30-year-old Woman With Severe Anxiety Begins Exercising, Eating Clean, and Taking Care of Herself. You Won't Believe What Happens Next!

Nothing. Nothing happened next. I still had severe anxiety.

As part of my anxiety, I was afraid to eat anything that could be possibly deemed as unhealthy. For a number of months, I bought only organic. I didn't touch fast food, partially because I was confined to the house. I eliminated all caffeine. I dropped 20 pounds and was finally within a normal weight range for the first time in many years. I exercised daily, beginning with a slow exercise video and working up to running a mile a few times a week.

And I want to let you know, I STILL HAD ANXIETY. Bad anxiety, even. Anxiety that required, at one point, 4 medications, and even still only allowed me to leave my house minimally, and only at certain hours of the day.

Society is shifting its idols, yet again. Every single health problem I hear of, there's someone out there claiming that a certain diet will cure it. Eat organic. Eat vegan. Eat paleo. This is what our bodies are "supposed" to eat. Cave men had it right. Vegetarians have it right. Pescatarians.

Nothing will make you immortal. Nothing will save your body from the inevitable decay we all experience.

I understand that a healthy diet can improve your mood and that shedding those excess pounds can make you feel better. I know our bodies are a temple. I know that I struggle with an addiction to junk food. But healthy food is not your savior, and sickness and death come to us all. Anything can become an addiction, even health eating and exercise.

I'm glad I ate perfectly for those 3+ months that I was suffering from debilitating anxiety. It helped me lay to rest once and for all that the anxiety was "my fault" and could be cured by a simple lifestyle change.

I'm glad I got down to my "ideal weight" and then gained 20 pounds back again. I looked damn good when I was 145 pounds, and I was downright miserable. It didn't even begin to solve my problems. I don't look, in my opinion, quite as stunning now, but I feel immeasurably happier. And if there's anything I learned about my weight, it's that people REALLY don't care. I guarantee you, they don't give 2 shits about whether you gained 20 pounds, because they are busy worrying about what they look like.

I would love to get back to the healthy lifestyle I was able to maintain when I was having a nervous breakdown, but I wouldn't trade my improved mental health for dropping a few pants sizes for anything in the world. And now I'm satisfied to know that while a healthy lifestyle improves various aspects of my life and makes me feel physically stronger, it is not responsible for my anxiety, my juvenile diabetes, or my hypothyroidism.

Push through however you can. Whether it's medication, long talks with your mom on the phone every night, or cleaning the house from top to bottom, do what you gotta do and don't ever feel ashamed.

Halloween for an Anxious Person

Halloween brings up some mixed feelings for me, as well as for many of us who were raised in the church, I imagine. I grew up in an environment of "Fall Festivals" at churches, warm, charming pumpkins with sunny smiles, and repeat cat costumes (I don't remember ever dressing as anything else). But this year, as part of embracing my emotions, including fear, I'm immersing myself in this particular holiday more than I normally would.

I'm not sure exactly how to explain myself, but I want to teach Q that fear and sadness aren't evil or even bad--they're just emotions, arguably necessary if we want to achieve contentment and self-actualization. Part of my own therapy when dealing with my anxiety is to stop trying to push it away from me, but to take a deep breath, stop, and look at it. When my vision begins to go blurry or I feel the stabbing pains in my back, I try to look at them and remember the source.

I recall being easily frightened as a child. I could give you many examples, but frankly, it would be embarrassing. As a teenager, I had crippling social anxiety and made my boyfriend order for me at restaurants. Even as an adult, a bad piece of local news or a tense scene in a movie can knock me off kilter for a week.

So I've been taking Q browsing through the Halloween aisles. We press the buttons on the displays and sometimes get a start, but she usually wants to see me press it again. I try on scary masks for her. We bought fake webs and jeweled spiders to decorate our house. She pretends the rocks she collects on our cracked sidewalk are little skulls.

I have been partially influenced by Caitlin Doughty, a mortician who posts regular, interesting mortician-related videos on her website, Order of the Good Death, and wrote an excellent book called Smoke Gets in Your Eyes that mirrored some of my own childhood experience in that she struggled with OCD and a preoccupation with death after a traumatic experience. She believes that we, as a culture, sweep death under the rug to an unhealthy extent. She posits that we should begin talking to our children about death at an early age, reframing it as an acceptable part of life.

I have, to some extent, been taking an open and honest approach with Q. I don't want her to live in fear as I did, and indeed still do. I don't know if anything could have quelled my fear. I don't know if I'll ever be able to watch scary movies or walk through a haunted house. But I discuss death with her, and anatomy, and skeletons, and how babies are born, and physical boundaries, and how everyone gets afraid sometime, and bravery, and personal hygiene, and "tricky adults," and I try to keep an open, honest dialogue with her as much as possible, because she has a beautiful, inquisitive, creative mind, and I think it's good for her. I don't always know if I'm doing the right thing.

We're going to go trick-or-treating tonight, and I know that some things may be scary for her. We've been pointing out all the Halloween decorations to each other, and talking about how sometimes it's fun to be scared, and sometimes it's not. I'll let her decide if she thinks a house is too scary to go up to. And I would be lying if I didn't admit that Halloween makes me a little nervous. Someone like me has trouble processing why someone would WANT to be afraid for sport.

But no matter what, keep in mind that Halloween is only a fraction as scary as this upcoming presidential election.

To Reproduce, or Not to Reproduce

Since Q was a couple of years old (and not a minute before), the tiny nagging thought that I should make some reproductive decisions has been tapping relentlessly at the corner of my mind. Now, as she approaches 4 years old, the tapping has turned into a steady knock, rapping out a rhythm that sounds an awful lot like, "Make a decision, make a decision, make a decision."

These past 6 months have been spent agonizing over the matter, researching, speaking with my doctors and therapists, making to do lists, and weighing pros and cons. I've had a "Before I Get Pregnant" to do list that I've been working on from my phone for about 2 years, and it includes things like "get an insulin pump" (done!) and "adjust/discuss current medications" (also done--much researched has been pored into this particular list item).

I've made plans to put my life on hold for 1-2 years. I've considered things like quarantining Q and myself during the first trimester so that I minimize the risk of getting sick and having irregular blood sugars, which would be most damaging to the fetus during the first trimester. I've tried to time it so that Q would be entering school AFTER my pregnancy, because I know a lot of new illnesses will be entering our house at that time. Yet, I wanted her to be old enough to be somewhat self-sufficient so if I am sick and nonfunctional, she will be able to entertain herself. I've over-analyzed and over-planned. They say if you want to make God laugh, make a plan.

This time, I would have the added complication of hypothyroidism to deal with during pregnancy. But this time, I would have the added benefit of an insulin pump and a lower starting weight. This time, I'm on more medications for my mental health, but this time, I am also much more self-aware of my mental health and have an airtight professional support system of therapist, doctor, pharmacist, and diabetic nurse.

Whatever decision I make, I have come to peace with the fact that I won't know whether it's the right decision until much further down the road--maybe not even until my child(ren) is/are grown. There are too many unknowns. Perhaps something would be wrong with the baby as the result of my diabetes, and it would put an incredible strain on the family. Or perhaps if I decide not to have another child, Q is left struggling to care alone for two diabetic parents at a too-young age. There is no right decision.

All of this to say, whichever decision we make regarding a second child, never think for one moment that it hasn't been thoroughly thought-out from almost every possible angle. And if we do decide to go through it, well... I'm sure I'll need all the help and support I can get. Thanks for reading my internal-ramblings-gone-blog-post.

Achievement Unlocked: Our First Family Camping Experience

The feeling had been eating at me, an undeniable gnawing in my stomach that grew more steadily as the cool weather inched toward acceptable tank top weather: What can I do to make myself less comfortable? As I'm sure you have already guessed, the answer is camping.

Too luxurious.

Tired of the same old, comfortable king sized bed in climate-controlled conditions with the soft static of the baby monitor that lulls you to sleep the same way it has for the last 3 years? Tired of having the convenience of a refrigerator groaning with every imaginable kind of comestible and condiment known to modern man? Okay, I'm not either. But I went camping anyway with my beautiful daughter and beautiful husband, who both appeared to enjoy themselves immensely--except for that one night that my daughter and I high-tailed it out of there at midnight because it was too damn cold and the packed ground beneath us cradled our bodies like a rhinoceros might cradle an egg. The husband, it seems, maintained enough of a warm glow from imbibing alcohol that he was able to stay the night in relative comfort despite the 30-something degree weather (that's in Fahrenheit, my international comrades).

Lesson 1: Bring all bedding imaginable.

This was our first time camping as adults, so I spent the preceding week furiously scribbling detailed lists, googling "How to clean dishes while camping" (answer: bring paper plates), and erecting and breaking down various borrowed tents in the backyard. Upon arriving at the campsite with a barrage of cardboard boxes and backpacks, I quickly realized that the question is not, "Will I forget to pack something?" but rather, "What will I forget to pack?" In my case, it was, "a personality." I had poured so much of my effort and mental capacity into camping preparations, that I forgot to prepare myself for socializing with people and making interesting conversation. Next time, I think I will risk forgetting the can opener in lieu of bringing some conversation topic flash cards.

The trailer is not ours. Nor is the dog.

One thing I did not anticipate was how flipping cold it would get at night. I dressed Q and I in double layers of clothing, and we huddled under our sleeping bags and layers of blankets. Unfortunately, the cold meant that Q asked to go to the bathroom about 3 times within the first couple of hours of nightfall, which meant climbing out of our beds, putting on winter jackets, and shivering all the way to the small brick structures that housed the bathrooms and showers (which were nice and clean, by the way, and always had adequate toilet paper and soap).

I also realized at some point that my insulin pump and pod were not supposed to get down to freezing, or the insulin might freeze and the pump could malfunction. I could put the pump in my pocket so it could be warmed against my skin, but then I would undoubtedly spend the night carefully trying not to roll over on my thousand-dollar equipment. When Q finally said she would like to sleep at home at around midnight, I was only too happy to comply.

Now with gluten-free graham crackers!

But lest you think it was a dizzying swirl of nightmares, it was not. Q was able to tentatively gain some freedoms she had not yet had (walking to the small playground with some older kids, and roasting her own marshmallows, to name a couple). There were campfire discussions with real live adults, Steven cooking breakfast over a cast-iron skillet, both of us learning what making a fire entailed (somewhat), and the knowledge that if there were ever an apocalypse situation and we had to leave the city, we could probably survive by our wits for a solid 48 hours. If I have a week to pack beforehand.

Q has not stopped asking to go camping since, and I think we just might accommodate her sometime soon.

The only photographic evidence that I ever went camping.

A Tale of Two Birdies

The other day, I saw a bird with its head stuck in a fence. It was simultaneously comical and awful--I drove down the road past its backside and wings frantically thrashing to be freed as another bird sat on the fence posts looking on. I drove down the hill, the sun a hazy orange ball just above the horizon, and I had a nagging feeling--OCD, God, human decency? I don't know what. But I turned back.

Q and I got out of the car and walked to the head-side of the bird in the fence. Its jet black eyes regarded us without emotion, so we walked around to the other side of the fence, and I instructed Q to take off her hoodie. I gently cupped the bird's body in my hands with the hoodie draped over them and lifted it (it was so light!) until its head slid all the way through the top of the slats. It wasted no time in recovery or gratitude, but shot straight into the sky as soon as it sensed it was free. The significance of what we'd done was lost on the Q, who was thrilled at having stolen an additional 10 minutes from bedtime and at being allowed to run in a grassy median alongside the Tuesday evening traffic.

It reminded me of another hilariously awful bird interaction which, I think, nicely sums up what life on this earth is like. Before Q turned 3, my mother was visiting, and we happened upon the neighbor's tabby cat deftly carrying a small, live bird in its mouth. I yelled and chased the cat, who dropped the bird just inside the chain link fence of a green house on on our block before beginning a cruel, teasing game of hide and seek with it. My mother and I tried to coax the cat away from its prey, who despite a small limp looked in pretty good condition, when I spotted the cat's owner across the street.

"Buster's playing with a bird!" I yelled at him, and he swaggered over (he always swaggers), boldly entered the yard belonging to the green house, and snatched up his cat. I held Q's hand as she, my mom, and I walked briskly back to the house to find something in which to place the bird while we decided what to do with it. We settled on an empty cardboard box from the mudroom and hurried back toward the scene, Q chattering incessant questions as we went.

We were just in time to see the little bird hop feebly into the road just as a large construction vehicle, undoubtedly carrying a bed-full of dirt from the berm project in Lion's Park, rumbled past the green house. I let the hand carrying the cardboard box drop to my side, and my mom and I paused on the sidewalk before turning back toward the house.

The cat who caught the bird, by the way, is also deceased.

And that, I think, is probably the story most fittingly analogous to life that I can think of.

Thoughts on Screen-Free Week

A week without Dad jokes is hardly a week at all

Day 1. The anxiety hit me like a ton of bricks. Left alone with my thoughts, I quickly became bogged down and longed for distraction. I tried to read a book, but that made the anxiety worse. I felt utterly unconnected, like the rich, vibrant thrum of the online life was carrying on somewhere far away, and I was left behind. I struggled with questions like, “If we have a beautiful moment and don't share it with anyone, is it worth anything?” and “Is the memory of an event what makes it matter?” I took deep breaths and pushed away thoughts of the panic medication sitting on my cupboard shelf.

Day 2. “All of Fort Mac is on fire,” S said in awe when he got home from work that night, scrolling through pictures of smoldering wreckage. I began to wonder where I would go if a fire like that swept through Medicine Hat, and what I would bring (the cat is a toss up). I'm not sure whether abstaining from the internet helped or hurt that day. The evening dragged on indefinitely, as I usually play computer games with a friend in the evenings after Q has gone to bed and while S is at work.

Day 3. This was the first day I no longer felt I was suffocated by isolation. I had made some notable exceptions to my screen-free time. I still used it for planning purposes, particularly for arranging house cleanings and playdates. I had to look up Q's soccer schedule and print out a map of the field. I got online to complete the government census, which was surprisingly long and invasive. And I allowed myself to type in Word in lieu of scrawling with a pen and paper. I also used the internet to look up carb counts for my meals. I contemplated how utterly dependent I really was on technology, and wondered if society had the same unease about their dependence on electricity or books. Certain advancements change the way our brain works, I think, and even alters the lens through which we view life. Was I ever not perpetually connected to everyone?

Day 4. I woke up before everyone else and struggled not to reach for my phone. The words of S's cousin stick with me: “You know what's going on on the internet?” she said when I told her I was anxious about my electronic abstinence, “Absolutely nothing.” My mother-in-law made sure to notify me that my father had posted about finding an 11-year-old can of corn. I borrowed a newspaper and educated myself on the fires in Northern Alberta.

Day 5. I reflected that I'd been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all week. I desperately missed those stolen moments of disconnecting (by “connecting,” ironically) from real life and “recharging.” I couldn't think of what to do with my leisure time and had consequently ended up making more to do lists and scurrying around to complete the things written down in my planner, not to mention the mental energy devoted to avoiding screens and determining what would qualify as cheating on my screen-free week. It was not nearly as peaceful as I'd hoped. I finished reading my first book of the year. I didn't like it.

Day 6. Upon attempting to tan my legs so that they are slightly less white than the pure driven snow, I made a startling discovery: they don't change color when exposed to the sun. I idly wondered if I should submit them for research, as I have clearly stumbled upon (quite literally) some anti-aging appendages. I believe that when I am old, sunspotted, and lying in a coffin, my legs will remain the timeless creamy white that they were on the day I was born. I miss the internet.

Day 7. I woke up before 6am and decide that as a Mother's Day present to myself, I'm ending these shenanigans a day early. I've learned some interesting things, been bored out of my mind, and don't really feel closer to enlightenment. I hope to implement some long-term changes, such as not using social media while my daughter is around. I asked Q if she enjoyed screen-free week, and her answer was a resounding, “No!”

Tying Up Loose Ends

I've had a few loose ends that I've wanted to tie up regarding these past couple of months, so this post will be a hodgepodge of items that my mother and father will find interesting, if no one else will.

Firstly, I have recently switched anxiety medications (again), and the results have been encouraging. My anxiety is much more well-controlled (though I have still not fully returned to my former glory), and the side effects are far fewer (no more insomnia and blurry vision). I am also on lower doses and fewer medications. There IS a light at the end of the tunnel, which is hopefully a symmetrical tunnel, because I have a little bit more OCD than I used to.

Secondly, you know that someone knows you well when they pre-wash your child's gift with antibacterial soap AND inform you of it on a whimsical post-it note. Also, the use of the word "proclivity" on said whimsical post-it note is also enchanting. Add a string of bunny lights for Q's reading nook and a pun-filled, introvert-themed bumper sticker for me, and you've got yourself an awesome care package.

 

Thirdly, you know what is nice about not being pregnant? Pretty much everything. I want to say that with sensitivity to those who struggle with infertility, but the knowledge that miscalculating your carbs could harm your unborn baby is a pretty heavy weight to bear for 9 months--besides, you know, ACTUALLY bearing a pretty heavy weight. On a side note, I am 100 pounds lighter than I was at the end of my pregnancy with Q. I do not miss that. I had a pregnancy scare this month, and never have I been so happy to scoop the cat litter box as I was yesterday.

My one regret is not being able to do a jungle-cat-themed photo shoot.

And lastly, but certainly not leastly, Facebook kindly informed me today that it is my brother's and husband's birthdays today and that I should wish them well. [sarcasm]Thank goodness Facebook reminded me![/sarcasm] But in all seriously to two of the most wonderful men in my life, thank you for sharing a birthday so that I have one less to remember.

I miss him almost as much as I miss Chick-Fil-A.

Toddler-and-Preschooler Eating Hacks

Hello! I just thought I should share with you my top 5 "eating hacks" to make mealtime go more smoothly with your toddler.

1. Kaboost.

I am totally not getting paid to endorse this.

I am giving 100% of the credit for this find to my best friend Candace. We transitioned right from the high chair to this, and it has been worth every bit of the 40 bucks that I agonized over parting with at our local children's store. Also, I see these things selling USED for $30 on Facebook, so if you play your cards right, you may be able to have only spent a grand total of $10 in the long run! The Kaboost is super easy to use and adds height to almost any kitchen chair. There are two sides to it, so when your kid grows a little taller, you can flip it around and have the chair sit a smidge lower. Why is "smidge" not being recognized as a real word? Beats me! It's so much easier for your kid to eat properly when the table isn't at chin level.

2. A Real Cup.

Cups with puns tip over less. It's science.

My mom taught me this trick after she heard me lamenting of how often Q spilled her drink. She said something along the lines of, "Of course kids spill their drinks! We give them these flimsy, plastic cups that taper at the bottom. Have her drink out of a glass mug." So I started doing that, and there were WAY fewer spills! She has broken one mug so far, I believe, which isn't too bad!

3. (Almost) No Snacks.

This one might be a little controversial, but I discovered through trial and error that Q ate poorly at meals when she had snacks beforehand. We generally try to stick to a one-snack rule: One snack right after naptime, a couple of hours before dinner, if possible. I make exceptions if we're going a special place (such as Steven's cousin's cafe for tea and scones) or if Q has had a lot of physical exertion (like the ice skating we did this week). She doesn't follow me around asking for snacks all day, and she obviously isn't going hungry. I'm also teaching her an important lesson that I think many of us, as adults, fail at: just because you see someone eating, doesn't mean you get to eat. Does that seem harsh? I had to instate this rule so that I'm not having to feed my toddler candy and/or sugar tabs every time I have low blood sugar (which, for a while, was happening several times per day).

4. Eat At the Table.

We fudge on this rule a little bit for snack time, as long as it's not too messy, but as a general rule, we always eat at the table, and Q is not allowed to walk off with mouthfuls or handfuls of food. We stay sitting at the table until we're finished eating, and then we wipe our hands and take our plate to the sink. Eating purposefully this way has helped eliminate many messes around the house, as well as give us the time to pay attention to our body's fullness signals (at least, I think).

5. They Eat What You Eat.

Q didn't like this carrot soup. Which reminds me, I should make it again.

This isn't terribly original, but don't cook special "kid friendly" meals for your toddler. If you're making Thai pork salad, that's what they're having! If you're serving lemon pepper chicken and kale stir fry, don't prepare them plain chicken! You shouldn't have to cook two separate meals, and we have got to get out of this mentality of "kid food." You've probably heard that French kids will eat anything... That's because there is no "kid food" in France, and what the grown-ups are served is what the kids are served. That being said, if Q shows a strong dislike for something--particularly spicy things--I will give her the option of abstaining from that part of the meal.

Now what *I* really need practice on is not getting up half-a-dozen times during the meal to fetch things or clean a dirty dish or check my insulin pump, and to not wolf my food down. In many ways, Q is developing better eating habits than I have, and that is exactly how I wanted it.

Confessions of a Former Sanctimommy

 

I was watching some internet drama unfold regarding the use of puffy winter coats on children in car seats when it hit me. I used to be a sanctimommy. "Your child's life is never worth risking," an earnest commenter implored. "Take the coat off!!" I think that the hallmark of a sanctimommy is that she believes that parenting is a "one size fits all" endeavor. And she clings doggedly to this belief, usually with science on her side, for a very practical reason: It sucks doing things the hard way.

Breastfeeding? Hard. Keeping your kid extended rear-facing? Annoying (the car seat--the seat of the ACTUAL car--is caked with snow and dirt). Taking their coat on and off in the car, making sure the car is preheated, and tucking a blanket around your little one to make sure she isn't miserable for the 5-minute trip to the local grocery store? Ridiculously inconvenient. Cloth diapers? A much bigger pain than disposables. So sanctimommies are ready to challenge ANYONE who suggests that the easier way might actually be okay and still result in safe, happy, and intelligent children. Because they don't want to think that all that extra effort, inconvenience, and sometimes pain (lookin' at you, breastfeeding) was inconsequential. So I get it. Really. Because I was there.

And so, in a show of either pure bravery or incredible stupidity, I am posting a photo of my child in a car seat, on the Internet. No one will like this. First, everyone will check to make sure that the chest straps are buckled at armpit level. Some will think, "She's 3 and still rear-facing?! Way to be overprotective, helicopter mom." Others will think, "Poor thing, her legs look so uncomfortable! Won't they break in a crash?" On the opposite end of the spectrum, moms will be shaking their heads sadly and saying, "That child isn't safe to be strapped in a fluffy coat. That could be a fatal mistake, and it's someone's responsibility to tell her mom." But really, it's not the safety of some anonymous child they are concerned about. They are concerned with validating their own parenting methods. They want to believe that doing things the hard way is the best way.

So I am here to tell you that I absolutely agree that puffy winter coats may prevent the car seat straps from being adequately tightened, which could be dangerous in a crash when the coat compacts. But I have also found that it is JUST NOT VIABLE to be able to keep the car warmed up every time (What if you've been shopping in the mall and it's -20 degrees out? Are you going to let your car warm up unattended in the parking lot for 10+ minutes while you wait inside?). Furthermore, I have found that by unzipping the coat, I can take away a lot of the extra bulk (but not all of it, of course) underneath the straps. I also keep in mind where I live--a small city of 60,000 with a low speed limit, where it will only take you 15 minutes to drive from one end of the city to the other. If I were driving on the highway to Calgary? Sure, I'd take her jacket off! If I lived in Jacksonville, Florida? That kid would never wear a puffy coat in the car, because traffic is insane and it takes you approximately 4 hours to get anywhere in the city. Plus, it's not like they're exactly freezing their butts off down there.

I breastfed, and I can tell you that it's really risk vs. benefit. I'm not sure whether it was the best choice for us. It made bonding difficult in the beginning. Q stopped gaining weight when I developed hypothyroidism when she was 4 months old. She began biting at 10 months, so that I developed an aversion to feeding. I made it to a year. In the end? I probably would've been just as well off formula feeding. Studies show very clearly the physical benefits of breastfeeding. They also show very clearly the invaluable benefits of a loving, bonding relationship with the mother, and how the mother's mental health effects the baby enormously.

I'm sure there's still some sanctimommy in me. It's a hard thing to shake. You want to believe that all your effort is worth it--that you picked the RIGHT way, and that your child will have an advantage because of it. But we're all in this together. And just the fact that you are concerned about whether you are raising them the "right" way, is a pretty good sign that you already are.

The One About My Anxiety

Anxiety, like so may invisible illnesses, does not announce itself with fanfare and pomp. There is no melting down in the grocery store—kneeling down, squeezing shut your eyes, and cradling your head in your hands. I may, in fact, blend into my surroundings even more than usual, because I am quick and I am quiet. I am concentrated on my list of groceries as if my life depended on it. I have prioritized them according to how long I am able to last in the store. Get the bananas and milk first. Find the unsweetened applesauce if you're not having a panic attack. Browse through the pajama pants for a desperately needed pair (my old ones are literally falling off me) only if you are having exceptional mental stamina. The list is long and daunting, but my fridge is empty. I don't feel like eating anything, but I have a 3-year-old daughter who I am obligated to nourish.

If depression is a monotony of grays, anxiety is a cacophony of loud colors and sharp edges. It's too many stimuli hitting your senses at once. That's why it's safer to stay home, and why the aisles and aisles of thousands of cans and jars and bags pound against my senses like a steadily thrumming rain.

At home, I change into the smallest pair of pants in my closet. Then I roll them at the waist, twice. My t-shirts keep slipping off my shoulder. I look in the mirror and observe that I am finally the same size as I was when I got married. I wish I was happy about it. But the rapid weight loss frightens me, and I am more concentrated on the hollow look in my eyes. I avoid the scale. I start buying higher fat everything—2% milk, 11% Greek yogurt, chocolate-covered almonds. I'm counting calories, trying in vain to reach 2,000. But I'm lucky to reach 1,500, and on bad days, I can't break 1,000. It is a terrifying thing, to be repulsed by food. It is a problem with which I am utterly unfamiliar. It makes me feel sub-human. The thought keeps running across my mind: “I am a shell.”

I am steeling myself for sundown, which comes around 4:30pm, these days. For the next 4 hours, I will fight wave after wave of panic attack. I feel physically ill, though the symptoms are floating and take new forms each day. Sometimes nausea, sometimes stabbing back pain, sometimes disorientation. Every evening, I confront my mortality anew. This is it. Something is really wrong. There is some horrible infection they haven't found. I go to the emergency room to have them test me. The triage nurse is sympathetic and takes me and my mother-in-law to a quiet, out-of-the-way room with a leather couch to remove me from the over-stimulation of the waiting room. We wait for an hour, two hours. A very kind counselor talks to me, then the doctor comes in and tells me to take the full dose of my medication and to start seeing a therapist immediately. They never find an infection, though my heart rate is notably elevated.

My house is immaculate. The hamper never overflows. I begin to wash all my dishes by hand, because it is one of the only things that calms me. It gives me a purpose, if only for 10 minutes at a time. I try to save my household chores for the evening so that I have something to keep me occupied. The more cluttered my mind is, the cleaner my house.

The healing comes slowly. It is always two steps forward and one step back. The new medication makes me dizzy when I stand up, and it makes my vision blurry at night. It also gives me trouble sleeping. I see two therapists, and I begin meditating. I start doing a 15-minute exercise video every day to build my strength back up. I buy energy shakes to pack in more calories, but I dislike the aftertaste. My mother flies up from Florida to be with me. Sometimes I find temporary relief from my stinging back in the shower, so I take one or two showers every evening. I dry off with an already-damp towel. I beg God every night to help me through this. I write out passages of scripture by hand.

And it IS getting better. At its worst, my anxiety was a 10. Now it is probably a 5. I still have a long road ahead of me. I have had to deconstruct what I thought was my real self in order to build a new self—someone whose self-worth is innate and does not lie in responsibilities, motherhood, or whether she is loved. I am worthy just by virtue of being me. I am worthy no matter who is around. I am worthy whether or not I can help someone. I am learning to look my anxiety in the face and to pay attention to all the parts of my body that are affected. All feelings are okay. My anxiety is not bad or something to push away. It is what I am feeling right now, and acceptance of it has ultimately been the linchpin of decreasing its intensity.

I have learned more in these past two months than I have in many years put together, and I have struggled with questions and feelings of unworthiness that I had no idea even existed in the peripheral. And one day, one day, I might be able to help someone who is going through the same thing.