Let's have a baby!

Part Four.

It's the beginning of December 2014, I'm on my way to the hospital because I'm severely suicidal. There's also a small (actually big) thing I've forgotten to mention...

I'm PREGNANT.

From just about the day we conceived, I was sure I felt pregnant. I could just tell. I was nauseous and felt like crap. Anxiety manifests itself in so many different ways and can be different for each individual. I've had stomach pains so severe I had to lay down, I've been so nauseous I've actually thrown up and I've had migraines like I'm going through the worst hangover, all from my daily anxiety. A lot of these symptoms I was experiencing are also pregnancy symptoms. I was also exhausted, which could be from my depression..only this time I knew I was pregnant.

When a friend has mentioned they think they could be pregnant, they always say to me, "Oh I think I'm pregnant, I'll wait a couple more days or a week and then take a test" and then there's me; OMG I"M PREGNANT. I know I am. I need to test ASAP! I go and buy 4 tests. Not the dollar store kind, because for some reason I feel they are inadequate. 4 tests were negative. I would be less then 2 weeks along...but that's soon enough, my HCG levels MUST be sufficient to detect on a test. I was sure of it. The test is wrong. I called my doctor and had them order me a blood test. Negative. I waited a couple days and tested again. Negative. I was nauseous, anxious, depressed, exhausted, suicidal and cramping with daily migraines. I was just the person people wanted to be around. I told my best friend that I either had cancer or I was pregnant. Either way, something was going on with me. I took 3 more tests, all negative. I ordered another blood test, negative. My husband actually told me I was losing it. "Anastasia, you've got to pull yourself together. You're clearly not pregnant." I didn't believe him. It was a Monday when I took my 13th test, which was once again negative. I took another test on Tuesday...POSITIVE. Holy shit. I KNEW it.

Now let me tell you, when I'm pregnant, I become a monster bitch. I really think that one of these pregnancies I'm going to wind up in jail or dead because I was out of line with someone who was apparently in the Mexican mafia. I glare at strangers at the store. I criticize everybody for everything. bah, look at that chick. who does she think she is, smiling at me. I wish I had lasers in my eyes. Kyle took an extra 30 seconds to shower, what the hell is his problem. Doesn't he know I'm waiting for him! This ruins everything. My life is ruined. He is so selfish. My whole day is ruined and I murder anybody who is in my way. I don't know why Kyle stays with me, it's like he forgets he wants to kill me when I'm pregnant and we think YEAH! Let's have a baby! and not even 2 weeks after I'm pregnant, he's wishing I would move out for the next 9 months. It's a good thing my boobs get bigger.

So let's look at my life at this point. Everything actually makes sense to me. My skyrocketing anxiety, my sudden severe depression and suicidal thoughts, my nausea and exhaustion only increasing my inability to be human and my extreme moodiness. It's a great combination. I cried for probably 3 weeks strait when I found out I was pregnant. If there is a God, which is my own personal debate, why the hell does he hate me so much? and then I try to think like a mormon, God only gives me these trials because he knows I can handle them. I will come out a stronger person because of this. Oh good hell. What's gonna happen, is I'm gonna be 6 feet under because I clearly am NOT strong enough for this. Maybe then I'll find out if God truly exists. This was my hatred talking. I was pissed. I felt like I couldn't even take care of my children that were living outside my body...I was in no way, shape or form able to take care of myself physically enough to grow a healthy baby! Let's not even get started on my meds! Every medication I am on is a category C or category D, uncertain and definite risks to baby. Yet, if I stopped taking my meds, I would withdraw severely.

I didn't feel sorry for myself, I was just pissed. Yeah I wanted a baby, but I'm so impulsive and I always say I want a baby. I didn't expect to be so fertile. All Kyle has to do is look at me and BAM! we're pregnant. I guess it's a good thing it isn't cancer...

Despite me finding out I was pregnant, I was still in the midst of the hurricane of anxiety and depression. The pregnancy only seemed to worsen it.

So here I am, a pregnant, depressed, suicidal, anxious, pissed off person having a severe panic attack at the hospital. They refuse to give me anything for my anxiety because I'm pregnant. That just pissed me off. Could they not tell that my panic attacks were immensely stressful and the amount of stress I was putting this poor baby through could not compare in dangers to whatever meds they were withholding from me. We tried two doses of something I can't even remember. It wasn't working. The nurse and doctor came in and saw my panic attack. They immediately left the room. The nurse came back and said "We've GOT to calm you down. We are going to try something we've never done before, but it's a lot safer for you since you're pregnant. We are going to give you Ketamine." I started laughing, well the best a person who can't catch their breath and is contorting can... "Ketamine?!" I said "Oh boy, I must really be out of control if you're using ketamine to control my anxiety." My daughter Madelyn had been given Ketamine once when she got stitches. It was hilarious. It completely knocked her out, yet her eyes were open and she would move like she was hallucinating.

I don't remember much after that. I was swept to an Alice in Wonderland world. I remember everything was black and white. When suddenly a strange thought would pop into my head This is not real and I'd try to focus with my eyes and all the sudden I would see a hospital room. Then the beautiful people of Wonderland would flash back into focus. It was such a trip. I was utterly confused about what was going on in my life. What a disappointment when I finally came to and realized I wasn't in Wonderland, but in a hospital, on suicide watch.

The Ketamine "worked". It's a tranquilizer. Which is honestly exactly what I needed. I needed my brain to slow the freak down. Is that what my thoughts revert to when they aren't over stimulated? Wonderland? How delightful. Kyle recorded me when I was out and took pictures. If I ever figure out how to use this blog thing...I'll post them. After the Ketamine had mostly worn off, I was transferred to the psych unit at UVRMC, again. I slept great that night and awoke before any of the other prisoners the next morning.

I was numb. My anxiety was minimal. It was something about being in that hospital, having all my choices taken away from me. It's like I really didn't have to think about anything. They say that if you want to get discharged quickly, you need to do what the team supervising your care needs you to do and participate in the daily activities. I no longer wanted to hurt myself, but at this moment, I wanted to punch the other prisoners in the face. They were so happy and fake and doing their stupid puzzles and coloring pictures of horses like mental patients, it drove me crazy. A girl was in there after a failed suicide attempt. She just bothered me. She would cry on the phone to her family and I just wanted to slap her and say "You did this! Grow up and move on!". Like I said folks, royal bitch. I told my therapist I was no longer suicidal, and I really wasn't. Being at the hospital is like you are just transported to another world. You forget who you are because you are suddenly surrounded by a new fascinating environment. I was discharged that night.

I was terrified to leave the hospital, but I knew I couldn't stay there. It was driving me crazy watching those lunatics and keeping my mouth shut. I devised a suicide prevention plan and talked with my inpatient therapist a little more about me being suicidal. I really had the opportunity to explore why I was really suicidal. It was all because of my anxiety. I truly did not want to die. I did not want to hurt myself. I just was desperate for some relief, anything to give me hope.

Kyle was terrified to go to work after I came home. He would constantly call me and check up on me. I still had those suicidal thoughts running through my head and my anxiety was once again unbearable but I knew I wasn't going to kill myself. It made me sad that I now realized I wasn't going to kill myself. Suicide was the easy way out and now I had to take the hard path. I HAD to work through this. I didn't have a choice. I am so impulsive that I knew that if I had a single moment of weakness, it could end in death, but now I was too sad to even be impulsive. I would be anxious and sad, two conflicting emotions that seemed to control me.

I couldn't do anything. I laid on the couch while my children played in the living room in front of me and watched TV during the day. I waited for Kyle to get home so I could go to sleep. Kyle would make dinner, clean the house, put the kids to bed and come into bed, to give me a back tickle, hoping to ease my troublesome mind.

I had been telling my therapist I thought I was pregnant for weeks now, it just added to my craziness. It shocked him when I told him I really was pregnant. He actually laughed and said something along the lines of "another thing we will work through" and "not the greatest timing." In a sense, it was comical. Let's add pregnancy hormones to someone who already can't keep their shit together! Now I had to think about someone besides myself. I had to make conscious decisions about my health and my body. I was growing a human. I made an appointment at my midwife office. They told me I needed to see a high risk OBGYN because of my meds and I needed to be seen ASAP.

At the OBGYN office I'm in the waiting room. I hate doctor's offices. I hate going places. I have to schedule everything at a time Kyle is home so he can watch the kids. I've taken the kids to a doctors appointment once before. That day I had a panic attack, while trying to take care of my two minions. That was the day we started Klonopin. I would have preferred Kyle to be with me at my appointments, but my family and Kyle's family had been helping out with the kids so much lately that I didn't feel it was right to ask them for yet another favor. It was just another doctors appointment. I'm sure I'll be fine. Wrong, yet again! The entire day had been a horrible day. My anxiety was around 8-9 on that scale of 1-10. I was anticipating this appointment. Are they going to tell me I need to stop taking my meds? What's going to happen then?! My meds barely even touch my anxiety now! What's it going to be like with no assistance?! But what are my meds doing to the baby? I can't stop cramping either... is it because of my stress? or my meds??

I started to hyperventilate in the waiting room. My hands started to shake and I felt very lightheaded. I started to silently cry. They moved me back to the patient room and I go into full blown panic attack mode. I can't catch my breath and tears are streaming down my face. My entire body is shaking and my chest sporadically feels like I'm having a heart attack. This panic attack was one of the worst ones I've ever experienced. It lasted for a good 40 minutes. The nurses laid me down and turned off the light, trying to get me to relax. The OBGYN came in and just started at me. She took ahold of my hand and said she was so sorry I was going through this. She said it was imperative I continue my medications, despite the seriousness of them. The risk to me stopping my meds is greater then the risk to baby if I stay on my meds. I still couldn't calm down. My brain could not find some point of relaxation. I was tense and no matter how hard I tried to take a deep breath or just relax, my brain and body didn't care. I couldn't stop crying. I honestly couldn't even tell you what I was so anxious about. At this point I feel my anxiety had attached itself to every cell in my body. It was a subconscious response. I felt like my brain and body acted on anxiety without me even doing a damn thing.

The OBGYN asked if I was eating and drinking enough. I told her the truth. I hadn't eaten anything and drank close to nothing for 3 days. No wonder I was cramping. She told me she was sending me to the ER. I needed to get a better plan figured out for my anxiety. I needed to meet with a Perinatologist as well as a Genetics Counselor to discuss my meds, but it was certain. I needed either a significant change in my meds or a significant increase in my meds. My anxiety HAD to be more controlled. This stress is dangerous to the baby. The OBGYN looked at me for a while and was very careful when she said these next words, I could sense the compassion and worry in her voice and she said "Have you considered not keeping this baby?" I started crying harder, feeling the guilt burning up inside me. "Yes, I've thought about an abortion. This pregnancy is going to be the hardest 9 months of my life and I honestly don't know how I'm going to get through it, but I know for a fact I could never live with myself if I had an abortion. Yes I've considered it, but it is not an option." It really hit me hard that she asked me that. This was serious. My anxiety was so out of control, it could be safer for my own health to abort the baby. I immediately became anxious about my baby's health. What was I doing to this baby? I couldn't stop my meds and my anxiety was so high, I was sure this poor baby could sense it. I HAD to figure out a way to get through this. My OBGYN was concerned about my mental and physical health...

Once again I was sent to the hospital. They would not give me anything for anxiety because I was pregnant, didn't give me fluids or any type of nutrition. They told me they wanted to admit me to the psych ward to figure out my anxiety. WTF! Why does everybody think locking me up in the hospital is the greatest idea?! I am already seeing a therapist. I am already seeing a psychiatrist. I'm already seeing all the people that I would see in the hospital, I'm just doing it outpatient. I was pissed. I refused the psych ward and was discharged.

At my Psychiatrist appointment I told her about the pregnancy, my OBGYN appointment and what my OBGYN said. She then tells me "I no longer feel comfortable prescribing you your medications while you are pregnant. If your OBGYN feels you should continue your meds, she can prescribe them." WTF. Is this bitch TRYING to kill me? Who the hell am I going to get my meds from? My OBGYN?? Is my OBGYN going to manage my mental health now? Yeah, that makes sense. 

I left my appointment in tears, once again. Why do I keep getting kicked when I'm already beaten, bleeding and down? There is no way I can get through this. I have no hope. All the doors are slamming in my face. I would just lay in bed or on the couch; nauseous, shaking, heart pounding and crying. I wasn't going to kill myself, but if I didn't wake up one morning, I wouldn't have cared.

The darkness becomes overwhelming.

Part Three.

Here we are, at the hospital and I'm having another panic attack. I've already taken my full dose of Valium for the day and I can't calm down. Before they can send me to a psych unit they have to medically clear me. They medically cleared me and tried to get my anxiety under control. I received two doses of Ativan which seemed to take the edge off slightly, just enough that the numbness was subsiding and I could catch my breath. My heart rate wouldn't get under 130, but it seemed to be enough for the ER and I was transferred to the psych unit at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center. Great. The hospital I used to work at. Now everybody is going to know that I've become insane, just what I needed.

There are no words to adequately describe the psych unit. All my belongings were taken away and I was strip searched. Yes, the bend and cough kind. It was humiliating. I couldn't wear my own clothes because they were viewed as inappropriate. I wore a gown. I now felt like I looked like how I felt. I was down to 106 lbs. I am 5 feet 4 inches tall and I was very underweight. Anxiety is an overpowering thing. Every second of every day was spent analyzing and over analyzing every aspect of my life. I had no appetite. I was not starving myself on purpose, I just couldn't eat.

While vacationing at the cabins I was getting undressed to get in the shower and my husband is just staring at me. He finally tells me that I look like I am anorexic. My heart sinks and the tears start to fall. I take a look at myself in the mirror. My collarbones are extremely defined and you can see my ribs. My cheek bones are very visible. My shoulder blades are poking out of my back and my hip bones are so boney that it actually hurt me to lay on my stomach. My stomach is concave with two very prominent hip bones. My ass? Non existent, and those things you call breast? More like ity bity mosquito bites. No fat. I hadn't realized I looked this bad. It didn't make me sad that I looked this way. I felt that it was a direct reflection of how I felt inside. I was sick and I looked sick. What was difficult, was that my husband noticed. How could he not? I felt there was nothing I could do about it and I didn't want to do anything about it.

The hospital staff asked me if I was anorexic. I told them I wasn't, it's just hard to eat when I have no appetite. They gave me some sleeping pills and I slept until 3pm the next day. I met with the hospital Psychiatrist. He discontinued my Adderall and suggested I start taking very high doses of anti-depressants and continue my Valium as needed. He wanted me to stay in the hospital for at least a week. I could feel my anxiety increasing. A WEEK?! I have two children who desperately need their mother. This place is like a prison. I'm being monitored like I'm on suicide watch, when I'm not suicidal. My days are planned out and I have no options, no free agency. I can't stay here for a whole week! I will really go insane! I need my children I need my husband. I asked if I could take the information the Psychiatrist recommended and use it when I meet with my new Psychiatrist as an outpatient. He didn't recommend it but I insisted. Since I went to the hospital on my own free will I could leave on my own free will. I was discharged the next day with a plan in mind.

While in the hospital I received another diagnosis to add to my list. Major Depressive Disorder. I couldn't really see it but maybe I was depressed. Anxiety and depression most times, go hand in hand. I wasn't suicidal, and I didn't feel depressed, but I had lost interest in everything I enjoyed. I found no joy in life anymore, no excitement. Everything was stressful. How can someone be happy when their whole life is filled with constant worry and stress? It's simple, you can't.

The first week out of the hospital was hard. It was my first time not taking Adderall in two years and I crashed. I had no energy, no motivation and the rushing thoughts I had in my head were so foggy and cloudy, I couldn't make sense of anything. I became depressed. I have never been depressed in my life and let me tell you, being depressed is one of the scariest feelings I've ever experienced. I felt like a dementor from Harry Potter had given me their kiss and sucked all the life and happiness out of me. It's a weird comparison, but it fits perfectly. This feeling inside me I couldn't shake. I wasn't happy, I didn't laugh, I didn't smile and every once in a while when my children would be their adorable selfs I would see their happiness on their faces and break down in tears. It was such a weird feeling to see happiness.

My anxiety started building again after about a week and I was back to having full blown panic attacks, now mixed with my depression. It is a heart breaking thing when my 5 year old daughter knows how to support me through a panic attack. She would come sit by my trembling shaking body, my face drenched with tears, and she would simply hug me "It's okay mama, just remember to breathe. Deep breaths mom. You can do this" while she strokes my arm. I hated myself. I hated that my innocent daughter had to witness me like this. It was not fair! She does not deserve a mom like this. My 1 1/2 year old son would come up to me and point at my tears, mumble some nonsense and hug me. Even my 1 1/2 year old could sense something was wrong. I don't deserve to be a mother. They deserved someone who could take them to the park. Hell, not even the park, just outside! We had a beautiful backyard and I couldn't even play in the backyard with them. My children have watched more TV the past few months then they have in their entire lifetimes. I continued to be paralyzed.

I went to my first Psychiatrist appointment. It went great. We decided to try another anti-depressant and Ativan. 1mg 3x a day. It wasn't enough. On an anxiety scale, 10 being a full blown panic attack, I was living every single day, all day long between an 8-9, with my anxiety tipping the scale at a full blown 10 at least once daily. This was not manageable. This was not doable. I thought I had lost my shit before, but now I had really lost it. My anxiety was so much worse. It completely consumed my life. My depression was overwhelming and I knew I couldn't be alone. My Psychiatrist would not change or up  my meds. At this point I felt I was drug seeking, and I was. I didn't want to get high, oh no. What I wanted was some relief. I NEEDED some relief. I could not keep going living my life with this high level of anxiety and no relief. I felt trapped. My anxiety would not subside. It was relentless. I was in the deepest part of hell I imagine there is. I hated my thoughts. I hated my feelings. My Psychologist had told me to tell myself that there is nothing to be scared of. Anxiety is trying to convince myself that there is something to be afraid of. I was constantly living in fear of something. When I tried to explore this further, I couldn't find anything that I would be so afraid of, nothing was coming to mind. I wasn't scared of anything specific. I was stressed and overwhelmed with everything. Going to the mailbox to get the mail was stressful. Getting dressed seemed impossible. Cooking dinner was out of the question. Everything and anything were stressors and I just couldn't escape.

This is when I started having suicidal thoughts. It's not that I wanted to die, but I felt there was no escape from my anxiety and depression. I just wanted to feel okay. I wanted my mind to just slow down. Damn it! How hard could that be?! How many more different medications am I going to have to try out before one of them works? If I could just have a few minutes a day that I could live without anxiety, I could manage! Just a few minutes was all I wanted. It was impossible. I refused to abuse my medication. I spoke to my Psychiatrist again telling her I needed help and this wasn't working. She refused to change anything and told me to continue with therapy. Therapy was teaching me techniques to decrease my anxiety levels, but the problem is, I had to have some moment where I felt I could start applying those techniques for them to be effective. I couldn't catch a break. My depression worsened. I told my therapist about my suicidal thoughts. I told him how they terrified me. My thoughts were real and I couldn't get them out of my head. I didn't want to die, but the anxiety was embedded in my bones and I couldn't get rid of those scary thoughts. My therapist told me it's okay to have these thoughts, as long as they are just thoughts. Our thoughts are like a river. We can stand by the river and watch the thoughts go by, even the most absurd thoughts were fine to flow through the river, as long as we didn't pick them up. Once we picked up a thought, we held onto that thought and we tend to focus more on it. More importantly, just because I was thinking these things, didn't mean I was going to act on them. He's right. I'm having these suicidal thoughts, but I don't want to die. It's just my weakness and I'm looking for an escape. I can get through this. I knew if I ever devised a plan for suicide I needed to tell somebody right away.

It was a Sunday. Kyle was home with us and my anxiety was sky rocketing. The kids wanted desperately out of house, as did Kyle. I felt bad that they had to be cooped up with such a lunatic all day. I told Kyle I'd be fine and they should go bowling. After they left, my thoughts started racing. Holy shit I'm alone. I can't be alone. I hate being alone. I don't trust myself. I'm impulsive. What if I do something I really don't want to do. Ughhh I really need to stop being so dramatic. I'll be fine. Seriously Anastasia, get a grip. They are just bowling and will be home in a few hours. Then the thoughts crept into my head. They won't be home for a few hours. I can't relax. I should cut myself. I'll just go to the bathroom and cut somewhere nobody will notice. Just to get me some physical pain. It will take away the emotional and psychological pain, if only momentarily. Yes, go cut yourself. Make it hurt. I stood in front of my bathroom for a good 20 minutes, having an internal fight with myself. Trying to reason with myself. It's hard to reason with myself out of cutting myself, when cutting myself seemed like the reasonable thing to do. I have had two very close family members who suffered from an eating disorder which also contributed to their very serious cutting. I remember the hurt I had in my heart for them. I couldn't do it. I talked myself out of it. I started bawling. Kyle came home with the kids and I was in the middle of another panic attack. I told him what had happened. I was so scared. I can't be left alone. I don't trust myself. I am really losing it. 

The depression worsened and the anxiety continued to climb. Oh how I wish I could somehow describe effectively what this felt like. I would write in my journal, 5 pages each entry, my feelings. There was such a chemical imbalance going on in my head and I felt utterly and completely helpless. I would cry all day. My eyes would be sore and puffy all day and I felt I just ran out of tears. I became numb. My brain would not shut off. I was constantly going, racing and sprinting through irrational fears and situations in my head. I considered shooting myself in the head. Not because I wanted to die, just to get my brain to stop. Sounds reasonable right? Wrong. I was so lost in my anxiety and depression I had lost the ability to think clearly.

I was laying in bed one night and I whispered "Kyle?", while tears are streaming silently down my face. I was shaking, hyperventilating and numb. "I took all the pills in my purse."

"Are you effing serious?!" He screams at me. I am silent. Tears running down my face. I don't say a word. He runs to my purse and shakes about 8 bottles of benzos, all of them full.

He comes back in the room and screams at me "Why would you ever tell me that?! Why would you ever do that?!" I tell him if he had taken 1 minute longer to come to bed, I would have already taken them all. That's the thing though. I've worked at a hospital long enough to know what is going to kill you and what is just going to seriously mess up your insides. I knew that the combination and amount of pills I had, was a lethal dose. I had the pills right at my fingertips. I just wanted my brain to stop. Please, dear God make it stop. I actually have sympathy for schizophrenic people. These poor people have voices telling them to kill themselves, and they can't escape. They are trapped in their own heads. I completely understand. I don't have voices telling me to do things, but I am a prisoner in my own mind. I couldn't escape my dark thoughts. No matter how hard I tried, I physically and mentally lacked the ability to pull myself out of this.

Kyle stayed home from work the next day. My thoughts did not subside. I was so anxious to hurt myself, to distract myself from my real pain with some physical pain. I so bad wanted to take all my pills and just become comatose. Not have to think about ANYTHING. My dark thoughts got worse. I started having a panic attack. I needed to go somewhere safe, otherwise I was going to kill myself. I told Kyle and he took me to the ER without hesitation. I was scaring him. I was scaring myself. For the second time in my life, weighing in at a whopping 100 lbs, I was admitted to the psych ward, this time I was on suicide watch.

The creeping grows into a monster

Part Two.

I fully believe in the power of the mind. Before 2014 I had never been depressed a day in my life. If ever I would start to feel down, I would tell myself I was fine and force myself to be okay, which lead to be actually believing I was okay. I was working more then full time, in school more then full time, running a household which included; cooking and planning meals, budgeting, bills and cleaning. I was also a supermom. I would have daily crafts and learning activities for my children, healthy meals prepped and planned every day, chore charts that were strictly followed. I would work 12 hour night shifts, come home and be a mom for the next 12 hours. No sleep. It didn't bother me. I would make time to spend with my husband when he got home from work. Ensuring he had a delicious healthy meal and a clean house to come home to, not to mention a smoking hot wife that would get ready and actually shave her legs every day (okay, every other day). I made time to do my homework and take my tests and succeed in my school work. I exercised and maintained a healthy lifestyle. This was all normal for me. I am my happiest when I am constantly busy and when my family is happy. I don't care to have "me" time. I would prefer to spend my time with my children and husband. Weird, I know. This is how I lived my life. Every day. Until I hit my breaking point.

It was August 2014 when I realized there was something wrong with me. I couldn't shake the uneasy and unsettling feeling I had inside of me. I was constantly worried and constantly stressed. Nothing was added to my life that made me suddenly freak out. It was over time that I noticed I had changed. I was cranky. I cried a lot. I was stressed and on edge every single day. I felt like I could do nothing right even if I had done a million things that day. I started googling my symptoms. Now I know google is not a reliable source. But I seem to google everything and believe most everything google tells me.

"Everything you read on the internet is true." - Abraham Lincoln

I couldn't sleep at nights. I would toss and turn for almost the entirety of the night, unable to shut my brain off. During the days I would stress about everything. I would go to the gas station to get a dirty diet coke, which does not contain alcohol like it sounds...and although I could have probably used some (a whole bottle) of vodka, I preferred diet coke with coconut syrup. A little piece of heaven. But going to the gas station became a huge event that I debated for the entire day. I really want a diet coke right now. Oh but Crew is sleeping and I shouldn't wake him up because then he'll be tired and grumpy and he really needs his sleep. When he would wake up, he's awake now, but now I have to get my children ready for the day which means I have to get ready because we can't leave the house looking like we just woke up, people will think we are lazy and that I'm a horrible mom and they will take my children away, so we have to get ready. and Crew's carseat is so heavy and I don't want to have Madelyn sit next to Crew in the car because they will fight and one of them will hurt the other one and then they will cry and I'll want to pull all my hair out and I can't do that because I need to do my hair. and oh wait, I think Kyle took the card today and I don't have any cash, so we have to go to his work to get the card and he struggles to answer his phone because he it's so loud at his work and then I'll have to wait for him with two kids screaming at me in the backseat and I just want to listen to Taylor Swift but I can't because then I have to take my phone out of the childproof case to plug into my car... so I wouldn't get a diet coke.

I became paralyzed by my anxiety. I couldn't leave my house. I would just sit, my mind racing, unable to slow down. My heart rate would dramatically increase. On a daily basis my heart rate ranged from 110-150, all day long. I would bite the inside of my cheek. I would pick at my arms and legs. My hands would shake uncontrollably and my breathing would increase. I can't remember my first panic attack. I know it happened sometime in September. My panic attacks have all been different. In the beginning I would hyperventilate, cry and shake. My heart would be pounding in my chest and my mind would NOT SHUT OFF. I was trapped inside my head. My thoughts were my own worst enemy. I knew I needed help.

I went to my family practice physician. Very skeptical of my appointment. I was already taken adderall, a sought after, abused controlled substance and now I was returning to the doctor with an apparent anxiety issue. Would he think I"m med seeking? Is he going to think I'm a druggie? I can't go to my appointment. I don't want to get addicted to meds. What if he doesn't believe my anxiety. What if he thinks I'm fine and sends me home. Then I'm stuck living this hell with no options, advice or help. I had a panic attack in the car to my first appointment, canceled my appointment and went home. When I finally made it to the doctor, he suggested an anti-depressant. Oh. My. Hell. This frustrates me the most. At this point in my anxiety I was not depressed. I am no doctor (although I pretend I know everything a doctor does sometimes...thanks google), and I understood that certain anti-depressants CAN help with anxiety. Anti-depressants usually take around 4 weeks to work. Please tell me whoever invented this medicine wtf they were thinking. Let's make a medicine for depression and anxiety that takes a month to work! YEAH! That sounds like a great idea! I'd like to hurt those people. But doctors are very skeptical to give out benzodiazepines. Which I completely agree with, but I was desperate. I agreed to take the anti-depressant.

My life sucked. I was having at least one panic attack every. single. day. I felt like I had lost my shit. I felt I was close to a one way ticket to the psych ward, the kind with the locked doors and padded rooms. Do those really exist? Please tell me how enclosing a terrified person in a white padded room is going to help with anxiety. Any marbles I may have had left in my brain surely would have escaped if I had to go to the padded room. But I felt helpless. I felt hopeless.

I started seeing a Psychologist in September. Every single week. I would have a panic attack every single time. I went back to my physician. We switched anti-depressants and added Hydroxyzine. It is similar to a benzo but doesn't have the addictive qualities the benzos do. Hydroxyzine knocked me on my ass. I could barely function. Not because I felt so messed up, but because I was beyond exhausted. I felt it was stronger then a damn ambien. Is this how they "fix" anxiety?! Make me sleep all the time? Oh good hell, what are these people doing to me. I felt like a Guiana pig. I was their little experiment to try all sorts of different combinations of medications on. Medications that take weeks to work. I don't know how many times I saw that damn doctor before he finally understood the severity of my issues. Every single doctors appointment I had, I had a panic attack. The doctor would come in and see me curled up in a ball, hyperventilating and crying. I couldn't breathe. My muscles would start to contort and they would stiffen. The doctor would come over and try to unsuccessfully straighten out my hands. He told me I needed to go to the hospital. I refused. We tried Klonopin. I can't even remember the dosage of my klonopin but I remember it was high. My physician also recommended I see a Psychiatrist. I had already called every Psychiatrist I found in google (because google knows best) and there was waiting lists of over a month. When discussing this with my Psychologist he said he would refer me to the Psychiatrist office that worked with them. I was made an appointment for the beginning of November.

At this point my grades were starting to suffer and I felt disconnected to my work and had no desire to work. My Psychologist recommended I take a Leave of Absence. When talking with my manager, I found she had suffered from Generalized Anxiety Disorder for two years and she completely understands. I needed to take all the time I needed. It was now official. I couldn't work because my anxiety had become so debilitating. I was a prisoner in my own home. Upon my Psychologist's recommendation, I also dropped out of school. I was limiting myself to doing nothing, so we could break down the anxiety and try to understand where it is coming from. At this point I had been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder and Agoraphobia. Well isn't that just dandy. That's just fantastic that now there's a name for my effed up chemicals and thoughts, BUT HOW THE HELL DO I GET BETTER. They'll just keep medicating me until I'm so addicted to these stupid pills and don't have a care in the world, just like the rest of Utah Valley. I'll be so up in the sky that I won't see reality and my real problem will be shoved aside and never actually taken care of. They'll just keep masking it and masking it and laughing behind my back at the helpless stupid mother who can't even leave her house to go to the effing park. I can't take my kids out for ice cream. I can't leave my house and I won't leave my house. This is the part that gets me emotional. How the hell am I supposed to be a mother when I can't even take care of myself. This is not a question. It's a statement. Think about it. My daughter wants to bake cookies and I think cookies sound nice. but I always seem to burn them or something doesn't turn out. and maybe she wants to do a craft instead but I don't think we have any craft things because I haven't been to the store in ages. Maybe we could bake cookies, except we don't have the stuff, because I still need to go grocery shopping but I can't go grocery shopping because I would be out in public, away from the comfort of my house and something might happen to me and someone might see and and I'm not okay, how can I pretend I'm okay when I'm really not. No, no cookies today. And I would cry. I felt horrible. I would get up and hug that little girl so tight and say "we WILL make cookies!" and I'd try. And I'd fail. I'd have a panic attack and I would fall apart. I can't even bake cookies. What is happening to me...

I know what you're thinking Holy mother of pearls woman. Take a deep breathe and CALM DOWN. Pop a damn pill, drink some vodka, the top shelf shit. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. (whilst shaking me) Well my friend, we would have been on the same page. But no matter how many deep breaths I took, no matter how hard I tried to relax and desensitize my anxiety, it just wasn't working. I had lost the power of my mind. I had succumbed to anxiety. I was a helpless prisoner and I had no idea how to escape, although I desperately wanted to.

Our anniversary getaway was the end of October. I was so worried to leave the kids for 4 nights and 5 days. That would be the longest I've ever left them. What if they forget who I am. What if something happens to them. What if they miss me and I'm not there. What if we don't have service and something bad happens and they can't get ahold of me and we are hours away and don't know they are lying in a hospital bed in ICU for 5 DAYS! At this point I had tried a very high dose of Klonopin with no reduce in my anxiety. We decided to try Valium 5mg every 3 hours. Those of you that are educated on this subject know that you should NOT take a 5mg Valium every 3 hours. That is a very high dose and it should have knocked me completely out and pretty much comatose. This is where I laugh. And then I cry. WTF is so wrong with my brain. Why is 5mg of Valium every 3 hours not doing a damn thing. Despite my multiple attempts to cancel our vacation, we go.

This vacation was a real eye opener to how bat shit crazy I had really become. My husband seemed to be unaware of how much my anxiety had completely overtaken my life, until this vacation. We stayed at a beautiful cabin overlooking a large lake. It was a full size cabin. We brought up delicious meals to cook in the kitchen and grill in the cabin and it was supposed to be very relaxing. I could not relax. I was tense and anxious every second of every day. I had a playlist of Lana Del Ray songs that I would play over and over again. She mentions that she is insane in her songs and I loved it. I felt I was really insane and it was comforting to hear somebody sing about it. For 2 days we stayed in the cabin. Kyle would try to relax me with a bubble bath and a massage (we are married people, it's okay) but I would just shake and be so tense I just couldn't handle the thought of trying to relax. Kyle would go down to the lake and I would sit on the back porch swing. I had picked up a horrible (so they say) habit. I loved smoking cigarettes. I seemed to be my only escape. Even though my anxiety was shooting through the roof, I could have a smoke and I felt a few moments of relief. My doctor told me not to stop as well as my therapist. There are much worse things that anxiety ridden people turn to to self medicate, and if I wanted to smoke then I go right ahead. Better listen to the doctor right...

So I would sit on that swing. I would write in my journal, listen to Lana Del Ray and smoke. I couldn't leave that swing. On the 3rd day I began to feel bad that Kyle had to stay with his deranged wife while we were supposed to be vacationing. I agreed to go up the mountain to another fishing spot he wanted to try out. Bad idea. On the way up the mountain I could feel the panic increasing. I looked over the edge of the road to see the drop off into the death trap of rocks and trees below and I lost it. Full blown panic attack. My entire body went numb and I couldn't feel anything. I wasn't breathing. I had taken a valium just an hour before. I was scaring the shit out of Kyle. He turned around immediately and brought me back to my back porch swing and just sat with me. He held me and helped me through my attack and then we sat on that swing and sang songs together.

The moments after a panic attack are ones I envy. They seem to exhaust me and I feel like I can actually have a free moment for once. It's like every single day I can feel the tension building inside of me, just waiting for my panic attack to occur. I hated panic attacks. They were scary. I knew I wasn't going to die but a panic attack is the absolute worst feeling I have ever experienced, as well as the anxiety leading up to it. I was helpless. I was hopeless.

I called my doctor and he told me I needed to go to the hospital. He said the amount of benzos I am on should be knocking me out and the fact I am still having severe panic attacks needs to be evaluated by a mental health specialist. I refused. I could not and would not be admitted to the hospital. That would mean I would have to admit that I truly am helpless. I was holding on to some small hope that I really thought I could do this without being hospitalized. Being hospitalized seemed to be like a big deal. It seemed to be admitting myself to the hospital was admitting defeat. Who would care for my children. They don't have anywhere to go while Kyle is working. What if they send me to a little padded room. What if they can't help me. The doctor can't help me, my therapist can't help me, why do they think going to the hospital is going to help me. what does the hospital have that they don't have. 

We got back from our vacation a little before halloween. At the request of my physician, I went in and saw him again. Once again resulting in a massive panic attack. This time he convinced me to go to the hospital. That's right folks. It's official. I've lost it. I've officially gone crazy. I was admitting defiance. Kyle met me at the doctor's office and arranged for care of our children while I was to be admitted and off we went. At American Fork Hospital I was admitted to the psych ward for the first, but certainly not the last time of my life.

Creeping along, I never saw it coming.

Part One.

Let's start from the beginning. Not that I could actually write a single blog post in entirety about my anxiety, but I've got to start somewhere.

It all started the beginning of 2014. I was working at a local hospital that seemed to be continually focusing on patient satisfaction score instead of the actual healing of patients. We were reviewed and received derogatory marks if we were not in a patient's room at least every hour. It was not noted how we spent an hour holding a patient's trembling hand and comforting tearful family members, reassuring them as best as we could and just being there for support. It was exhausting and unsatisfying. Let's add that I was also exclusively breastfeeding a 8 month old baby. You would think that working at a hospital, the management would be more then supportive with accommodating a breastfeeding mother with pumping breaks. This, however was not the case. I received constant criticism for pumping every 4-6 hours. One pumping session would be my lunch break, and more often then not, I would be forced to not eat lunch just to have enough time for a 15 minute pumping session. I would be kicked out of the "pumping room" (the charge nurse room) so other employees could chart. Last but not least, let's not forget the time (right before I quit), that I was told a patient I had been caring all 12 hours for, was on chemo precautions. It was the end of my shift and one of the nurses had her purse over her shoulder and was walking out the door. She was overhearing my report I was giving on this patient and chimed in "oh by the way, so and so got chemo yesterday, they are on chemo precautions." To which I replied "Are you effing kidding me?" (okay, I didn't say the eff word out loud...) I have no filter. My therapist doesn't seem to be concerned for now, so let's let it slide. For those of you who don't know, a patient who has received chemo is on chemo precautions for 48 hours. You have to wear special thick gloves and proper protection, like a gown, if you are dealing with any body fluids, which I had been doing for 12 hours, and not worn a single form of proper protection other then the standard gloves. So let's say I had assisted this patient and somehow a drop of body fluids got on my scrub top. I will use the term "body fluids" for those of you with a weak stomach. When I say "body fluids", I am simply referring to urine, pee if you will. Number one. Probably no big deal right? Wrong. To someone with anxiety (which I didn't know yet), it's a big deal. Let's be honest though, everything is a big deal. What if that fluid had chemo in it? Which it would, being less then 48 hours. What if somehow during my pumping process, any remnants of that fluid made it onto my breast (yep I just said breast on the internet) or even worse, into the bottle containing precious milk for my baby? It is clear to me, (but also not so clear) that this may actually be my anxiety manifesting itself inside my poor thoughts. Is this a probable and realistic occurrence? I honestly couldn't tell you, but to me it seemed like a damn real possibility. I was pissed. I cried all the way home and called three pediatric oncology clinics/hospital floors to speak with different specialists on the probability of my milk containing chemo. I was told to dump any milk I had pumped, as well as the next pumped milk and then I would be okay. I can say now, I have a healthy almost 2 year old, and he does not appear to have cancer. Although every bruise he gets I sometimes (always) wonder if it's really cancer and I immediately inspect him for other signs. I've got problems folks. That's the thing with anxiety. I am fully aware that I am irrational and lean a little (a lot) to the side of bat shit crazy, but there is not a damn thing I can do about it. Let's move on, shall we?

So in April I found another job, on a labor and delivery floor unit at another local hospital. They let me pump however often I pleased AND gave me a pump free lunch break. I could have cried with happiness (okay I really did). I'm just gonna give a quick rundown of the chain of events that happened next. To save your eyes from reading more nonsense but mostly just because my memory is so horrible I honestly could not tell you which event happened first, second ect... I don't know what to blame my memory on. I like to think it's my ADHD/ADD coming into play. My brain is just to lazy to connect the process of completing the actual thoughts into formed thoughts. If I didn't have ADHD/ADD it would probably bother me, but since I do have ADHD/ADD my brain views this whole memory recollection process as a lengthily and difficult task and prefers to give up. Which I seem to agree with. Moving on...

Disneyland sometime in June or July. I want to say June, and the end of June sounds likely. Most of you are probably looking at this in disbelief. DISNEYLAND? How is Disneyland even remotely a form of stress? I"ll tell you. I have two little minions. A then 1 year old and a 4 year old. I planned and over planned and re-planned Disneyland so many times. I considered the possibility that my children would be kidnapped and sold as sex slaves to Mexico. Which lead to me thinking about how the hell I would cope with that and how any mother could ever bear to lose her children to kidnapping and sex slavery. Which lead to me bursting into uncontrollable tears and grabbing my children and holding them as close to me as I can before my 4 year old looks up at me like "wtf" and says "Mom? What are you doing?" So then I consider a backpack with a leash on it. Then I remember talking with other moms about those backpacks with leashes and their comments about how sad those backpacks are. Can you believe those parents with the backpacks with the leashes? I mean how out of control do your kids have to be? Never did I think, how out of control could the mind of that mother be. Okay, so no backpack. My husband, Kyle reassures me our children will not be sold as sex slaves and I seem to believe him for the moment. Let's fast forward to Disneyland. We are staying with my in-laws. Now some of you are gasping and shaking your head, The in-laws?! Nooo, not THE IN-LAWS. While some of you are thinking What is this chick's problem. I mean seriously, her in-laws? God, get a grip lady. Do you see how I overplay every scenario in my head? Add it to my list of problems. Moving on. All I am going to say is this trip was not how I had planned. Maybe it was the lack of control I thought I actually had on what I assumed was a vacation for MY family, or maybe the sudden lack of support and degrading comments directed to me from my husband, that always seem to manifest themselves when he's around his family. I can tell you that that IS what happened. We have since discussed this and I have received recognition and a deep apology for his contribution to my complete and utter bitch that surfaced during this vacation. It was sadly, the worst vacation I've ever had. I can tell you though, my children had the time of their lives and I would do it again in a heartbeat just to see their smiles on their faces again. Lesson learned: Vacations with the in-laws, however much you really do love them, are a MUST NOT.

Oh, let's not forget, right before we left for Disneyland we (the kids and I) got in a car accident. Unexpectedly carless and forking out a small fortune right before Disneyland was slightly stressful. At this point I developed insomnia. I didn't recognize it at first. It wasn't until after Disneyland that I started noticing how I really just couldn't sleep at nights. I would lay in bed and my mind would be running a marathon. It was relentless and exhausting, but not literally. I was wide awake and even though my whole body was physically exhausted, my mind seemed to overpower my body and I would lie there wide awake. I was alert and ready for whatever I thought was happening. I would think about everything and nothing at the same time. I would have 7 different thoughts going on at the same exact time, none of which would be completed. I would think of everything I needed to do the next day and everything I hadn't done. I would stress about someone breaking into my house and my mind would wander to Elizabeth Smart. If I am recalling correctly, she was kidnapped FROM HER BEDROOM. Which lead me to goggle "kidnappings from victim's home". Like I said earlier, there is something wrong with me. Why on earth would I google that. I couldn't tell you, but I did. I then thought about how even though we were renting our home, I needed to install a home security system immediately. Of course I had to check on my children 9 times before I finally assured myself they were still there AND didn't stop breathing in their sleep, which I made sure, because when they were being too still and I couldn't tell if they were breathing, I would poke them. Just gently enough to stir them and give me the peace of mind that yes, they are alive. Then I would think about how we are living on fault line and there could be an earthquake at any moment and what would I do if there was an earthquake RIGHT NOW. Then I'd start freaking out that we aren't active mormons and don't have a year of food supply and how I needed to start buying bulk in food supply and emergency kits and maybe even build an underground tunnel leading to safe hideout like one of the ones I saw on some show on TLC. Except I don't know the first thing about digging a tunnel. Shit. We were all going to die in an earthquake that night and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about. I'd cry a little and wake Kyle up. He would laugh at my craziness and I'd feel a little better and slightly annoyed and somehow I'd drift off to sleep. Only to be awoken again a few more times that night, sure that I heard a serial killer in my kitchen. When I tell people my fears and they laugh, it makes me feel slightly better. I KNOW that my fears are irrational, but sometimes (most times) it's hard for me to separate reality from my projected reality. I think in my head Well these things have happened to SOMEBODY out there, why wouldn't they happen to me? My therapist says I can't think like that. The odds of all these things happening to me are slim to none. Which I then say "Aha! See, you just said SLIM to none. SLIM kinda means small...which means possible. These things could happen." I'm getting ahead of myself here. At this point in the story, I am unaware I am losing my shit and I do NOT have a therapist, yet. Moving on.

Now comes the list part, because my brain hurts.

We moved from Provo to Orem and downsized, which was stressful because I couldn't decide for the life of me what was important to keep and what I could throw away. This little paper my 4 year old drew on?? IT'S IMPORTANT. What if she notices I threw it away and it meant so much to her to give such a precious gift to me and then I just discard it like it's nothing. I will permanently scar her for life. She will never be able to trust me again and our mother daughter relationship will be forever damaged. So I'd keep everything. I wouldn't want to risk my relationship with my children on a silly piece of artwork, now would I.

We enrolled my 4 year old in kindergarten. Then I un-enrolled her. Her birthday meets the deadline by 10 days. I would go back and forth between starting her in kindergarten and holding her back one more year. Let's add to this that my daughter was diagnosed with ADHD when she was 3 years old. Let me tell you, if you are rolling your eyes or shaking your head in disbelief that ADHD can be diagnosed in children so young, how do I put this nicely...let me educate you. Yes children are rowdy, children are rambunctious, children don't listen, children have extreme energy, children don't focus, blah blah blah. There is a difference in children with ADHD and children without ADHD, EVEN WHEN THEY ARE 3. If I seem slightly passionate about this subject, it's because I am. I have heard everything from every ADHD "expert" there is, telling me what I am doing is wrong or right. It's exhausting and just annoys me. You can be in the room with my daughter for 10 minutes and immediately notice she has ADHD. It's that severe folks. I began noticing this when she was 2, but didn't say anything or do anything until other people started bringing it to my attention. I had no other children to compare her to, so I thought this child on crack was normal. When she was 3, she was in preschool, dance class and gymnastics. She could not listen to the teachers even if her life depended on it. I would watch her dance and gymnastics teachers redirecting her attention every 30 seconds. By the 3rd time or so it was hard to hide their frustration and I would see them briefly glance at me to see if I noticed their annoyance. To which I said "Yes bitch, you bet I noticed you. Let's try this one more time with your nice voice before I come in there and make you be nice". Of course, this was in my head. Although I'm sure some extent of my annoyance showed on my face. Although I may have appeared like a tough mama bear, my heart ached deeply for my little girl. This little girl wanted to listen. She wanted more then anything to dance and learn first position and second position, but I could literally see her little mind shifting focus every few seconds. Every time the teacher would redirect her, she would come over and sit down with the rest of her class and listen as hard as she could, for about 5-10 seconds, before she thought of an amazing adventure and was off exploring the gym around her. The teacher would get frustrated as any normal human might and I would notice a change in her voice when she would speak to my daughter. My daughter noticed it too. That is when I decided to get her help. My 3 year old does not deserve to feel the frustration of an inpatient teacher when my daughter is trying, to the best of her ability to focus, sit still and listen. Her preschool teacher also confronted us about her concerns. We took her to her pediatrician. Kyle, her preschool teacher and I all filled out paperwork, not looking at one another's answers. The results: Madelyn has severe ADHD. Well this I already knew, but now I had proof from a doctor. We made the decision to medicate her. When I say medicating her helped tremendously, it's an understatement. Madelyn could do her homework and not get frustrated because she couldn't remember the lesson taught. Her aggression and anger at herself decreased and she was a happier girl. But it made her calm, surprise surprise. I hated it. She seemed abnormal. Who was this girl that suddenly could sit through 30 minutes of Doc McStuffins without budging? Who was this girl that didn't make, what I only can assume to be pterodactyl noises loudly and sporadically throughout the day? Who was this girl that could take naps now? Where was my crack filled child?? But her improvement in school and dance was unmeasurable. We decided to only medicate her during the days she had school or dance, and let her be her normal, lovable crazy self all the other days. That is the Madelyn I liked best. That Madelyn matched me best. We would spend all day dancing to Taylor Swift, yelling at the top of our lungs. She is my best friend, my partner in crime and I love her and her ADHD.

Anyways, she fell behind in school, even though she was catching up and so it seemed like an easy decision to hold her back a year. I was the youngest and I hated it. I thought for sure she would also hate it. But what if I was depriving her of something? She would now be older then all the other kids in her class? Was that bad? This was yet another stressor in my life. After enrolling her and un-enrolling her 3 times, we decided to hold her back. She went to another year of preschool. Which was fine. When I thought of my little baby attending kindergarten I had a slight heart attack. I could have sworn I saw an article about a kidnapping that happened at her elementary school. Oh wait, it was the one in Provo, just kidding. But still, it could happen. I thought about homeschooling her to shelter her from the horrible outside world. But let's be honest, past first grade she probably would be screwed. Fractions are just not my thing. Thank goodness for Siri when I cook. I thought briefly about locking her in a box. Then I thought how nobody would see that as a mother protecting her child, only as a bat shit crazy mother who was too paranoid to let her child go. I couldn't let the world know I was losing it, so I found a GPS bracelet she could wear. Perfect. It would alarm to my phone when she went outside of the set boundaries or when it was forcibly removed. I thought I had found a solution. Then I thought about the reaction and drive time it would take for me to go to the spot the bracelet was if it was forcibly removed or out of boundaries. 1 minute? 2 minutes? That would be too long. She would be half way to Mexico by then. Maybe chopped in little pieces thrown along the highway. At which point I would burst into tears (again). Not just baby tears, big crocodile tears that would make my whole body tremble. I would find my husband and he would tell me that everything would be okay, and no, we really must NOT lock our children in a box. They will be okay. Thank God she is still at preschool for now, so I can avoid that heart attack for another year. Moving on.

I resumed classes at a local university in August. Planned a birthday party for a now 5 year old, and planned an anniversary getaway for my husband and I. Our anniversary is in August but we planned a getaway for October. A 4 night 5 day stay at a cabin in the mountains. More on that later. It was in August that I started to realize something was wrong with me.