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To wit:

From November 30, 2004,
Panic Day:

Instead, I'm awake way too early. Clara Jane's awake way too early. The only way to deal with this disorder is to take things minute by minute. Otherwise, I become overwhelmed, worrying about things that can't or won't happen for days, months, years, ever. But when it's 7:24 a.m. and I'm going to be alone with my child until 5 p.m., even the minutes become insurmountable.

I'd forgotten just how that used to feel until I re-read this. That feeling of being constantly filled with dread. Not for what the future holds, but for what the next minute holds. I used to obsessively watch the clock and tell myself things like, "Okay, if nothing bad happens in the next ten minutes, I'll be fine." My entire life was lived in minutes, but never in the current minute; always in the next minute.

Some people with this disorder can't leave their homes. I can't stand to be in mine. If I can't be coccooned with B., I want to be out and away. It's not fair to Clara Jane, to be hustled out of the house, trying to escape the dark nooks of my mind. But it's not fair for her to be trapped in this house with a mother who can't stop worrying.

I'd spend hours reasoning with myself, "I leave the house and come home all the time, and nothing is ever wrong. The odds are in my favor that I'll go home and everything will be fine. Really. The house hasn't burned down. The animals aren't dead. It'll be okay. But what if it's not? Fuck. I'm going to drive around for another hour until it's time to pick up B.".

I haven't had to do that in a year. Instead, I'm spending that time writing. Oh my God. I'm spending that time writing my book. Finally.

From December 6, 2004, Treatment Bound:

My panic and anxiety always center on death and loss. Always. Never my own death, though. In fact, I could probably benefit from developing a bit more self-preservation. My nagging, obsessive fears focus on losing those I love. We all have that, but I take it too far. Here's an example: Last week I was having a phone conversation with my mom when she got another call from her neighbor. She took that call with a promise to call me back. When she didn't call back in ten minutes, my first thought - completely irrational and driven by fear - was that the neighbor had found my father, injured or dead, in the yard. Panic button: activated.

In the past year I got a crash-course in loss. It started less than two weeks after I made this post, when my 17-year-old cat died. I'd had so many panic attacks about that event and in the end, I was fine. Sad, but 100% fine.

But this summer ... it wasn't my own losses, but those of others. The weekend of August 27th, I helplessly sat and waited for New Orleans to drown while Kara's mom suffered a stroke that would take her life three weeks later. For weeks I watched, trying to wrap my head around how in the hell people who've lost so much can possibly survive. What keeps them from just curling up and becoming lost, too? A lot of my panic problems stemmed from a loss I experienced in early childhood, which dictated so much of everything that followed. It wasn't until those days in late summer that I saw first-hand that not everyone deals with loss the way a four-year-old deals with loss. The humans, they are resiliant. More resiliant than I ever knew before August 27th.

From December 13, 2004, The Crisis Line:

I spent hours last night lying flat on my back in bed, crying, while B. searched for the various help lines offered through our insurance company. I talked to a counselor briefly, who did what counselors are supposed to do - listen, validate my feelings, and suggest I take a hot bath and drink some chamomile tea.

...This morning, I was so worn and shredded that I got halfway through buttoning my shirt and finishing became too much.

I feel like I'm living my life under a microscope and it's slowly burning everything.

I also think - and hope - that last night was The Bottom. The place where it cannot get any worse and everything moves up from here. I can't imagine survivng anything worse than the way I felt last night.

That happened one year ago today. And I can't fathom being that paralyzed by anything now. I honestly can't. This was the bottom. This was as bad as it got. This was the absolute worst and everything moved up from there. I moved up from that. I decided that there was no way I could live a life where I was too paralyzed to even finish buttoning my shirt. There were two options: figure out how to not get to that point, or bail. And bailing is not an option.

From December 18, 2004, Shock Treatment:

In a few years I hope I can remember the week before Christmas 2004 as the week my life changed for the better. The week when I began the process of running my panic disorder out of town on the proverbial rail.

A year later, I'm looking back on that as the week my life changed for the better. I can tangibly look at the calendar and say, "This is when I lost my shit. And now I've found it." The change is astounding, but came around so gradually that it wasn't until just now that I've really seen how extreme it is.

I don't remember much of the details of last December, which is unusual. I don't remember details or what I did, what I wore, what I ate - the things I always remember. But I remember those feelings. I haven't had a panic attack since the second week of January, but I remember exactly what they used to feel like. It's a lot like labor pains; a year later, I can recall the feelings, and I definitely remember the intensity. But the details are getting fuzzy and to that I say, good riddance.

It's been around ten months since I last took an antidepressant or an anti-anxiety drug of any sort*. This isn't to say that I haven't felt anxiety. My God, I have. The only difference is, I deal with it differently. The anxiety no longer knocks me flat and leaves me a sobbing wreck with my shirt half-buttoned. Instead, it drives me to deal with whatever is causing the anxiety, to acknowledge it, push through it, and live my life.

There are so many things I never would have done a year ago that I don't hesitate to do now. If the anxiety was still in control in August and September, I don't know that I could have been there for Kara in a way she deserved. I probably would have tucked tail and run, driven away by my own fears of loss.

If the anxiety was still in control, there are so many situations where I wouldn't have risked making an ass of myself, speaking up, pushing, demanding ... doing and saying things I knew in my heart I should do and say. I would have been too afraid.

If the anxiety was still in control, I wouldn't be the kind of mother Clara Jane deserves. I'd be too preoccupied with my own feelings and discomfort, which isn't an option with a toddler.

If the anxiety was still in control, I'd never be telling this to you.

If the anxiety was still in control, I wouldn't be writing my book.

If the anxiety was still in control, I wouldn't be the person I am right now, in this moment, content with everything in my life and thrilled to see what's going to happen next.

*Not that there's anything inherantly wrong with these drugs. They helped me keep my shit together for a time. But I was dealing with problems that went beyond a situational condition or a chemical imbalance.