Bipolar 2 From Inside and Out

Posts tagged ‘my experiences’

Overthinking Night and Day

Like many people with SMI, my superpower is overthinking. In fact, even as I write this, it’s 2:30 a.m. I can’t sleep because I have hamster brain, a phenomenon I’m sure will be familiar to most of you.

I’ve got plenty to overthink about. I’m starting a new writing assignment and am confronted with a big, messy outline that I didn’t write and have to make into a coherent book. We don’t have the money to get a plumber, only the downstairs toilet works, and there’s only a trickle in the showers. Between the two of us, over the next six weeks, we have a total of six assorted doctor appointments coming up, for everything from nail fungus to heart meds to psych meds to test results to steroid shots. There’s the trip we have booked in January to see Dan’s 96-year-old mother. There’s our senior cat whose health is holding for now, but who knows? Pick any one. Or two. Or more.

If only overthinking were productive. Wouldn’t it be great if all that thinking led to creative problem-solving? But no. The problems remain and continue rolling over and over.

Overthinking is tied to anxiety, at least in my case. I do have an anxiety disorder, so my overthinking is something prodigious. And, as exemplified by the hamster brain analogy, it’s cyclical. Anxiety causes overthinking causes anxiety and so on and on. The more out-of-control your problems are, the more out-of-control your thoughts become.

Overthinking is also a symptom of other mental disorders, such as PTSD, OCD, and depression. Another perhaps related phenomenon is intrusive thoughts, the ones that seem to appear spontaneously in your mind for no apparent reason. Perfectionism can be involved, too, if you obsess about doing everything just right. Catastrophizing and all-or-nothing thinking can also contribute to overthinking.

But those are facts. And overthinking has little to do with facts. Take that upcoming trip, for example. The flights are booked, the accommodations are arranged, the rental car is reserved. All three are already paid for. All this was taken care of months ago. But I still overthink. I check the airline reservations to make sure they haven’t changed (they did at least once, with a layover in a different city). I hope we can get an accessible condo. I worry about paying for gas and food. I feel panicky about getting to the next gate during layovers. I have done everything I can think of to make sure the trip runs smoothly, but still…

It’s exhausting, so it’s ironic that I can’t sleep.

How to stop overthinking? Mindfulness and meditation are often recommended, but those don’t work for me. I just can’t shut off the over-thoughts long enough to accomplish them. Distractions are another recommendation, and I try that, but they only provide temporary relief. Reframing negative thoughts is yet another suggestion, but I don’t know how to reframe having to go downstairs to pee in the middle of the night. Self-acceptance or self-compassion, forgiveness, and gratitude—nothing seems to work.

I do take antianxiety meds, and I do have permission to take an extra one if I have more than usual anxiety. I have a prescription for a sleeping aid, but I don’t like to take it very often. More often I just say the hell with it and get up, read or write or watch TV. My sleep-wake schedule is off for days, along with my meals, but if I can just stop the thoughts for a while, I’ll take it.

For me, overthinking happens mostly at night, but it doesn’t have to. There’s plenty of fodder for overthinking during my waking hours. Perhaps I just don’t notice it as much because during the daytime I’m usually doing something that distracts me from my thoughts. Today I was overthinking how to get an accessible room at the condo where we’re staying in January. I made phone calls and stayed on hold, but I got put off until four weeks before the trip. That started me overthinking about what to do if we can’t get an accessible room. I’d have to get one of those shower substitute wipes they use for people who are bedridden. Then I started looking those up online. Maybe I should order some, just in case. Or, I thought, I could wash up in the sink every day. Or some combination of the above. It’s ridiculous how long I spent contemplating the possibilities. All I really have to do is request an accessible unit when I show up, and they’ll tell me whether one is available that day. But do you think I’ll be able to wait until we show up? No, I’ll keep overthinking it. And get the wipes just in case.

Because that’s just what I do.

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Mental Health

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When Couples Therapy Works

Couples counseling is never easy. It’s hard enough to have one person discussing their problems with a therapist, much less two. Two opinions. Two versions of reality. Two sets of problems. Two emotional whirlpools. Two perspectives. Two of everything.

And one therapist. One person trying to understand the dynamics. One person listening to two stories. One person trying to help two individuals and to help a couple.

It’s a wonder it ever works.

But it can. It does. Not always, but sometimes.

My husband and I have been to couples counseling three different times. Two of them helped. One didn’t.

One was a long-term round of therapy when we were much younger, trying to work out some of the typical problems that young couples face. We weren’t fighting, but we didn’t know how to live and work together well.

Our therapist was an older lady, very dignified and comforting. A good listener, she gave us as long as we needed to talk before she did. It was a productive relationship and helped a lot.

The second time didn’t go so well. It was short-term therapy, under the auspices of an Employee Assistance Program, so we had six weeks to work things out.

Except it didn’t work. The therapist took sides, and sided with my husband. She ignored my bipolar disorder (or depression, as it was diagnosed at the time) and suddenly, he was the sane one and I was damaged. She expected me to accommodate him. After every session, I felt shredded. I didn’t make it through the six weeks. At some point before that, I refused to go.

The third time was after we had a major blow-up, one that threatened to ruin us. My therapist recommended a counselor who could work with both of us. We had opposing views that were incompatible. There was bitterness and anger on both sides. The therapist gave us a safe space to say what we needed to, question each other’s perceptions, and work out a way to go on from there. Mostly, she listened. After only a few sessions, we achieved a detente and were calm enough to continue without outside help.

Three examples—uniquely ours and not representative of anyone else’s experience. Three dynamics. Three outcomes.

What made them different? Two were safe spaces for both of us, and one wasn’t, for me at least. One was long-term and might have been even longer if the therapist hadn’t retired. One was short-term and even shorter because I couldn’t continue with the process. One was positively episodic, three sessions only.

Of course, I don’t know what couples therapy is like from the therapist’s side. From my own perspective, it seemed that the process only worked when there was space—space in time, as long or as short as needed, neither cut off artificially or drawn out more than necessary. And when there was someone who listened to both of us. Comfortable physical spaces, too, not impersonal offices but welcoming rooms that looked like someone could relax in them.

Two people with multiple problems. Two processes that worked for both of us and one that didn’t.

I can’t pontificate about the process. All I can say is that couples therapy can work, and does work, and did work for us—at least two times out of three. What made the difference? I think it was the ability of the therapists to step back, listen to both of us, and not tell us what to do. They talked too, of course. They recommended books for us to read. They suggested new ways to think about things and talk about them. They absorbed the bad feelings in the air and didn’t deny them. But in their presence, it was possible to think, to listen, and to talk. To disagree, to argue, to come back together. To heal and discover. To grow.

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Mental Health

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Promises Made

My husband and I have a pact regarding suicide. No, it’s not a suicide pact of the kind you read about in the newspapers. This is a pact aimed at preventing suicide.

Dan and I both have brain illnesses. He has depression, and I have bipolar disorder. We both take meds for them and are reasonably stable a reasonable amount of the time.

That wasn’t always true, however. At one point or another, we each have considered killing ourselves.

Dan’s episode happened when he lost a job that had started out successfully and well, but devolved into chaos, disappointment, and bad feelings. On the day he was let go, he was so upset that the people where he worked called an ambulance to meet him at our house and take him for a psych evaluation. But Dan has worked in some psych units, so he knew how to answer their questions without setting off any alarms that would cause them to keep him there.

Much later, however, he told me that he really had been suicidal at the time.

My brush with suicide came after my mother died. In the aftermath, Dan did something I thought was dishonest (I won’t go into details), and I catastrophized. I didn’t approve of his action and was alarmed when he said he would do it again in the same circumstances. I felt that if that happened, I would be compelled to drop a dime on him. Then he would be disgraced, lose his job, maybe even be subject to legal consequences. I couldn’t live with the thought of that, so I decided the only thing I could do was fix the situation and then kill myself.

If it seems like those are crappy reasons for suicide, well, they are, but they didn’t seem like it at the time. That’s the insidious nature of suicidal thoughts.

We didn’t just have thoughts, however. We had plans for how to do it. (When we were able to talk about it later, it happened that our plans were almost identical.)

What stopped us? I can’t speak for Dan, but I kept postponing the act until I had settled on a method. Then my meds kicked in and I didn’t feel the need anymore.

Now we have a pact. If either one of us thinks about suicide in the future, we’ve agreed to tell each other, generally by saying, “I’m having bad thoughts.” That’s our code for it. (If we have lesser bad thoughts, we say, “I’m having bad thoughts, but not the really bad ones.”) That’s our pact. We will let each other know if we’re feeling bad enough to consider it so we can get help for ourselves or for each other.

And when we say those words, we know to take them seriously and to talk about what we’re feeling and why. We help each other consider other, less lethal, responses. Fortunately, we have both abided by our pact.

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Where Does the Money Go?

Though it embarrasses me to write this, it’s true that when I’m hypomanic, I overspend. That’s one of the ways I can tell that I’m actually hypomanic, when I go on spending sprees. Online shopping is my downfall.

I buy things for myself. I’m still in search of the perfect bra, and I like to have a good supply of underwear. I buy exotic jewelry—amber, picture jasper, zoisite—this despite the fact that I almost never leave the house. I end up wearing the jewelry to my doctor’s appointments. And I know it doesn’t really go with my t-shirt collection.

I buy books. Lots of books. I have an e-reader with almost 2,000 books on it. I know I’ll never read all of them, but I can’t resist something really interesting or by a favorite author.

I buy presents. I see things online that I think my husband might like, buy them, and squirrel them away until his birthday or our anniversary or Christmas. Half the time I don’t even know what he’ll do with them. My latest purchase for him was an articulated copper trilobite. I figure he has a curio cabinet and, if he can’t figure out anything else to do with it, he could put it there.

I buy presents for friends, too. Recently I bought carved stone guitar picks, for no reason, for two of my dear friends who play the guitar. And I sent a friend one of his favorite treats for his birthday.

Has this gotten me into financial trouble? I’d have to say yes. We’ve had some financial reverses recently, but truthfully, we could have absorbed them better if we still had the money I spent. There’s no room left on our credit cards. At the end of the month, things get tight and we have to watch every penny until our Social Security comes in.

Of course, my husband has his own fits of reckless spending. He buys presents, too, mostly for me or his mother. And he buys lots of garden supplies, everything from individual plants to truckloads of mulch. He also indulges in fossilized wood, spheres of polished stone, antiques, and the like. He can’t resist the discount shelves at the grocery store and brings home expensive (but bargain!) delicacies like canned banana leaves and pumpkin pasta sauce. We both like to eat out.

So, how do I try to keep these hypomanic spending jags down? I do try.

First of all, I take my meds faithfully. They include a mood leveler, which I hope will cut down on the hypomania.

Second, I listen to my husband. He often notices when I’m teetering on the edge of hypomania and tells me so.

Third, I try to spend the least amount possible when I do spend money. I buy books when they are discounted to $3 or less. (When we ran out of money at the end of last month, I didn’t even look at the ads for bargain books, just deleted them.) I buy underwear only when it is on a closeout sale. I use gift cards when I have them.

I also try to set limits. I try not to buy things that cost more than $25. (Sometimes I don’t make it.) I watch for sales, free shipping, and 2-for-1 offers. When I consider a larger expense, I talk it over with my husband. (Sometimes he enables me, however.)

Then too, I’m the one who pays the bills and monitors the credit cards and bank account. Sometimes I miscalculate, but I almost always know how much is in the bank and what bills are due and when. There are times when I tell my husband how much we can spend on groceries for the week (not that he always sticks to what I tell him).

Of course, the consequences of my hypomanic spending increase my anxiety, to the point where I’m almost immobilized. (That’s where I am right now.) I’m not sleeping well, or some nights at all. But I am trying to find ways to bring in more money to supplement our Social Security and my husband’s job. But my work is unpredictable and so are my earnings. There are steady months, but right now my assignments are in a slump.

Oh, well. I guess overspending is better than hypersexuality.

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Sleeping or Not

Sleep is one of the most problematic aspects of bipolar and many other brain illnesses. With bipolar disorder, you tend to sleep too much when you’re depressed and not enough when you’re manic. For adults, the recommended amount of deep, restorative sleep is 7–9 hours. That allows someone to have the proper proportion of REM sleep, which is when you dream and when your brain consolidates memories and experiences.

To this, many of us say, “Hah!”

Right now, I’m torn between the two extremes. I’ve been having mixed episodes, so there are days when I want to stay in bed all day. On other days, I can’t get that restful, uninterrupted sleep. I wake up at around 2:00 a.m. and can’t get back to sleep until at least 6:00. I take a nap in the afternoon, and then can’t get to sleep until around 2:00. Or I’m so exhausted that I go to bed by 8:00 and again wake up at 2:00. Once in a great while I go to bed around 9:00 and wake up in time to see my husband off to work at 5:30. Those are the good days.

It’s true that I’ve had a lot of stress lately. Financial, legal, health, and emotional problems have been piling up for both me and my husband. I read at night after taking my bedtime meds, and I feel sleepy in about half an hour. But when I put down my book and try to sleep, I get racing thoughts about every impending disaster—and there are plenty to choose from. The anti-anxiety med I take does nothing, even if I take a second one (which my doctor allows).

If and when I finally do get to sleep, it’s not restful and restorative. I know that I do enter REM sleep, because I dream. One night recently, every single impending disaster combined into a vision of ultimate dread. It wasn’t just that everything that could go wrong did. They all were over the top, all my fears taken to the extreme with vivid color and sound. Worst of all, I couldn’t talk to my husband about my disturbing dream as I usually do. He was dealing with the same fears and facing the same disasters. It seemed unfair to dump my terrors on him. Although he was involved in the dream, I didn’t want him to think I was blaming him.

Along with the terror dream, I’ve had the normal variety of unpleasant dreams that express frustration or inadequacy—missing a plane, losing a competition—the kind that I can generally shrug off. Now, however, they seem to linger in the back of my brain all day.

There is one thing that helps, but I know I shouldn’t do it. That’s taking a sleeping pill. I don’t currently have a prescription for it, though I did in the past. I stopped taking it when I learned that I slept okay without it. But I still had half a dozen pills and didn’t get rid of them. I thought I might use them if I needed to sleep on a long flight. Instead, I remembered I had them during the current series of crises. And they work. But I have to dole them out carefully. I don’t see my psychiatrist until next month, and he doesn’t prescribe over the phone. I tried to make an appointment to see him earlier, but I don’t have transportation on the days he sees clients.

My best bet at this point is to hope that some of the crises resolve before my appointment and I don’t need the sleeping pill anymore. There’s a chance that some of them will, but then again, they may not resolve in our favor. It looks like more hamster brain for me.

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Prayer and Bipolar Disorder

My mother believed in the power of prayer, and thought I should do more of it. I can’t say she was wrong. She prayed for self-improvement (for God to take away her bitterness at a relative) and for social issues (returning prayer to schools). I don’t know whether she ever prayed for an end to my bipolar disorder (she kept most of her praying private between her and God), but I never have. I don’t think it works that way.

So, what do I think about bipolar disorder and prayer? I think there are many things about bipolar disorder that you could pray about.

You could pray that science finds better treatments for bipolar disorder.

You could pray that you find a support system that helps you (or give thanks for the one you already have).

You could pray that you find a therapist, or a therapy, or a psychiatrist, or a medication that helps you. (Though I would recommend putting some effort into doing this one yourself as well as praying.)

You could pray that you have the strength to get out of bed in the morning or the peace to sleep at night.

You could pray for understanding of what you’re going through—from another person, an employer, the world at large, or even yourself.

You could pray that you don’t do too much harm while in the grip of mania or depression.

You could pray that you will recognize when someone is reaching out to you and that you will have the ability to accept.

You could pray that you have the courage to reach out to someone else, and the wisdom to keep reaching.

In my opinion, what you can’t do is “pray away” the bipolar disorder. If you’ve got it, you have to find a way to live with it. If prayer helps you do that, more power to you. But, again, in my opinion, prayer is not a cure for the disorder. There are some things that are meant for religion or philosophy to make better, and things that science has a better shot at.

You can point to various miraculous remissions of cancer or other diseases, or make the argument that removing demonic possession would now be called healing of mental illness. And if those give you comfort or hope, again, good for you.

St. Dymphna is the patron saint of the mentally afflicted (though personally, I think she should be the patron saint of abused children). If she, or God, or some other higher power of whatever religion or denomination or sect can lessen your suffering, go for it.

I just don’t believe that you—or I—personally will be cured of bipolar disorder by prayer.

Feel free to disagree with me.

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Meltdown

I haven’t had a meltdown in a good, long while. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. But this week, I had one.

What brought it on? As usual, too many crises all hitting at once. One of every kind—financial, legal, emotional, work, medical, and family. The kind with no obvious solutions.

Individually, I’ve had versions of all these crises before, and gotten through them somehow. I’ve developed any number of coping mechanisms that I can pull out of a hat if I need to. But the hat holds only so much. I can’t keep pulling things out of it if there are no more in there. Hence, the meltdown.

I often turn to my husband when I have a meltdown, but this time I can’t. He’s having a meltdown of his own. It isn’t identical to mine, but they do overlap. Neither one of us has much to offer the other. We do try to support each other to the extent of our abilities. But there’s no denying that we’re both depleted, with not much ability to soothe or strategize.

One thing I could do, and did, was call on a friend so I could let it all out. I’ve known him for years, and he’s seen this happen to me before. And, wonder of wonders, one of the first things he asked was whether I needed advice on my problems or just a listening ear. I chose the listening. What I needed most at that point was to let it all out. And I did.

Once that happened, I was able to pick myself back up and start coming up with solutions. Moving money around. Getting a lawyer. Gathering phone numbers and making calls. Taking notes. Helping my husband calm down when he was having a panic attack and a meltdown of his own.

Another thing I did was reconnect with my therapist. I hadn’t had a session in a few years. She had moved to another practice, I was fairly stable, and our sessions had gotten shorter and shorter because I just didn’t have issues that needed addressing. I had sensibly put the new practice’s number in my phone, just in case. I used it, and within a day heard back from her. I have an appointment scheduled for next week.

I know I’ve done the right things, the things most likely to help resolve the problems, but somehow that doesn’t help yet. I need to get all the assorted crises worked out or at least put on hold before I can return to something resembling stability. Next week will be a rough one, and my phone friend may just get another call. I don’t want to overburden him, but honestly, it’s been years since he’s dealt with me in the middle of a meltdown. I anticipate that Monday will be particularly difficult, with two crises, one major and one relatively minor coming to a head then.

I’m trying to shut down my emotions as much as possible in order to get through all this. I know that’s not ideal, but honestly, I don’t see how I’ll manage without doing that. Of course, that makes the meltdown afterward more likely and potentially more severe. I need to make sure that all my meds are refilled and try to establish a better sleeping schedule, which has been eluding me lately.

Time to make phone calls now, and more later. Wish me luck.

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My Brazen Hussy Phase

This is me in my Brazen Hussy phase, back in my college days. The piano player is a friend that I sometimes went places with. (We tried dating once, but it was a total bust.) We decided to recreate a saloon girl-type photo at the piano in the student union building. There was a lot of hooting and cheering as we got in position. I didn’t have a saloon-girl outfit, so I dressed Western instead. The vest was one my mother made for me out of various calico fabric scraps. I don’t remember just when or where I got the leather hat, but it went with me throughout college and beyond.

My Brazen Hussy phase was the first time that hypomania hit, except for the many times that it appeared as anxiety before I went to college, and after.

As many people do the first time they experience hypomania, especially the sexual kind, I rather enjoyed it. I flirted and dated, which I never did in high school. I joined a sorority and went to frat parties. I enjoyed my first kiss and then many more. I had a mad crush on a musician and eventually got to know him too. He was exciting and passionate and awakened something in me that never even seemed to exist before. When he broke up with me, I went into a deep downward spiral. I won’t say that was why I took a year off college, but I was confused about my future, and that surely didn’t help.

Back in my hometown for the next year, I got my hypomanic mojo back. I engaged in what I knew was a risky relationship with a coworker. I kept up with him for years and told him about my former life as a Brazen Hussy and about my depression. We went out during the former and he stuck with me through the latter. But he always said he wanted Brazen Hussy Jan rather than timid, depressed Jan.

I was back in Brazen Hussy mode when I met the man who would become my husband. We were with a couple of women who already knew him and greeted him with a kiss. “Don’t I get one too?” I asked boldly and got one. He kissed me again around the campfire and followed me around all weekend. I basked in the attention. It was exactly what I needed at the time.

Shortly thereafter, I moved back to my hometown. But we conducted a long-distance relationship until finally he moved out to be with me and, eventually, we married.

I won’t say I never went back into Brazen Hussy mode again. Hypomania still affected me. I still got mad crushes and flirted outrageously. Finally, however, I was diagnosed with bipolar and properly medicated. I won’t say the Brazen Hussy mode went away entirely, but episodes were fewer and further between and easier to understand.

I didn’t originally mean this post to be so confessional, but hypomania and hypersexuality are a very real part of bipolar disorder that I didn’t miss out on in my younger years. And that I sometimes miss in my later years. I know that not having those surges of intense feeling is better for me. Nowadays, however, when my bipolar disorder kicks up, it’s generally bipolar depression. I’m a lot more settled now and don’t have much room in life for hypomania. When I experience it now, it usually manifests as anxiety again or mild euphoria and overspending.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my Brazen Hussy phase from time to time.

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An Irrational Thought

I just bought a laptop because the air conditioner isn’t working. If that seems like an irrational thought I acted on, it is. It’s also a measure of my anxiety. And a consequence of my current mixed state.

Let me explain.

Our central air conditioner puts out a tiny bit of coolish air, but not enough to make the house comfortable. The weather has gotten up into the 80s, and the temp in the house is sometimes higher than that. And I know that July and August are coming, so temps over 100 degrees are likely. I’m afraid I’ll have heat stroke and die or at least have heat exhaustion and be incapacitated. I spend most of the day working at my desk, with fans on and cold beverages readily available, but still the heat gets to me. And I really need to do the work. We need the money, modest as my pay is.

So why (I hear you ask) don’t we call an AC repair service? My anxiety plus hoarding mean we don’t let people in the house. I suppose there’s a chance that they would only have to look at the outdoor unit, but I can’t count on that. There’s still a possible solution my husband can try. He’s going to get a tester and check the fuses. If that’s the problem, it’s easily fixable.

There’s the anxiety. What about the mixed state?

When I get hypomanic, one of my behaviors is online shopping. And there was just a sale at Best Buy on Apple computers that lasted three days. I ordered a laptop. I made sure it was a refurbished one to keep the price down, but I also bought the mouse, the subscription to Microsoft Office, and a carrying case. It was a tidy sum, money that we don’t have because of car repairs, but I put it on our Best Buy credit card. I also told myself that it was still cheaper than air conditioning repair. (A quick Google suggests that it’s likely a wash.)

How does this solve the air conditioning dilemma? If I have a laptop computer, I can take it to Panera, McDonald’s, or some other air-conditioned place and do my work while sipping on iced tea. (Panera has plugs and outlets conveniently located, I know.) Work accomplished. Body temperature regulated. Achievement unlocked.

Of course, I realize this is a slightly ridiculous plan. I know that my anxiety and hypomania are largely responsible. Ultimately, though, I’m responsible.

There’s still the chance that Dan can get the AC working again, if the fuses are the problem. If that happens, I can return the laptop (within 15 days after I receive it). So I have options, which I love.

I’m still left with confusing feelings. Maybe I’m too fearful of the heat or too dubious about being able to do my work in an overheated room. (I don’t think so, because I’m older and have had bad reactions to heat before. Computers also have bad reactions to heat.) Maybe I was too impulsive when I ordered a new laptop and all the fixings. Maybe even with the money I earn, the credit card expense will strain our finances further. I fortuitously just received a raise at work, so maybe that will help make up the difference.

I’m not asking for advice. I’ll work this out on my own somehow or at least with the help of my husband. He knows I’m in a mixed state, but the family finances are my responsibility and he usually goes with what I think we should do.

Things should be clearer by the time I post this.

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Anxiety and Big Life Stuff

Anxiety about health is a common phenomenon. It’s only natural to worry about the human body breaking down, especially as one ages. But how much anxiety is too much? How little is too little?

When anything goes awry with my body, I get panicky. I catastrophize, imagining the worst. I have anxiety disorder in addition to bipolar, so that’s not surprising.

Once, for example, I woke up in the middle of the night with something strange happening to my arm. There was a hard spot along the side of it the size and shape of a cuttlefish bone. Instantly, I got dressed and headed to the emergency room. They took x-rays (which were ambiguous) and sent me home. If I hadn’t been so panicky, I would have realized that the problem could easily have waited until the next morning or whenever I could get in to see my doctor. But I was frightened and anxious because it was something I had never heard of and couldn’t explain.

It turned out to be sarcoid, which was treated with steroids. (There was also a spot of it on my head, which my doctor biopsied, so I now have a divot on my forehead.) The sarcoid backed off, leaving me embarrassed at having reacted so strongly.

My husband, who doesn’t have anxiety, is just the opposite. He takes injuries and illnesses much more lightly. He’s a bit accident-prone, often cutting himself or otherwise mangling his fingers and hands cooking or doing repair work. I used to have to burst into tears to get him to go for treatment, stitches, or whatever was called for. He would wrap the injury in a paper towel and some duct tape, which I understand is a guy thing. (A heart attack that he almost waited too long to get help for changed his ways. Now I don’t have to cry. He goes to the ER as needed.)

Now, however, we’re facing more serious medical possibilities. I won’t go into Dan’s, since he’d prefer to keep that story private, but it’s Big Life Stuff.

I have plenty of anxiety to talk about. Over the past few years, my knees have been getting worse and worse. At first, it only affected my balance, which was enough to make me anxious right there, fearing that I would fall in public. I started using a cane. I did fall once, at a student union where my therapist’s office was located. A flock of young women (nursing students?) swooped in, picked me up, and offered me a hot beverage. Ever since, my anxiety about falling has increased, exacerbated by a couple of falls at home.

Now, however, I’m facing more serious anxiety. My knees have deteriorated to the point that I need steroid shots every six weeks and am afraid to walk. (The doctor’s words were “bone on bone.”) The steroids work for now but won’t last. Eventually, I’ll have to get both my knees replaced. And that ramps up my anxiety to new levels.

Today, I stumbled on the stairs and my left knee almost gave out. My right knee took up the slack, but I envisioned myself lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Since then, my left knee has been twinging, and I’m doubting its ability to hold up until the next round of steroids.

The orthopedist says I could need the knee replacements anytime from six weeks to six years from now. So, of course, I’m anxious that it will be sooner rather than later. I’m catastrophizing, envisioning weeks lying immobile on the couch, taking pain pills, and unable to care for myself. I understand that the doctor said it might not happen for years, but I’m reacting as if it will be next month.

To me, this is Big Life Stuff, and not just because it’s a major operation (two actually, one for each knee). I fear losing control of my body. I worry that knee replacement won’t help. I anticipate going downhill rather than improving. It’s not that I don’t trust my doctors. I’m just consumed by anxiety. I’m looking at ads for mobility scooters and fold-out chair-beds for my study. I can’t envision a future in which things will be any better.

I’m being crippled with anxiety about being crippled. And no amount of reassurance, education, or time is lessening it.

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Mental Health

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