Category: Anxiety

Betas are Scary. Everything is Scary.

March 19, 2018 / / 0 Comments

Last week, I sent my novel to my first ever beta readers. I knew that this was part of the process. I knew, as churned through revisions, that someone would eventually have to read what I’d slaved over. And still, I dragged my feet. I dragged my feet for weeks as I fiddled with commas and rearranged sentences.

I was scared of turning my novel loose. I was scared because what if this thing that I’d poured my heart and soul into was no good? What if the readers hated it and I’d wasted months and years working on this one story?

But I knew it was time. I knew if I didn’t do this, my writing would stagnate. And it still took my therapist imposing an arbitrary deadline on me to push me over the edge and press the send button.

I chose one person, a person I trusted not to break my heart, and sent it to them. I didn’t really sleep that night. How could I? I’d put all my dreams in one basket.

But a funny thing happened the morning after. I woke up, and suddenly betas didn’t seem so scary anymore. It was like diving into the deep end. When you’ve done it once, the subsequent attempts aren’t nearly as terrifying.

So I posted on Twitter that I needed beta readers. If I say that it was one of the scariest things I’ve done, don’t laugh. Putting yourself out there, especially if you have anxiety, is no joke.

And then I started getting responses. And hitting that send button was a lot easier the second, and the third, and the fourth time.

I’m not sure what all of the feedback will look like. I’m not sure how I’ll handle the negatives. But I’m so, so glad that I did it. I know this was an important step in my writing journey.

So if, like I did, you’re contemplating the send button with anxiety, close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And send it.

Because the worst that will happen is, yes, you’ll get bad feedback. But guess what? All feedback makes you stronger. It doesn’t mean that what you’ve written is no good. It just means that it can get better. There is no wasted time with writing. Everything you write, everything you read, everything you edit, makes you a stronger writer.

Everything about this crazy writing dream can be scary. Every story you read about making it to publication is different, every blog and website wants to tell you the absolute dos and don’ts of the process, every person wants to tell you how difficult getting published will be. But I think there’s a secret no one tells you: nobody really knows what they’re doing.

I don’t really know what I’m doing.

But that’s okay. Because I’m determined to figure it out.

Chapter 8: Goodbye, 2017

December 20, 2017 / / 0 Comments

2017 barreled into me with a vengeance. If you had told me this time last year everything that would happen, I probably would have spent the year hidden under the covers.

My work stress and unhappiness outgrew my fear of unemployment and lack of income, and I quit my job. Of course, the universe then thought it would be funny to throw the rest of the year at me so I could really hone in on that money anxiety.

My personal stress also outgrew my body’s ability to handle it and I ended up in the ER for a panic attack. That was a fun bill.

And then the panic attacks continued so now I have what I like to call my crazy pills.

We also adopted a new puppy with medical issues, and I basically didn’t sleep for the month of October while we tried to figure out why he had diarrhea every two hours. New puppy plus vet visits every week made for more wonderful money stress.

Between the panic attacks, the anxiety dreams, and the nonstop dog potty outings, my writing (my purpose for quitting my job) took a hit. As in, I didn’t write for a month. And I beat myself up about it every day even as I was too exhausted to do anything more mentally draining than laundry.

I had my first ever car accident, which totaled the car I’d been relying on as a constant through my unemployment, and I faced the prospect of trying to buy another car.

You would think, since my boyfriend has two cars, we would have been able to manage. But a week after my car was put down, he also got in a car accident. So for the week it was in the shop, we were down to one car. And then the remaining car started acting up. So the anxiety of being car-less propelled me to deal with the awfulness that is car buying.

I feel like all of this made for a pretty awful year for me. When I think about it like that.

And yet.

I quit a job that I had grown to loathe. On my last day, I felt such a weight lifted off of my shoulders. I had never been able to do anything like that before. I had always just endured things. But this really felt like the first time I was making a difference in my own life.

I realized my anxiety wasn’t something that I could just wave off as a daily nuisance. That it was taking a physical toll on my health (ask my dentist-she could tell from one look in my mouth that I’d been both grinding my teeth and dealing with stomach acid). Going to the ER made me realize I needed to take control. And it’s still a work in progress, but I don’t want anxiety ruling my every day of my life.

I’ve always had a fear of taking pills, especially for mental issues. Like it was admitting weakness, or that it would change me. But not having every waking minute and every dream laden with little anxieties is a strange novelty that I never thought was possible.

Oh, Gambit. The first week we had him, I wanted to take him back. And now I don’t know how I would live without him. Through all the vet visits and late night vomit sessions, he’s never lost his sweetness. I need that sweetness in my life. Even as I’m writing this, his head is in my lap, keeping me warm against the cold.

The car accident did suck. I didn’t even see it coming, stopped at a light and hit so hard from behind that my car was squished between two others. It sent me into an immediate panic attack and I was still hyperventilating as the cops were trying to see if I was OK. But I was OK. Aside from a little whiplash, I was fine. Nobody got hurt.

And car buying, as draining and patience-testing as it was, turned out to be pretty fortunate. I’m actually saving money on my monthly payments, even with a newer car. Take that, money anxiety!

With the dog, the car, and the panic attacks (mostly) settled, I’ve refocused my energy on a novel that’s been begging for an edit since I finished the first draft a few years ago. It was so far from where I envisioned the final product that I used to think it was going to die a slow death on my hard drive. And yet, going through piece by piece, I’m really starting to see how I can make it the story I wanted it to be when I first started writing it. That, coupled with my first short story published in print (!!) and starting this very sporadic blog, has made me think that maybe, just maybe, this writing thing is for me.

Last but certainly not least, the love of my life and now-fiancé has stood by my side through all of my crazy and he hasn’t run for the hills yet. I couldn’t have survived the changes this year has brought without him. Love you, J.

So maybe it’s the pills talking, but it’s getting easier to see the silver lining of things. I’m going to try and continue that into 2018. Whatever it may bring.

Chapter 5: Panic

September 26, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Have you ever felt like you were dying?

And not the “it’s so miserably hot outside,” or “I totally embarrassed myself in front of everyone I know” metaphorical kinds of dying.

Have you ever felt your chest hurting so bad that you think you’re having a heart attack? That no matter what you do you can’t alleviate the pain? That you scour your medicine cabinets for even a single expired painkiller? That when you can’t find any you try to go to sleep, only to realize you can’t sleep because how can you sleep when something is stabbing you repeatedly in the chest?

So when all else fails, you decide that you should go to the emergency room, because maybe you really are having a heart attack and you don’t want to drop dead in front of your confused dog. You drive yourself, even though you’re not really supposed to, because even through the pain and fear you’re thinking about the cost of an ambulance ride.

When you arrive at the ER, there’s conveniently nobody else there. Front of the line! So of course you promptly break down crying in front of the admin trying to take down your information.

Once you’ve sobbed your way through your birthday and medical history, they rush you back because chest pain is no joke. You’re in a room with three nurses, who bustle around you asking questions and prepping equipment and for some reason that really opens the floodgates. You thought you were panicked before. But the joke’s on you, because now there’s snot dripping from your nose as you hyperventilate, all while the nurse is taking your temperature and asking you to change into a hospital gown.

This isn’t your first rodeo. Chest pain means getting an EKG. EKG means a bunch of thingamabobs stuck all over your chest and arms and legs. Now they’ll find the problem, you think to yourself. Once they can actually get the EKG to work. Because you’re shaking too much to get a good reading. The nurses joke with you, smile, encourage you like you’re ten years old again. You start to take deep meditation breaths like your life depends on it. Maybe it does.

Four attempts later, one of the nurses whisks the results off to the doctor. Another sticks you for blood. Normally, you hate needles, but you can barely feel it through the still throbbing pain in your chest, and the panic still teetering on the verge of hyperventilating again. But then your partner walks in and you can see the concern written on his face and you didn’t think you had more tears in you but here they come again and oh, do you think you can give a urine sample?

Finally, after all of these tests, here comes the good part. They give you something to calm you down (probably because they’re sick of seeing you sob), and something for the pain. When the painkiller kicks in, the sudden absence of pain leaves a weird achy hole in your chest. That must mean it’s real. The medicine works. So there’s something there. Something to fix. Slap a band-aid on me and send me home, doc. You giggle at the thought of a giant band-aid over the top of a giant stab wound in your heart and maybe the Ativan is kicking in now, too.

The doctor does, in fact, come in at this point. You’re calm, ready to find out what part of your body is trying to kill you.

He says that all of your tests are normal.

Come again?

Normal. No heart attack. No irregularities. Just…normal.

And you think to yourself, well, that can’t possibly be right because an hour ago I was dying.

And he mentions that “A” word, the one you didn’t want to hear because there is no big band-aid for it and that this was all in your head.

Anxiety.

 

 

 

So you had a panic attack.

A really bad panic attack.

A panic attack with physical pain and palpable fear and red eyes and snot bubbles and partial nakedness.

Maybe it wasn’t in front of everyone you know, but you still feel pretty damn embarrassed.

That’s anxiety. There’s no magic band-aid. No quick fix. You fight it every day. Some days are good. And some days you end up in the ER with sensors hooked up to your underboob.

But you keep fighting in the hopes that, eventually, it will get better.

Chapter 4: The Plasticity of Anxiety

September 12, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Anxiety is like plastic wrap.

Like when you’re tearing the plastic off of something really awesome and you don’t get it off in one piece and there’s a little piece that sticks to you. By the weird magic of static electricity, the piece sticks to your hand. You try to pull it off and it sticks to your other hand. You can’t get rid of it. You understand why it’s called cling wrap. The fun thing that was inside the plastic is forgotten because there can only be one: you or the piece of plastic. And the plastic is winning.

Every time you try and free yourself, it sticks somewhere else. You get frustrated and resign yourself to having this stupid piece of plastic stuck to you for the rest of your life, clear and invisible to everyone else. But to you, it’s impossible not to think about it. You can’t help but stare at it. Dwell on it. Think about it all day. Dream about that stupid cling wrap.

One day you’ve had enough and shake yourself silly and you look all over and the plastic seems to be gone. You take deep breaths and relief washes over you.

And then you realize that damn piece of plastic is stuck to your back instead.

So now you’ve got this plastic in a place you can’t reach and it’s driving you batty. You stay home, because the thought of going out with that mark of shame is too much. People will see you trying in vain to pick at it. People will judge you. People will stare at you freaking out in public over such a small thing.

Of course, the obvious answer is to ask for help. But that’s too embarrassing. Who could you possibly trust to let in on your dirty plastic secret?

No, you are resigned to this being your new normal forever. There is no getting rid of the cling wrap.

Deep breaths. Maybe some sobs. More breaths, because breathing is good.

Eventually, you realize that maybe such a small piece of plastic isn’t as consequential as you think it is. You think that maybe people were only noticing it because you were bringing attention to it. You shove it to the back of your mind as far as it will go, and you can still feel it there, nagging you, but it’s no longer quite as awful as it was before.

The plastic slips, just far enough that you can grab it. You throw the thing in the garbage, and by some miracle it no longer sticks to your fingers. You stare at the pathetic thing lying on top of the banana peels and granola bar wrappers, tiny now that you have some distance. And then the triumph bubbles up in your chest.

You’ve won! You beat that asshole plastic wrap! You never have to deal with it again!

But you just got a new fun thing in the mail, and it’s sitting there, ready for you to enjoy.

Once you get through the plastic.

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