Break on through to the other side

Ahhh, Sunday afternoon. By now I’m on my fourth trip (at least) around the Earth with Wall-E and co.

But my heart, while definitely belonging to my husband and son, is also here with the rally. It’s here with you.

When I sent out the email to the people who’d agreed to guest post, I said that this was completely open topic. I like open topics for blog rallies like this one because no one’s experience is exactly the same as someone else’s.

This afternoon’s post is from Amy, the Blue Moon Girl. Amy took a memoir-like approach to the topic and is giving us a glimpse into the point at which she started taking medication. (See? Open topics are cool.)

Read her story and then leave her some love.

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We were getting ready to fly to Mr. B’s grandparents for his grandfather’s birthday party. It was a little more than two months away.

I was coming completely unhinged over the thought of flying in an airplane.

I woke up at night, terrified of nothing and everything.

When I ate, I usually vomited it back up.

I was dragging myself through my days.

People avoided me.

I constantly wrote and re-wrote my to-do lists for the trip.

If it was this bad two months before the trip, how would I survive the flight? Survive the trip?

I told Mr. B that I wasn’t going. I just couldn’t. Who would take care of our pets? Who would take care of the house?

He told me to go to the doctor.

After only a few minutes of describing how I was feeling to my doctor, she said, “Definitely anxiety. Panic attacks. You don’t need to feel this way. Let’s work on fixing it.”

I took an antidepressant a few years before, but stopped when Mr. B lost his job and never felt like I needed it again. Now here was this doctor telling me that I did need it. I wasn’t sure, but I decided to give it a go.

A few weeks before the trip, I felt slightly better, but still not great. I was still trying to convince Mr. B that I didn’t need to go, still vomiting, still waking up terrified.

He told me to go back to the doctor.

She agreed that the medicine was helping, but not enough. It wasn’t the right medicine for me. I transitioned to a new one.

The difference was tremendous. For the first time in my life, I went on a trip without getting sick while there. I actually enjoyed myself!

Who knew that things could be this good? I could eat, sleep, carry on normal conversations.

That was six years ago.

My anxiety is as much a part of me as my eye color, my hair, my scars. You can’t see it, but it’s still there. The invisible weight that stays with me always.

At this point I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go off my medicine permanently. All of my attempts have been unsuccessful. It’s difficult to resign myself to that fact, but I prefer the medicine to the terror.

This is me. A different me, but still me.

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Amy describes herself as “chronically late for everything, bossy, a terrible slow poke, incredibly forgetful, not very organized, and not the best housekeeper.” We could be twins. Seriously.

She writes the blog One Foot Stuck to the Floor. If you want to be friends with one of the nicest people on Twitter, then go follow Amy. She always has kind words to say. Always. You can also follow her blog on Facebook.