So, I’m a ball of anxiety.

So, I'm a ball of anxiety. This shouldn't be news to anyone. Anyway, Alysha and I happen to have the day off together. Alysha suggested we listen to Joshua McClain during his cello hour. He has started doing this during quarantine; he plays cello for an hour of music and mindfulness. 

Lord knows, I need this. 

Coming into The Age of ‘Rona, I was having weekly panic attacks. It was a super fun time. I was taking on too much and not allowing myself to make mistakes. I wasn’t sleeping because I was replaying every moment of the day before I could rest. I had just settled on making a therapist appointment, then BAM, ‘Rona hit. No one was, obviously, taking new clients. Truthfully, I haven’t done the work in the time given to me. I am now just a less stressed ball of anxiety. So, looking forward to how that will play out when school starts in three weeks. 

March

As cases in Wisconsin started piling up, I was devastated by the senseless loss of human life. In all honesty, at the beginning of this, I was not worried. I thought we would be able to get it under control much more quickly than we did. I thought, for a moment, there was an acceptable loss rate (less than X%; it’s fine). But, as I thought more deeply about it, I was ashamed that I could have, even for a moment, accept any loss. 

April

In April, as people in Wisconsin gathered in the Capitol to overturn Governor Evers’ executive orders, I was so angry. Masks aren’t taking away anyone’s rights. They protect others from a potentially fatal disease. Like, how do I get you to care about humanity? How do you not care that people are dying and having long-term side effects of having their lungs turned into a sieve? How do you not care? 

We started school again in a more scheduled and specific way in April. I was able to see my young people via the internet, and we began to process this global trauma together. How could I expect my kids to turn in work when they are constantly worried about things so far out of their control? I am supposed to be a rock for these kids--an adult from whom they seek advice. I am a pebble, at most. All I could tell them is how much I love them and would rather be with them. But, for their health and mine, we are on opposite sides of the screen. 

Early Summer

Then, in May and June, a neo-Civil Rights Movement waged non-non-violent and peaceful protests and marches across the world. Again, how could anyone stand in support of the police officer who murdered George Floyd and the officers who watched and did nothing. I had to decide that Human Rights are more important than my fear of the virus. I justified to people in my circle that even though schools, businesses, and churches are closed, the marches must happen. There is no online version of Civil Rights. 

These marches have continued. They must continue. There is not equality in this country.  How do I make people care about others? How do I make people see that when they say “All Lives Matter” that includes Black people...specifically, right now?  As a middle school teacher, I (usually) have a deep well of patience. But, my God, I have zero patience for people who do not care about humanity.

Early in the quarantine, a friend posted, “Hey, how are my empaths doing?” The answer is not well. I am not well. I am scared, sad, locked up inside my own head. I am so worried about everything all the time--things so far out of my control. I am a cog in a machine--a machine that is breaking. Our nation is crumbling and I can’t do anything about it. Sure, I can vote, I can make sure others vote, I can march, I can teach kindness, but all of that feels so inconsequential.  

Late Summer

Then, late July and early August rolled around. All of those accolades teachers received in April, May, and June have disappeared. Again, teachers are the villains of the story. Many parents have not been in a classroom for a long, long time. They have this idyllic version of what “school” is like. If we return full in person or hybrid, school will not look like what they want. Parents don’t want their kids to return to “school.” They want their kids to return to normalcy. They want a sliver of their kids’ day to feel like it did. But, I promise you, it will feel almost more alien than virtual learning. 

School has massively changed since we’ve been in school. Desks are rarely in rows. Group projects have become the norm. School is no longer just a place of academic learning. It is a home where children learn how to be humans, where children get fed, where children have an adult that will love them regardless of their behavior. School has become a social safety net because of all of the other societal bullshit (inequitable housing, poverty, unlivable wages). 

Schools have carried this burden, and we do so with very little complaints. I don’t know a single teacher who became a teacher for the pay. We do it because we love children, and we want to give them the stability they need to succeed. If children return to school, their school day will look so different than it was and the in-person schooling because we cannot share pencils, markers,  worksheets, or even space. They are going to do most of their work online anyway.  

Reopening schools comes down to an acceptable death rate. A lot of the memes I see flying around are that only X% of children will contract it. Or, the survival rate is X%. What people fail to realize is that their child could be that X%.  

Parents are working under the assumption that their kid won’t get it, but it’s okay if someone else’s kid gets it. And, that is what sickens me the most. How do I get people to care about human life? How do I get people to care at all? America’s rugged individualism, me-first mentality has gotten us into this mess, and its persistence has kept us here. 

Timeless

This all leads me to my main point. No one is immune to this virus. My “pod” has done everything right. We have worn masks. We have kept distant from one another. We have not gotten together with large groups of friends. And, still, someone in my pod contracted COVID. I had a moment when I envisioned the world without this person in it. I envisioned that someone I love was no longer here. Our pod had just been together. This person worried about whom they may have given it to. Was I safe? Were the others in our pod safe? Were the people with whom they came into contact safe? This person is on the mend and doing well. And, everyone in our pod has all tested negative for COVID. Luckily for us, the emotional toll that a positive diagnosis took was more painful than the physical. However, not everyone is so lucky. 

Think of someone you love deeply and without abandon. Think of the world without them in it. Tell me, is that an acceptable loss to you? Is there any acceptable loss? 

Our world has been in turmoil. I would like to say its only been in turmoil since January, but honestly, it has been in turmoil for much, much longer. It was in turmoil when the Egyptians held Jewish people as slaves.. It was in turmoil as Europe colonized the world. It was in turmoil when millions of African people were kidnapped and sold as property. It was in turmoil when American slavery shifted from cotton fields to prison labor. It was in turmoil when White people patted each other on the back the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Fair Housing Act of 1968 were passed. We ended racism, right?  

In America, we are in turmoil. 

We are witnessing the slow death of democracy as our president is trying to steal the election.

AGAIN. 

Our GDP has dropped 32.9% since March. 

We are in a second wave of Civil Rights movements. 

We are dying from a pandemic because people are equating their opinion with expertise. 

We are trying to keep it together, and we are failing miserably.  

We are a nation in crisis. 

I beg you, please, take a moment and care about humanity.  Because, I, honestly, don’t know what else to do. 

So, My Mom and I Talk About Important Stuff

So, my mom has been writing a blog about her musings, observations, and River Ramblings. Every once and a while she sends me a piece on which she'd like feedback. She sent me the first half of this piece, and it really spoke to me. I asked her if she wanted to collaborate, and I could add a different, personal layer on taking care of one another in regards to Mental Health. So, with no further adieu, here is the piece:

Mary: 

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” 

A tremendous nod of appreciation and respect to Charles Dickens for this, one of the greatest opening lines in literature. Any genre, any time period.  I did not realize until just now doing research for this article that it continues on in an incredibly long and beautiful run-on sentence.

“it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair”

(yes, it even carries on a bit more)

I had hoped to say that ‘best of times, worst of times’ sums up my week.  And then I discovered the riches of all these contrasts -- each couplet adding layers of validation to my scattered and often diametrically opposed thoughts and feelings. 

Last week started with finding out our local library system was offering on-line reservations and a method for curb-side pick-up.  I spent two hours just choosing which books I wanted to request.  Perhaps a bit like getting lost in the book store, but I don’t know anyone who does that.  

And then Friday was my pick-up day, I was so excited!  I told some friends at work it felt like the super nerdy joy Steve Martin displayed as he cried out, “The new phone book is here, the new phone book is here.”  I got home and paged through my treasures; three historical fiction books and a literary work by Walter Mosley.  Then, as I tried to choose which to read first, the words of Mozart in the movie “Amadeus” came to mind.  He was trying on wigs and excitedly proclaimed, “They are all so lovely, I wish I had three heads.”  Can you tell, I was really, really excited to have these books! 

I had been reading on my Kindle since the ‘safer at home’ order started.  A wonderful gadget, but it is no match for the tactile delight of turning pages and brushing your hand across a glossy cover.  I chose to start with a historical fiction set in the mountains of Eastern Europe during WWI.  The main characters were a doctor and nurse in a field hospital.  Beautifully written with exquisite prose, complex characters and well-developed plotlines.   However, reading about rapid progression of illness to death from typhus, the endless battle to save lives with very little equipment and medications, and the bickering and in-fighting amongst the decision makers was not exactly uplifting or an avenue to escapism these days.

Which led me into the worst of times.  That story plunged me into such feelings of gloom and melancholy.  I know my dark times are like the brightest day for some that battle depression and other mental health issues.  I know our current battle with Covid-19 has worsened these conditions for so, so many people.  And I know mental health care in our country is not given the respect and resources needed.  Mental health conditions, addictions, and substance abuse are an epidemic in their own right, and have been for some time.  And I pray for all those that are fighting these battles even more fiercely than ever before.  But to all those screaming for flinging open the doors of our society as a solution to the mental health crisis running along with the virus crisis, I suggest shut the front door.   A more lasting solution is for us as a society to take an honest look at mental health care in America and make some necessary changes.  We can do better. 

I had been struggling with what to write next and pointedly avoided the keyboard.  I felt I had no funny quips or ‘rah-rahs’ in me.  I feel, though, there are many of us that experience this roller coaster of emotion within short amounts of time.  The goal of this piece began as an invitation to myself and each of us to acknowledge and accept whatever range of feelings we have and when we have them.  Very often though, it seems the writing itself sets the path.  Just today, I saw that May is Mental Health Awareness Month.  I’m thinking that was the muse whispering in my ear.  I’m grateful for the direction.  I pray we are all kind to ourselves and others.  Especially to those that are in most need of our kindness and care.  

Katie: 

My mom beautifully pens, “I pray we are all kind to ourselves and others.  Especially to those that are in most need of our kindness and care.” Kindness is truly the only way through. True compassion for, true faith in, and true love for one another is the only thing that gets one through. 

In the past, I have been pretty open about having high functioning anxiety. I don’t always seem like I am ready to explode, going a million miles a minute, or envisioning scenarios that put me in positions over which I have no control. I don’t always seem like that. But, I promise you, it is there, right there under the surface.  That is what high functioning _________ looks like. You fill in the blank. 

It looks like, “I can’t break down because if my kids see me cry, they’ll know something is wrong.”

It looks like, “The world was literally on fire, and I can only focus on the fact that my baseboards are dirty.”

It looks like, “Yeah, yeah, no, everything is fine.”

Anxiety, Depression, OCD, looks different on everyone. I am high-functioning. The way in which my anxiety manifests itself is seen as a boon to my work and my community. Others wage different wars with their demons. I cannot speak for those. 

I don’t want pity. I don’t want indifference. I want recognition that everyone is carrying something heavy. 

We are going through global trauma right now. I want everyone to know that just because someone else’s “stuff” is heavier than yours doesn’t mean that your “stuff” isn’t heavy, too. 

This is truly the worst of times. We are in a global pandemic. There are not enough equipment, supplies, or staff to keep our nation, our world, safe. There are people with Covid-19. There are still people with cancer. There are still people with heart conditions. There are still people with depression and anxiety. ‘We are not all in the same boat, but we are certainly in the same storm’ (Damian Barr).

That is the place in which we rejoice. That is the place where we must become one human race. We have got to weather the storm together to welcome the rainbow. And, we can only do that when we support one another regardless of age, race, ability, class, religion, sexual orientation, or, yes, even differing political persuasion. 

As people united, we will not be divided.  And, that, my friends, that will be the best of times. 

So, I know how to win battles but not wars

On Thursday, November 5^th, 2015, I wrote a blog post called, “So, it has been a year.” This detailed some of the things that lead to my anxiety and some of the things that triggered it. Each year that October 30^th passed, I put a little notch in my brain. Each year marked my ability to control my anxiety.

Battle: Being wholly honest with myself and the people I loved.

Battle: My last year of Korea.

Battle: The most difficult year of my academic life.

Battle: Three and a half years.

Every day a battle—a battle I was determined to win. It felt like I was winning. I was winning. The end of the war with anxiety sat on the horizon. Three and a half years.

However, this January, my sleep progressively worsened. I bit off more than I could chew. I had to give a presentation to my peers—people my age. I spend my life talking to children. Talking to adults is very, very different. I had ten thousand things racing through my mind to prepare.

Alysha and I got back from the store (buying snacks for my meeting the next morning). Alysha went inside while I moved my car from the street to the garage. I cut the angle too tight. My chest tightened. I screamed just to prove that I exist.

How will Alysha love me when I can’t even park a fucking car? How can I take care of a family? How can I be good enough? Why should I deserve happiness? I am not prepared to be a teacher. I am not qualified to teach the brilliant minds inside of my young people. How can I coach this passionate, vibrant team of Forensics kids when I hate feeling “looked at?”

I pulled a Y turn and parked the car in the garage. I stumbled inside and brushed by Alysha as she took out Gaia.

“Babe. Are you—?”

“I just need a minute.”

She walked out the door, respecting my wish.

My ribs closed in and my heart leapt out of the way. I breathed through the pain and remembered what Maizey Cakes used to tell me, her arms tightly binding me, willing me to feel safe. And, I felt calmer. I sent a wish of thanks through the winds. I hope she felt it.

Alysha returned with a quizzical look, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“So, that is what my panic attacks look like. Let me fold laundry while I tell you about it.”

She had known that I used to have anxiety attacks, but I never really divulged more than that. I guess, I was still ashamed and stupidly thought I had won the war.

I began folding the clothes. I still hadn’t fully calmed down, but I needed to do something to distract my mind. I picked up a towel. Now, Alysha and I fold towels differently. To keep things ordered in our linen closet, I have adopted her way. I looked at the towel and held it portrait, then landscape. Folded it in thirds and unfolded it. For the second time in as many minutes, I lost control of my body and mind. Air neither entered nor escaped my lungs. My legs forgot how to work. My arms caught my body before the floor did. I gulped tears and coughed out pride.  I was left with nothing but thoughts of iniquity and dread that I somehow deserved this. I panted, waiting for the world to end, for it to stop hurting, for something to happen, for peace.

Alysha stood up and walked to me. She wrapped her arms tightly around me. She held me. She didn’t tell me to relax. She didn’t tell me that it wasn’t real. She didn’t say anything. She held me and breathed deeply, helping my lungs remember how to inflate.

“It’s not about the towels,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m here.”

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

She’s there, arms wrapped tightly ‘round me—

She is a kite string, and I am a kite

who sometimes forgets how to fly.

Stay strong, soldiers. The war is long. But each battle we fight, remember that it’s temporary. If we can live through this one, we’ll be here to fight another day. And every day after. We are an army. I have your back. You have mine. I don’t care if we’ve not spoken in days, months, or years. I will be there to fight for you when you forget how. Take peace, my friend. Take peace.

For another person’s take on anxiety attacks, please listen to Andrea Gibson’s “Ode to the Public Panic Attack.” This poem gave me the courage to share this post that has been on my heart for three months.