as exhausted (although I am still pretty tired) and I actually want to be out and around people a little bit. 

This last week I went to a support group for Depression and Bipolar Disorder, which I totally expected to be filled with the truly insane and desperate.  Normally, this is the kind of thing I would avoid like the plague, but part of my treatment plan at the hospital was that I join SOME kind of group to have a reason to get the hell out of the house.  So I figured that this would kill 2 birds with 1 stone, both the group thing and the support/talking thing.  I found that there were some good, normal people there who struggle with many of the same things I do and I am actually looking forward to going back next week. 

I had a nasty cold this week and usually, with my insane fatigue, I never would have made it to work but I went and actually am enjoying a project that I have been given, to the point that I am OFFERING to work extra hours. 

Ben still seems disappointed.  I think he thought that I would come home and be all over him and loving and thrilled to be around him all the time, but the truth is that day to day life makes that difficult.  I still feel guilty all the time for "making him" put up with me and this illness but I am noticing now when I feel that way and trying to talk about it rather than stuff the feelings into that darkness. 

I am enjoying Lila a little more, although I am still feeling pretty short with her.  She IS a pain in the ass sometimes and I can honestly say that it's ok.  She's 4.  Just knowing that I haven't already damaged her with my craziness is a huge burden off of me and I can move forward now.

I am still waiting to hear from the counseling center.  I was told that it may take 2 weeks, but I am going to give them a call on Monday and see what the status of my...whatever...is. 

So all in all, I think I am doing ok, and certainly the crisis has been averted.

They really do resemble the mentally ill.

Originally Posted by Selena@BecauseMotherhoodSucks.com

Sunday, August 28, 2011

I have heard it joked that having a small child in your house is like living with a crazy person. And I am here to tell you that I can confirm that it's absolutely true, although to be more accurate, it is like living with a ward full of psychiatric patients. I know because I just left there.

As many of you know, my depression has been excruciating lately and I was not finding a lot of help from the professionals that I contacted. Last Saturday, I had finally had enough and I checked myself into the psych ward at the hospital (you were wondering where I was, weren't you?).

I waited until Lila was out and about with her dad for the day and then called my mother and begged her to take me to the hospital (actually, she was more than willing and thought it was the best idea). I didn't think they were actually going to check me in because I was not threatening to kill myself or anyone else (for a change). When the doctor told me she wanted me to check in voluntarily or else she was going to check me in involuntarily with a required 72 hour stay, I signed the papers all the while crying and trying to convince the doctor that my child would never survive without me.

Even in a state that can best be described as desperately useless, I was more worried about my kid than I was about myself. I felt guilty for leaving her - for NEEDING to leave her. I felt like I had been so removed and uninvolved for weeks now, and I was finally doing the inevitable. I was leaving her. My mother convinced me that she was in very able hands (her Dad is a fantastic father) and that this would truly be better than letting her see me in such a state of utter breakdown. I knew she was right-in my head. But my heart told me that I was a deserter.

The ward was a hospital ward with a long hallway with patients' rooms on one side and offices and other useful rooms on the other. In the middle of the hall was a large open room with a TV and several tables in it. The TV was always at full volume and the fluorescent lights and linoleum floors make the room harsh and uncomfortable.

But it isn't the decor that I think was the important part of this story. It was the people. They don't separate the truly insane or disruptive patients from those who are depressed or anxious and the crazies ran the place.

The first person I saw was a guy with a thick black beard and shaved head who just stood in the hall smiling to himself. He just stood there. Didn't look up. Then he tentatively took half a step before smiling to himself again. I was instantly afraid. He was totally in his own head and I realized then that I was here with truly ill people.

There was also a guy who constantly paced the length of the hallway all day and half the night. When he sat down, he would try to talk to you or concentrate on something to no avail. He would get frustrated and jump up to walk again.

There was a woman who barked. She mostly barked but also liked to repeat everything that people said when she was in the mood. The first night I was there, they were watching some show on Telemundo that was like America's Got Talent but only showcased children. At one point, a dance team came out enthusiastically gyrating to annoying techno music. She heard the music, jumped up and started imitating the dance moves. Here was a 50+ woman who barked doing some really athletic dance moves. I was pretty sure she was going to hurt herself.

There was a guy who was essentially catatonic in a wheelchair who would piss himself and then come to life fighting the nurses who tried to change his pants.

There was a girl who confined herself to her room most of the time except that several times a day (and often in the middle of the night) would come out into the hall screeching, howling and hooting as if she were at some fantastic dance party that only she could see.

But my favorite memory will always be of The Yeller. The Yeller was a 70 year old man who came in complaining and bitching but in completely nonsensical sentences. He literally yelled utter nonsense for 4 entire days, quieting down for 3 hours here and there but mostly going on non-stop. He just could not shut the fuck up. He yelled all kinds of interesting gems and I was convinced that if I could just transcribe it, there would be some sense to be made of it. But I doubt it. He would walk up to you for no reason looking like you somehow offended him and he'd point at you and say something like (and I quote) "You can tell me abracadabra and put it in the dryer. But you have to get the user's manual that's in the refrigerator because the sponges need a bath." After 4 days of him yelling day and night, I decided that ready or not, I needed to go home.

Coming home was really strange for me. My house looked weird. Lila looked like she had grown up, and I just felt completely out of sorts. I knew that the relief I felt from the excessive sadness and anxiety was mostly due to being away from my real life and I knew that it was going to be hard to disappoint Lila, who thought that since I was coming back from the hospital that I was going to be all better. I am not. 

But all that being said, I found out that I have an incredibly well-behaved and well-adjusted child. Lila missed me and asked about me often but only cried about it once, at bedtime on the second night I was gone. In fact, I would often call her at my mother's house during the day and on more than one occasion when my mother asked if she wanted to talk to me she shrugged and said, "not right now, I'm playing." When I told my doctor about this, she asked if that hurt my feelings and I had to be honest: I was completely relieved that she was secure in the idea that I was coming back soon. She wasn't traumatized by my absence and that freed me up to do some of the work I needed to do to get myself in good enough shape to get out of there.

Like any stay in the hospital, coming home did not mean I was "cured". It only meant that the crisis had been averted and that the hard work of really getting better was beginning. Before I left, they made me a prompt appointment with a therapist and a psychiatrist, which boggled my mind since every shrink I had called in the last month told me they were either not taking new patients or wouldn't be able to see me until October. I have new meds (which I already think need adjusting) and I am still having a ton of anxiety and sadness.

But now I know that there is help out there. And I have something that I didn't have when I went in there. Hope.

Part Three

Originally Posted by Selena@becausemotherhoodsucks.com

Thursday, August 18, 2011

How the hell do I get through this day? Luckily my mother took my kid so that she doesn't have to see me like this. But this is like day 5 of this awfulness and no amount of medication seems to be helping the feeling of fear and desperation that nothing is ever going to make me feel better. I have no where to go today. I have no money. I need a shower but it just seems like so much effort. I just feel like I am going to jump out of my skin. All of it seems like it's just too fucking much. And the worst part about it is that it makes NO FUCKING SENSE!

I see all these people around me with real problems and sick children and unemployed and drug addicted and then I see myself. I have none of that. I am truly blessed in my life and yet I sit here feeling like the sky is falling and I am being held down and not allowed to make a run for it. Why can't I just talk myself out of this? Why doesn't my brain work? Why do I feel like I am going crazy and that I am just falling short of getting the help that I need?

I keep starting to do something but then realize I have nothing to do. And I can't let my kid see me like this. I just can't. She knows that something is wrong. She knows that "Mommy's Sick" but she has no idea that mommy is losing her mind and is afraid she will never be back to the way she was before...not that I was ever so great anyway.

I can't sleep. The Anxiety makes sure that I don't have that method of escape. I can't eat. I can't focus. And yet simple things like taking a short walk tire me out to the point where I feel like I am going to drop.

I am not a praying woman. I do not subscribe to any faith. But several times in the last week I have dropped to my knees and begged for something to grant me some relief from this torment and no one seems to answer. I am scared beyond belief.