I had songwriting class tonight. We each performed our first song. Oy. Talk about tense. One woman walked in and said, "Hi guys. I almost puked on the way here!" We all shared the same deer in headlights look with the plastic nervous smile. I went first cause I'm a "get it over with" type of gal and I wanted to be able to enjoy everyone else's song. Turned out to be so fun. We were all so stinkin proud of each other. I've still got Nate's tune about makin out in a photo booth stuck in my head. Someone, who will remain anonymous, admitted that she wrote her last verse while high.
The assignment was to write a song based on a photograph. After pouring through old photographs of family members, and moments when I was young, I settled on one of an ex-boyfriend from 10 years ago. And there I was writing a love song about someone I hadn't thought that much about in years. I went in thinking- no cheesy love songs. But it was just too hard to resist.
Earlier today I was reminded of Leonka, an old gal I knew when I worked in San Francisco. She was in her mid-80s and full of life. Leonka was married three times and had an endless supply of stories about each of her ex-husbands. One of the first times I was at her apartment, Leonka pulled out the photograph of her first husband, who was dreamy in a Cary Grant way. She stared at the picture for a while and smiled. "He was gorgeous, wasn't he? But he didn't know he was gorgeous. That was the gorgeous part." My favorite anecdote about Leonka is that after she had surgery in which a screw was put in her back, she sent her doctor a card and wrote, "Thanks for giving me the best screw of my life."
Speaking of old folks, last week I had lunch with a dozen elderly at the restauarant at Misericordia. Misericordia provides services to people with developmental disabilities, and many of the residents work at the restaurant. Twelve elderly being served lunch by chipper developmentally disabled waitstaff makes for an amazing afternoon. I sat with two elderly couples, all in their 80s, who met in the last year. Mary and Leonard met at an organization called Senior Link. I said, "Wow! Kudos to them for literally linking some seniors!" They loved that one. I think that's why I like hanging out with old people- my comedy KILLS in those crowds. Elizabeth and Leroy met at the Senior Prom. I asked if it was love at first sight. Leroy nodded emphatically while Elizabeth said, "No way."
An example of one of our many incredible conversations:
Mary: I was married for 48 years. After my husband died, I never thought I'd meet another man. I certainly never thought I'd meet a man as good as Leonard.
Leonard: (head buried in his chicken noodle soup).
Me: Leonard- are you hearing this? Mary is giving you major props over here.
Leonard: Me?! (points across the table to Leroy without raising his head) Leroy is the man!
Leroy: (nodding) I AM the man!!
Elizabeth: What's that supposed to mean?
Leroy: Means I get a lot of women.
Elizabeth: You ain't got but one woman now!
Leroy: Well...I used to get a lot of women.
Elizabeth: Oh, okay. You gonna eat yer bread?
Then they all debated whether I should get married or not. Leonard, upon hearing that I was 34 and not married, said, "Damn! What's wrong witchoo!?!"
Elizabeth said, "I say WAY. TO. GO. Marriage ain't nuthin but a bunch of honeydew. Honey do this and honey do that!!"
I asked Leonard if he had been married and he laughed and said, "No. I've come close a few times!" Mary left the table for a bit so I took the opportunity to ask Leonard if he was gonna marry Mary. He said, "We got engaged. But I'm gettin cold feet again!"
Later I asked Mary if she was gonna marry Leonard. She said, "He asked me. But I think I wanna keep the way it is now. I like the way it is now."
There is something so beautiful and hilarious and amazing about the fact that whether you're 14, 34, or 82...matters of the heart are totally confusing. I think there's a song in there somewhere.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Mom Wisdom
I tracked down the list of 75 Lessons I Learned From My Mom, which I gave her for Mother's Day when she was 75.
I often hear my mom's voice in my head reminding me of these and other important, inspiring or just funny things. As I told my mom when I gave her this, I'm so glad that the voice that helps me find my way through life has a Brooklyn accent.
1. Clean as you go.
2. Everything in moderation.
3. The recipe for sausage bread.
4. When it comes to shoes, bags and friends: Quality versus quantity.
5. Ya got along before ya met him, you'll get along without him now.
6. It's possible for a human being to maintain the same weight for 50 years.
7. Being healthy is easier than dieting.
8. Picking at zits makes them worse.
9. If you don't know the word, look it up.
10. Angle of Repose is a great book.
11. Cut off telemarketers and say, "Before ya go any further, I'm really not interested."
12. Finish your vegetables.
13. Old is a state of mind.
14. Singing and cooking go well together.
15. Don't be embarassed by your age.
16. When it comes to make-up and accessories, less is more.
17. Don't perm your hair (I hated this one when I was in junior high but I think she was probably right).
18. Stand up for what you believe in.
19. Help kids with their homework, but don't do it for them.
20. Keep a journal. They're fun to look back on.
21. The beauty of NJ is one of the world's best kept secrets.
22. The best way to be a good parent is to be a good person.
23. Volunteering is a way of life.
24. Don't tolerate pettiness at The Swinging Set.
25. Cheer for the underdog.
26. Grudges are a waste of energy.
27. Everybody suffers in one way or another.
28. We don't hate anyone, we may just dislike the things they do. (I hated this one too in junior high).
29. If you have the option, walk instead of drive.
30. Crosswords make you smarter.
31. Too much TV makes you dumber.
32. Life is too short to be taken seriously.
33. If you don't feel well, try getting some fresh air and exercise.
34. If you start something, finish it.
35. Tip well.
36. Say please and thank you.
37. Use sunscreen.
38. Save the receipt.
39. Save your photos and letters.
40. Appreciate art. From movies to paintings to Broadway.
41. Ella, Dinah and Sarah know where it's at.
42. If you think 42, just say 42.
43. Be proud of your accomplishments, but don't brag.
44. Think before you speak.
45. Total and a banana is the perfect breakfast.
46. Don't have the TV on during dinner.
47. Sunday dinner: family dinner.
48. Ask for help if you need it.
49. Do a dry run. Don't be late.
50. Siblings are a precious gift.
51. Make sure you turn off the oven and unplug the coffee pot.
52. Make people feel welcome.
53. Don't waste food. Finish the vegetables before they go bad.
54. Do whatever will make you happy.
55. Be a loyal friend.
56. Get to know the mailmen even if you call him by the wrong name for 30 years.
57. Don't let them fool you, New Yorkers are nice people.
58. Before you go food shopping, make a list.
59. Speaking of food shopping, don't go when you're hungry.
60. Write thank you notes.
61. Wear a seat belt.
62. Sometimes it's okay to let others think it was their idea, when really it was yours.
63. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
64. Don't underestimate the power or importance of a sense of humor.
65. Read to your kids a lot.
66. There's no need to talk to kids in a baby voice.
67. Stay up on current events.
68. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
69. Don't cross your eyes. They'll stay that way.
70. Don't slouch.
71. If you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.
72. Make use of public transportation.
73. Pack your lunch.
74. Vote in every election.
75. Mangia.
I often hear my mom's voice in my head reminding me of these and other important, inspiring or just funny things. As I told my mom when I gave her this, I'm so glad that the voice that helps me find my way through life has a Brooklyn accent.
1. Clean as you go.
2. Everything in moderation.
3. The recipe for sausage bread.
4. When it comes to shoes, bags and friends: Quality versus quantity.
5. Ya got along before ya met him, you'll get along without him now.
6. It's possible for a human being to maintain the same weight for 50 years.
7. Being healthy is easier than dieting.
8. Picking at zits makes them worse.
9. If you don't know the word, look it up.
10. Angle of Repose is a great book.
11. Cut off telemarketers and say, "Before ya go any further, I'm really not interested."
12. Finish your vegetables.
13. Old is a state of mind.
14. Singing and cooking go well together.
15. Don't be embarassed by your age.
16. When it comes to make-up and accessories, less is more.
17. Don't perm your hair (I hated this one when I was in junior high but I think she was probably right).
18. Stand up for what you believe in.
19. Help kids with their homework, but don't do it for them.
20. Keep a journal. They're fun to look back on.
21. The beauty of NJ is one of the world's best kept secrets.
22. The best way to be a good parent is to be a good person.
23. Volunteering is a way of life.
24. Don't tolerate pettiness at The Swinging Set.
25. Cheer for the underdog.
26. Grudges are a waste of energy.
27. Everybody suffers in one way or another.
28. We don't hate anyone, we may just dislike the things they do. (I hated this one too in junior high).
29. If you have the option, walk instead of drive.
30. Crosswords make you smarter.
31. Too much TV makes you dumber.
32. Life is too short to be taken seriously.
33. If you don't feel well, try getting some fresh air and exercise.
34. If you start something, finish it.
35. Tip well.
36. Say please and thank you.
37. Use sunscreen.
38. Save the receipt.
39. Save your photos and letters.
40. Appreciate art. From movies to paintings to Broadway.
41. Ella, Dinah and Sarah know where it's at.
42. If you think 42, just say 42.
43. Be proud of your accomplishments, but don't brag.
44. Think before you speak.
45. Total and a banana is the perfect breakfast.
46. Don't have the TV on during dinner.
47. Sunday dinner: family dinner.
48. Ask for help if you need it.
49. Do a dry run. Don't be late.
50. Siblings are a precious gift.
51. Make sure you turn off the oven and unplug the coffee pot.
52. Make people feel welcome.
53. Don't waste food. Finish the vegetables before they go bad.
54. Do whatever will make you happy.
55. Be a loyal friend.
56. Get to know the mailmen even if you call him by the wrong name for 30 years.
57. Don't let them fool you, New Yorkers are nice people.
58. Before you go food shopping, make a list.
59. Speaking of food shopping, don't go when you're hungry.
60. Write thank you notes.
61. Wear a seat belt.
62. Sometimes it's okay to let others think it was their idea, when really it was yours.
63. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
64. Don't underestimate the power or importance of a sense of humor.
65. Read to your kids a lot.
66. There's no need to talk to kids in a baby voice.
67. Stay up on current events.
68. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.
69. Don't cross your eyes. They'll stay that way.
70. Don't slouch.
71. If you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.
72. Make use of public transportation.
73. Pack your lunch.
74. Vote in every election.
75. Mangia.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Was That My Career?
When I was a wee 24 years old I worked in Sussex County, New Jersey as a Case Manager at the Samaritan Inn. The Samaritan Inn was a program for homeless in Northern Jersey. We had about 16 transitional housing apartments for homeless families, The Sober House, which was transitional housing for homeless men in recovery from alcohol and drug abuse, a food pantry, a 24 hour helpline, and funding for emergency assistance. And three full-time staff. It was Anna (the Director), Pam (another Case Manager), and myself. I got paid a whopping $24k a year. There were many days where I questioned why on earth I was working there, but my co-workers were fantastic and every day was interesting, to say the least.
The other day I came across the following journal entry from March 20, 1998, documenting a typical day at The Samaritan Inn.
Today's 40 minute drive to work was fairly typical. I cruised down Route 80, sipped coffee, and listened to Howard Stern. While I was completely intrigued by Howard's interview with George Clooney, I couldn't shake the following thought: "Today is gonna suck." Anna was going to be at a meeting all day. A group of UPS employees were coming the next day to paint some of the shelter apartments, which meant that Pam and I had to move the zillion dressers that were donated the day before into the individual apartments. We also had to pick up a month's worth of food pantry food and unpack it, because the anal CCD teacher who used the building on Sundays, went bezerk if there was anything left in the kitchen.
I got to my desk, which was in the corner of the room on the top floor of an old house. Kind of quaint if the entire house wasn't packed with random donations of God knows what. For every usable item there were 12 things that needed to be taken to the dump. Thanks for your bag of mostly used make-up, but even homeless people don't want that shit. I checked the voicemail and the first message was from Pam. "Mary Beth...(my co-workers called me Mary Beth, a name usually reserved for family members, because when I first started at Samaritan Inn, there was another Mary working there)you're gonna kill me. I'm really sick. I can't come in today." Day is sucking already! I returned a few phone calls that I didn't get to from the day before, one of which involved a "Who's on first" conversation with Joseph, the owner of the hotel where we put up people on an emergency basis. I was trying to confirm the arrangements I made for the Connor family but I hung up more confused then when I started.
Anna took the van to her meeting, so I had no way of picking up the food for the pantry. I also noticed that the brown pick-up truck was no longer in the parking lot. It was out of commission with leaking brakes, so it's disappearance was particularly odd. I talked to Pam and she said she could just go pick up the food in her truck and then drop it off at the office. I called the Sober House, to tell Bob and Rick, who were planning to come help unload the food, that they could wait another hour. As the phone was ringing, I saw them walking up to the building.
Both Bob and Rick were completely fed up because they'd been pounding the pavement looking for jobs and couldn't find anything. Bob's a burly, friendly, hilarious, recovering alcoholic. DUIs and some jail time left him without a job, money or place to live. Rick is in recovery for drug addictions. You name the drug- Rick has tried it. Rick is kind and helpful and looks positively beaten up by life. He's trying so hard to get his life on track but his shoddy job history and burned bridges are making it difficult.
We decided we could use the extra time to have our weekly case management meetings, in which we reviewed the week's goals and set some new ones for the following week. Bob updated me on Ralph, the weird guy from his AA meetings. For some reason that was completely unclear to me, Bob was convinced that Ralph was stalking him. I asked Bob if he'd gone to his counseling appointment.
"Yeah, but I can't go back there. That counselor is so lame. It's such a waste of my time."
"Well, it was court ordered. Unfortunately, there was no provision for you thinking it was lame. Besides, you're homeless and unemployed and a recovering alcoholic. Don't you think counseling might be helpful?"
"Maybe. But not with this chick. I can't do it."
"I get it but the court has ordered it and that's the only person you can see for free. Why not just bring a magazine and get through it? What are you gonna do if they throw you back in jail?"
"I'll have to tape a frying pan to my ass and hope for the best."
"Perfect. Stellar plan, Bob. Let's just update your goals. We'll replace "Go to counseling appointment" with "Tape frying pan to ass."
Bob said he'd left a few messages with Joan from Workforce Development, but she hadn't called him back. I told him he could use my phone if he wanted to try her again. So he called and left a message. "Joan! It's Bob! AGAIN. You can run but you can't hide, Joan! CALL ME!" Joan called back a couple minutes later.
While Bob was talking to Joan, I tried to calm down Rick, who was in the midst of a "I have no money" freak out. I whipped up a verification of his address and suggested that he walk down the block to the Hamburg Municipal Welfare office and sign up for emergency assistance. He got right on it.
As soon as Rick left, Frank the irritating man with no personality waltzed in. Frank had called weeks before and told me that he, his wife and two kids were being evicted. Frank said that he was receiving unemployment but had been getting blank checks in the mail. Instead of trying to iron that out with unemployment, Frank called The Samaritan Inn. The whole situation sounded completely fishy to me. I gave him a few places to call and told him to get back to me as soon as possible with what he found out. I never heard from him. So here it was weeks later when Frank strolled into my office and said, "I'm gonna be evicted on Sunday." After giving Frank a short speech about how annoying it was that he didn't get back to me, particularly given the fact that it's putting his kids at risk for homelessness, I made arrangements for his family to stay at a motel from Sunday until Wednesday, when he'd be receiving his next unemployment check. Didn't even get a thank you from Frank. His only response was, "What about my storage?"
By this point, Rick had come back from the welfare office, where they gave him a phone number and told him to go home, call, and make an appointment. Chances were good that because he was homeless after being released from jail, Rick would be denied emergency assistance and given the reason: "You've caused your own homelessness." That was just one of the many examples of how our criminal justice system is not set up to rehabilitate people. Rick slumped down in the chair at Pam's desk, totally frustrated and dejected.
I told Frank that we couldn't pay for storage but that he was welcome to use our phone to call storage places. If that didn't work, he'd have to work something out with family or friends. He stared at me and said nothing.
Bob said, "Well...sounds like we need to let our fingers do the walkin!" He looked up storage in the yellow pages. "Hey Rick...dial this number." Rick picked up the phone and dialed. So now Rick and Bob were managing Frank's life for him. I'd had enough of Frank and his uselessness so I told him to go find somewhere else to not deal with his own responsibilities.
Bob left to attend to his many appointments for the day. Rick and I were shooting the shit, and waiting for Pam to drop off the food. The phone rang. "Uh, are you guys coming to pick up the food or what?" It was the truck driver at the food drop-off location. I told him that my co-worker should've been there by that point and I had no idea what happened. He said he'd have to go once the last group was unloaded. Crap. A month without food in our food pantry would create major chaos. And I was worried about Pam. After leaving a message for Pam at her house, Rick and I determined that we couldn't do much else but wait.
Rick and I got to talking about his driving record. "I have a lot of points, but it's mostly for stupid stuff. Not speeding."
"What kind of stuff?" I asked him.
"Well, I got pulled over once because I slowed down to go to a deli, so I had my blinker on. I realized the place was closed, so I turned off my blinker and kept going. A cop pulled me over for failure to turn. Then he wound up finding drugs in my car."
"Had you been driving crazy?"
"No."
"Were you drunk?"
"No. I was high on crack."
"Well there you have it, Rick! Maybe something about your driving indicated that you might have been high on crack!"
It was quiet for a minute and then Rick asked, "Is this your career?"
"Dammit, Rick. That's a mighty fine question."
As Rick and I tried to figure out my career goals, Pam showed up with the food. It turned out that her son was sick too, so she had to pick him up from school. Then, because they were both sick, she had to pull over a few times on the way to get the food. This day was sucking for everyone.
Rick and I put the food away and then I gave him $20 out of petty cash so he'd have something to help him get by until his meeting at the welfare office.
"I feel so guilty taking this. I didn't work for it. It's so weird." Rick said as he was breaking down boxes.
"You called storage places for Frank, you just unloaded and unpacked all that food and you fixed our truck last week."
"That's not work. That's just favors."
"Take the freaking money, Rick. You can repay us by not smoking crack."
"Ok, it's a deal."
After scarfing down my lunch, I left the office and drove over to the Sussex Street shelter apartments to deal with those dressers. Kim, one of the residents, took a dresser and she and I both brought one up to Stephanie's apartment. I enlisted Bill, another resident, to help me move the rest of them into the back room so they were out of the way. When I was just about done and had everything cleaned up, Stephanie came down in one of her typical frenzies. I had a soft spot for Stephanie. She tried really hard but some mental illness made it really difficult for her to hold down a job. She was a great mom to her three year old daughter and deserved a better lot in life than she was getting. One of my favorite things about Stephanie was her honesty. She was turned down for SSI because of her extensive job history. Stephanie said to the SSI worker, "Yeah, I'm 27 and I've had 20 jobs. You figure it out!"
The SSI worker asked Stephanie for her diagnosis, so Stephanie told her, "I'm neurologically impaired."
"Could you spell that please?" asked the worker.
"I'm neurologically impaired! DUH! Just sound it out!"
Whenever I start to lose patience with Stephanie's constant chatter, I remember that little anecdote. Today's mile a minute panic from Stephanie began. "Uh...Mary Beth...when you get a chance could you come upstairs to my apartment?"
"Sure, Stephanie. Is it an emergency?"
"Well...I opened up the cabinet to put Kelly's toys in there and well...it smells funny. So I want you to come upstairs and tell me if you think it smells funny. K? Oh, and something's wrong with my shower curtain."
"Sure, I'll smell your cabinets. And we can get you a new shower curtain."
I went upstairs and sniffed the cabinets. Smelled like typical musty wood to me. Stephanie said she felt much better and thanked me profusely.
I went to the other shelter apartment building at Union Place, just to remind everyone to clean their apartments cause those UPS people would be coming by that weekend. I wound up getting sucked into the drama at Union Place, which led to me actually say out loud, in the middle of the courtyard, "Contrary to popular belief...this is Union Place, not Melrose Place. Can we all just focus on ourselves already?!" With that I bid everyone a lovely weekend, and headed home.
Seriously....is this my career?
The other day I came across the following journal entry from March 20, 1998, documenting a typical day at The Samaritan Inn.
Today's 40 minute drive to work was fairly typical. I cruised down Route 80, sipped coffee, and listened to Howard Stern. While I was completely intrigued by Howard's interview with George Clooney, I couldn't shake the following thought: "Today is gonna suck." Anna was going to be at a meeting all day. A group of UPS employees were coming the next day to paint some of the shelter apartments, which meant that Pam and I had to move the zillion dressers that were donated the day before into the individual apartments. We also had to pick up a month's worth of food pantry food and unpack it, because the anal CCD teacher who used the building on Sundays, went bezerk if there was anything left in the kitchen.
I got to my desk, which was in the corner of the room on the top floor of an old house. Kind of quaint if the entire house wasn't packed with random donations of God knows what. For every usable item there were 12 things that needed to be taken to the dump. Thanks for your bag of mostly used make-up, but even homeless people don't want that shit. I checked the voicemail and the first message was from Pam. "Mary Beth...(my co-workers called me Mary Beth, a name usually reserved for family members, because when I first started at Samaritan Inn, there was another Mary working there)you're gonna kill me. I'm really sick. I can't come in today." Day is sucking already! I returned a few phone calls that I didn't get to from the day before, one of which involved a "Who's on first" conversation with Joseph, the owner of the hotel where we put up people on an emergency basis. I was trying to confirm the arrangements I made for the Connor family but I hung up more confused then when I started.
Anna took the van to her meeting, so I had no way of picking up the food for the pantry. I also noticed that the brown pick-up truck was no longer in the parking lot. It was out of commission with leaking brakes, so it's disappearance was particularly odd. I talked to Pam and she said she could just go pick up the food in her truck and then drop it off at the office. I called the Sober House, to tell Bob and Rick, who were planning to come help unload the food, that they could wait another hour. As the phone was ringing, I saw them walking up to the building.
Both Bob and Rick were completely fed up because they'd been pounding the pavement looking for jobs and couldn't find anything. Bob's a burly, friendly, hilarious, recovering alcoholic. DUIs and some jail time left him without a job, money or place to live. Rick is in recovery for drug addictions. You name the drug- Rick has tried it. Rick is kind and helpful and looks positively beaten up by life. He's trying so hard to get his life on track but his shoddy job history and burned bridges are making it difficult.
We decided we could use the extra time to have our weekly case management meetings, in which we reviewed the week's goals and set some new ones for the following week. Bob updated me on Ralph, the weird guy from his AA meetings. For some reason that was completely unclear to me, Bob was convinced that Ralph was stalking him. I asked Bob if he'd gone to his counseling appointment.
"Yeah, but I can't go back there. That counselor is so lame. It's such a waste of my time."
"Well, it was court ordered. Unfortunately, there was no provision for you thinking it was lame. Besides, you're homeless and unemployed and a recovering alcoholic. Don't you think counseling might be helpful?"
"Maybe. But not with this chick. I can't do it."
"I get it but the court has ordered it and that's the only person you can see for free. Why not just bring a magazine and get through it? What are you gonna do if they throw you back in jail?"
"I'll have to tape a frying pan to my ass and hope for the best."
"Perfect. Stellar plan, Bob. Let's just update your goals. We'll replace "Go to counseling appointment" with "Tape frying pan to ass."
Bob said he'd left a few messages with Joan from Workforce Development, but she hadn't called him back. I told him he could use my phone if he wanted to try her again. So he called and left a message. "Joan! It's Bob! AGAIN. You can run but you can't hide, Joan! CALL ME!" Joan called back a couple minutes later.
While Bob was talking to Joan, I tried to calm down Rick, who was in the midst of a "I have no money" freak out. I whipped up a verification of his address and suggested that he walk down the block to the Hamburg Municipal Welfare office and sign up for emergency assistance. He got right on it.
As soon as Rick left, Frank the irritating man with no personality waltzed in. Frank had called weeks before and told me that he, his wife and two kids were being evicted. Frank said that he was receiving unemployment but had been getting blank checks in the mail. Instead of trying to iron that out with unemployment, Frank called The Samaritan Inn. The whole situation sounded completely fishy to me. I gave him a few places to call and told him to get back to me as soon as possible with what he found out. I never heard from him. So here it was weeks later when Frank strolled into my office and said, "I'm gonna be evicted on Sunday." After giving Frank a short speech about how annoying it was that he didn't get back to me, particularly given the fact that it's putting his kids at risk for homelessness, I made arrangements for his family to stay at a motel from Sunday until Wednesday, when he'd be receiving his next unemployment check. Didn't even get a thank you from Frank. His only response was, "What about my storage?"
By this point, Rick had come back from the welfare office, where they gave him a phone number and told him to go home, call, and make an appointment. Chances were good that because he was homeless after being released from jail, Rick would be denied emergency assistance and given the reason: "You've caused your own homelessness." That was just one of the many examples of how our criminal justice system is not set up to rehabilitate people. Rick slumped down in the chair at Pam's desk, totally frustrated and dejected.
I told Frank that we couldn't pay for storage but that he was welcome to use our phone to call storage places. If that didn't work, he'd have to work something out with family or friends. He stared at me and said nothing.
Bob said, "Well...sounds like we need to let our fingers do the walkin!" He looked up storage in the yellow pages. "Hey Rick...dial this number." Rick picked up the phone and dialed. So now Rick and Bob were managing Frank's life for him. I'd had enough of Frank and his uselessness so I told him to go find somewhere else to not deal with his own responsibilities.
Bob left to attend to his many appointments for the day. Rick and I were shooting the shit, and waiting for Pam to drop off the food. The phone rang. "Uh, are you guys coming to pick up the food or what?" It was the truck driver at the food drop-off location. I told him that my co-worker should've been there by that point and I had no idea what happened. He said he'd have to go once the last group was unloaded. Crap. A month without food in our food pantry would create major chaos. And I was worried about Pam. After leaving a message for Pam at her house, Rick and I determined that we couldn't do much else but wait.
Rick and I got to talking about his driving record. "I have a lot of points, but it's mostly for stupid stuff. Not speeding."
"What kind of stuff?" I asked him.
"Well, I got pulled over once because I slowed down to go to a deli, so I had my blinker on. I realized the place was closed, so I turned off my blinker and kept going. A cop pulled me over for failure to turn. Then he wound up finding drugs in my car."
"Had you been driving crazy?"
"No."
"Were you drunk?"
"No. I was high on crack."
"Well there you have it, Rick! Maybe something about your driving indicated that you might have been high on crack!"
It was quiet for a minute and then Rick asked, "Is this your career?"
"Dammit, Rick. That's a mighty fine question."
As Rick and I tried to figure out my career goals, Pam showed up with the food. It turned out that her son was sick too, so she had to pick him up from school. Then, because they were both sick, she had to pull over a few times on the way to get the food. This day was sucking for everyone.
Rick and I put the food away and then I gave him $20 out of petty cash so he'd have something to help him get by until his meeting at the welfare office.
"I feel so guilty taking this. I didn't work for it. It's so weird." Rick said as he was breaking down boxes.
"You called storage places for Frank, you just unloaded and unpacked all that food and you fixed our truck last week."
"That's not work. That's just favors."
"Take the freaking money, Rick. You can repay us by not smoking crack."
"Ok, it's a deal."
After scarfing down my lunch, I left the office and drove over to the Sussex Street shelter apartments to deal with those dressers. Kim, one of the residents, took a dresser and she and I both brought one up to Stephanie's apartment. I enlisted Bill, another resident, to help me move the rest of them into the back room so they were out of the way. When I was just about done and had everything cleaned up, Stephanie came down in one of her typical frenzies. I had a soft spot for Stephanie. She tried really hard but some mental illness made it really difficult for her to hold down a job. She was a great mom to her three year old daughter and deserved a better lot in life than she was getting. One of my favorite things about Stephanie was her honesty. She was turned down for SSI because of her extensive job history. Stephanie said to the SSI worker, "Yeah, I'm 27 and I've had 20 jobs. You figure it out!"
The SSI worker asked Stephanie for her diagnosis, so Stephanie told her, "I'm neurologically impaired."
"Could you spell that please?" asked the worker.
"I'm neurologically impaired! DUH! Just sound it out!"
Whenever I start to lose patience with Stephanie's constant chatter, I remember that little anecdote. Today's mile a minute panic from Stephanie began. "Uh...Mary Beth...when you get a chance could you come upstairs to my apartment?"
"Sure, Stephanie. Is it an emergency?"
"Well...I opened up the cabinet to put Kelly's toys in there and well...it smells funny. So I want you to come upstairs and tell me if you think it smells funny. K? Oh, and something's wrong with my shower curtain."
"Sure, I'll smell your cabinets. And we can get you a new shower curtain."
I went upstairs and sniffed the cabinets. Smelled like typical musty wood to me. Stephanie said she felt much better and thanked me profusely.
I went to the other shelter apartment building at Union Place, just to remind everyone to clean their apartments cause those UPS people would be coming by that weekend. I wound up getting sucked into the drama at Union Place, which led to me actually say out loud, in the middle of the courtyard, "Contrary to popular belief...this is Union Place, not Melrose Place. Can we all just focus on ourselves already?!" With that I bid everyone a lovely weekend, and headed home.
Seriously....is this my career?
Sunday, September 2, 2007
High Anxiety
As soon as I crossed to the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge, I moved over to the left lane, and cruised along in my parents giant Ford Taurus, happily singing to the tunes on WDHA, “Jersey’s rock station.” I was on my way from my brother Jim’s apartment in Manhattan and was headed back to my parents’ house in the North Jersey burbs. Making lots of local trips to visit with family and friends is just part of being home for the holidays. This particular 40 minute drive is one that I’ve done more times than I can remember. Being in the car by myself with nothing but my thoughts, some snacks and the radio to keep me company is something I had always enjoyed.
I was lost in my thoughts when suddenly my heart beat sped up and a wave of heat washed over me. Even though it was about 30 degrees outside I figured it couldn’t hurt to open the window a bit. I tried to remain calm and just pass it off as an inexplicable hot flash that would go away quickly. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and saw them shaking uncontrollably. My heart was racing faster than I’d ever felt it, my limbs were feeling increasingly numb and my entire body was covered in sweat. And I was driving 80 miles per hour in the left lane of 6 lanes of traffic. I did my best to recall my social work training in crisis management. “Ok, take deep breaths,” said the calm rational part of my mind that was fighting to take charge. I attempted the deepest breaths possible. “Put on your hazards and your blinker.” Check and check. “Move over to the right lane.” Slowly I got there. “Ok, you’re still shaky and your heart is racing but you’re ok. Worst case scenario, you can pull over in the shoulder.” Ok, thanks, rational mind. But I’m still freaking out. “We can make it to the next exit and pull over and call someone.” Ok, but did you see that sign? Next exit 8 miles. “Shit, that’s kinda far. But wait, since you saw it, we probably drove at least a mile.” Good point, I can do this.
I took the next exit, my heart racing and arms shaking the entire time. I pulled off on to a residential side street and parked the car. More deep breaths. “You’re ok. You managed to escape one of the busiest highways in the country without crashing into anything. Nice work.” Thanks, rational part of me, said my shaky self. But my heart is still racing. “Maybe a walk would help.” I walked one block and had to turn around because my stomach was doing flips. I called my friend Lisa and explained my bizarre situation. Lisa was the fantastic friend she always is and said she’d come get me immediately. She warned me that it would probably take her about half an hour to get there. I assured her that I’d be okay just waiting. Then the heart racing returned with a vengeance. I called Jim, who did his best to calm me down but now that I was out of the immediate crisis of crashing into cars, I started to think about the fact that something crazy was happening to my body and I had no clue what it was. Jim suggested I call 911 just to be safe. He had a point. I’d rather be embarrassed that it’s nothing then be in flight to the pearly gates and say, “Maybe 911 could’ve dealt with this one.” I dialed 911.
"911."
“Hi, first of all- this is not an immediate emergency," I said in the calmest voice I could muster up.
I explained my situation and told the woman that I didn’t really think I needed an ambulance but I just didn’t want to be stupid and ignore the signs. I told her that it would be at least a half hour before my friend got there. That 911 gal was so great. After asking a series of medical questions and determining there was no immediate emergency, she said, “There’s a cop near that neighborhood now. Want me to ask him to just go and hang out with you until your friend shows up?” Sounds perfect. Lisa got a bit lost on the way to meet me (which is quite understandable since I was pulled off in the most random of locations) so it turned out to be about an hour before she showed up. In the meantime, the cop and I shot the shit and tried to diagnose me.
“Ya sure you’re not pregnant?”
“No sir, I’m not pregnant.”
“Maybe just an anxiety attack then?”
“Maybe. Good chance of it actually. But why now when I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my entire life and as far as I know I’m not anxious?”
“Yeah, that makes no sense. You’ll be all right though. You’re gonna be ok.”
It’s funny how telling someone he or she will be okay is “deal with sick or agitated person” 101 but it really does help, even coming from a mustachioed stranger who looked like he was straight out of Reno 911. I decided maybe I should try to take my mind off of it and talk about other things. “So…get anything good for Christmas, Officer?”
Lisa and I went back to her house and relaxed with delicious take-out sushi and "Sex and the City" DVDs. I began to feel better, although my heart rate never really felt like it was back to normal. The next day I went to see “The Aviator” with my parents, and we had to leave about 15 minutes into the movie, because my shaking and sweating was back. Crap. Even Leo DiCaprio couldn’t calm me down. This was serious. I needed to fly back to Oakland, California the next morning and was terrified of being a convulsing nervous freak during the entire flight. I went to the ER. I signed in and shared a nice little laugh with the intake gal, when we realized that the last time I was at St. Clare’s hospital was the day I was born. After a bunch of tests, I was given the great news that nothing at all was wrong with me. “Probably just an anxiety attack,” the doctor told me with no trace of bedside manner.
“Wow!” I said. “Super psyched to hear that! Don’t know if it’s in my chart there, but I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my life so this isn’t exactly great news.” I tried to explain that it seems that something IS wrong with me if I’m repeatedly getting anxiety attacks for reasons that are completely unclear to me. And given the situation while I was driving, it seems that these little “attacks” could shape up be quite dangerous. The doctor’s answer was to hand me a prescription for Xanax.
“Here- you can take this if you begin to feel anxious. Probably want to see your local doctor when you get back to SF.”
Thanks, dude.
I didn’t sleep at all that night because not only was I terrified of more panic attacks, I was scared to taked a drug I’d never taken before, and then get on a plane by myself. In one day I had become a completely different person. Where was the gal that could travel to Africa by herself? The one who could drive across the country alone? Suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of driving down the highway or getting on a freaking plane.
It’s a miracle I didn’t get addicted to Xanax.
I reluctantly popped a pill before my dad and I headed to the airport. The doctor said the Xanax would take about half an hour to kick in and sure enough, just as I arrived at the airport, I felt remarkably calm. It’s as if the travel gods wanted to test Xanax’s limits. I stood in the long security check line at Newark Airport with all of post-holiday humanity crammed around me. Not one trace of anxiety! My fellow Newark to Oakland travelers and I sat on the tarmac for at least an hour before the plane took off. I was cool as a cucumber. Another passenger yelled, “I’ve got a phobia of flying and if we don’t take off soon I’m gonna seriously FREAK OUT!” Poor lamb. I’d offer her a Xanax if I had the energy to move my arm. Oh well, probably better nap instead.
The Xanax had pretty much worn off by the time I took the shuttle back from the Oakland airport to my apartment. My heart was racing again and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. It’s nearly impossible to describe the feeling to someone who hasn’t experienced it before. My body would suddenly be drowning in a feeling of terror with absolutely no focus for the fear. No matter how many times I’d hear or read that you can not die from a panic attack, it’s hard to imagine it when you’re in that moment. Every time it happened I was pretty sure my heart might just stop. That, of course, is no way to think if you want to calm yourself down.
I immediately made appointments to see my doctor and get blood tests to make sure there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. Xanax was okay for the time being, but it left me lethargic and completely unproductive, so it definitely wasn’t the magic pill, so to speak. In the two days before seeing my doctor, I did some epic googling on panic attacks. I read something about how panic is sometimes a side effect of certain drugs and I nonchalently thought, "but the only medication I’m on is my birth control.” On a whim I googled: Yasmin Panic Attacks. I hit the mother lode on a website where people posted side effects of various medications. The side effects for Yasmin were pages and pages long, as opposed to the few posts for the other types of birth control. I was up half the night reading the posts. They were both comforting and petrifying. I read about people who experienced multiple panic attacks a day and had to quit their jobs because they couldn’t bring themselves to leave their house. There were women who had invested loads of money and time on all sorts of therapy to try to uncover the underlying causes of their anxiety, only to find out years later that it was a side effect of their birth control. I read about women whose significant others’ patience with their panic wore thin leading to break-ups and divorces. In summary- it was scary shit.
First I thought, “Wow- the internet is pretty cool sometimes.” Then I got overly resentful about the politics of birth control and the powers of the pharmaceutical marketing machine. Then I printed out some pages of side effects so I could show my doctor. Then I popped a Xanax and went to sleep.
My blood tests showed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. In fact, the doctor praised me for my excellent cholesterol levels and my overall good health. I would’ve been pleased if I had not being waist deep in the throes of the worst I’d ever felt in my life. The gynecologist who prescribed the Yasmin got ridiculously defensive when I told her it gave me panic attacks. “It can’t be the Yasmin! No patient has ever told me that before!” She glared at me with the, “Oh these idiotic patients diagnosing themselves over the internet!” look. I got in touch with the aforementioned resentment about the politics of birth control and the pharmaceutical marketing machine, and unleashed it all over her. She nervously stuttered something about how maybe I should go to a therapist to discuss the anxiety. I’d be damned if I was going to let this clueless bitch get to third base with me again.
“I’m switching my PCP,” I said and walked out.
My internet diagnostics coupled with discussions with friends who are doctors told me that even though I got off the birth control, it could be a few months before it was out of my system. They were right. An added bonus was the 'ol “it might get worse before it gets better.” The next few months were hell. I felt like a shell of my former self where every day was a battle to not freak out for no reason. In an effort to not get addicted to Xanax, I only took half the prescribed amount and I did my best to force myself into situations that made me feel like crawling in a hole and weeping. I cut sugar and caffeine out of my diet completely. I talked to friends about it and I tried to exercise regularly and eat healthy. I did all the crap that the panic experts recommend. And it still sucked. Avoiding a panic attack consumed about 90% of my thoughts for months. After many many days that involved the occasional panic attack while on a packed train, or having an enjoyable concert ruined by the sudden feeling that I might pass out, or a simple round of sobbing in my room out of exhaustion, I felt a little better with each day. It was about six months before I felt pretty much back to normal.
About a year ago, I was on the train headed home from work and out of nowhere, felt my heart start to race. My body flooded with the feeling that I needed to get off the train immediately. I was pissed. Prior experience with this crap made me sure that I wouldn’t die and that I would be ok. But good god, enough with this already. I got home and made an appointment to see a therapist. At the end of my first meeting in which I laid out my situation, the therapist said, “My take is that you don’t have any unexplored underlying issues leading to the anxiety. You took a medication that gave you panic attacks and now your body remembers that reaction and occasionally uses it as a response to every day stress.” That was reassuring but also irritating. I longed for the days when my body chose to convert stress into moodiness and a headache.
There was a period during my social work career that I considered going into counseling. A supervisor of mine said I should become a “reality therapist” because of my lack of patience for bullshit. I think she meant it as a compliment but I’m not sure. Anyway, this new therapist of mine was the reality therapist I can only dream of becoming. She assured me that conquering the panic was very managable. She turned out to be right, for the most part. After less than two months of her teaching me about the science behind panic (being able to translate crazy reactions to a series of chemical actions was somehow comforting to me) and figuring out tricks to teach the panic who was boss, we both decided that I didn’t really need to see her anymore.
After my final session, I walked around Horner Park with a spring in my step. I thought back on the times two years earlier when I sat in my apartment in Oakland, terrified to leave. I reflected on the times when the ten minute underground train ride from Oakland to San Francisco seemed like two hours. I thought about the many times I would try my best to distract my panic by counting specks of dust on the ground or trying to think of people's names for every letter in the alphabet. I thought about how, for a time, I was horrified that I was on the brink of literally losing my mind. I had come a long way. I was in a new city with a new job and new friends and new hobbies and a new outlook on life. Now when I feel a wave of anxiety overcome me, I’m still not thrilled, but I see it as a sign of where I’ve been and where I’m going. The whole situation was a hard lesson in appreciating my independence but remembering that I can’t get by without others helping me along. Driving alone on a busy highway still terrifies me a little, but I know that I can handle it, because in the worst case scenario, I can always pull over and find a friendly cop looking to kill some time.
Yesterday I was waiting at the Rockwell train platform and saw a man standing by himself. His arms were a little shaky and his whole body was slowly rocking back and forth. Who knows what his story was but it looked like an impending panic attack to me. He looked so unhappy, nervous and uncomfortable that I literally shed a tear. Part of me wanted to go ask if he was okay, but I couldn’t decide if he’d want the attention. In a move that even shocked me, my sadness quickly turned to gratitude. If that hellish panic period has led me to be more empathetic to other people, and be more able to break down the masses of people around me into individuals struggling to conquer their personal battles, then, and I’d never thought I’d say this, I’m thankful for it.
(Side note: The title of this just caused me to add “High Anxiety” to my Netflix queue, if for no other reason than so I can hear Madeline Kahn say, “Jeepers Richard, that was terrific.”)
I was lost in my thoughts when suddenly my heart beat sped up and a wave of heat washed over me. Even though it was about 30 degrees outside I figured it couldn’t hurt to open the window a bit. I tried to remain calm and just pass it off as an inexplicable hot flash that would go away quickly. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and saw them shaking uncontrollably. My heart was racing faster than I’d ever felt it, my limbs were feeling increasingly numb and my entire body was covered in sweat. And I was driving 80 miles per hour in the left lane of 6 lanes of traffic. I did my best to recall my social work training in crisis management. “Ok, take deep breaths,” said the calm rational part of my mind that was fighting to take charge. I attempted the deepest breaths possible. “Put on your hazards and your blinker.” Check and check. “Move over to the right lane.” Slowly I got there. “Ok, you’re still shaky and your heart is racing but you’re ok. Worst case scenario, you can pull over in the shoulder.” Ok, thanks, rational mind. But I’m still freaking out. “We can make it to the next exit and pull over and call someone.” Ok, but did you see that sign? Next exit 8 miles. “Shit, that’s kinda far. But wait, since you saw it, we probably drove at least a mile.” Good point, I can do this.
I took the next exit, my heart racing and arms shaking the entire time. I pulled off on to a residential side street and parked the car. More deep breaths. “You’re ok. You managed to escape one of the busiest highways in the country without crashing into anything. Nice work.” Thanks, rational part of me, said my shaky self. But my heart is still racing. “Maybe a walk would help.” I walked one block and had to turn around because my stomach was doing flips. I called my friend Lisa and explained my bizarre situation. Lisa was the fantastic friend she always is and said she’d come get me immediately. She warned me that it would probably take her about half an hour to get there. I assured her that I’d be okay just waiting. Then the heart racing returned with a vengeance. I called Jim, who did his best to calm me down but now that I was out of the immediate crisis of crashing into cars, I started to think about the fact that something crazy was happening to my body and I had no clue what it was. Jim suggested I call 911 just to be safe. He had a point. I’d rather be embarrassed that it’s nothing then be in flight to the pearly gates and say, “Maybe 911 could’ve dealt with this one.” I dialed 911.
"911."
“Hi, first of all- this is not an immediate emergency," I said in the calmest voice I could muster up.
I explained my situation and told the woman that I didn’t really think I needed an ambulance but I just didn’t want to be stupid and ignore the signs. I told her that it would be at least a half hour before my friend got there. That 911 gal was so great. After asking a series of medical questions and determining there was no immediate emergency, she said, “There’s a cop near that neighborhood now. Want me to ask him to just go and hang out with you until your friend shows up?” Sounds perfect. Lisa got a bit lost on the way to meet me (which is quite understandable since I was pulled off in the most random of locations) so it turned out to be about an hour before she showed up. In the meantime, the cop and I shot the shit and tried to diagnose me.
“Ya sure you’re not pregnant?”
“No sir, I’m not pregnant.”
“Maybe just an anxiety attack then?”
“Maybe. Good chance of it actually. But why now when I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my entire life and as far as I know I’m not anxious?”
“Yeah, that makes no sense. You’ll be all right though. You’re gonna be ok.”
It’s funny how telling someone he or she will be okay is “deal with sick or agitated person” 101 but it really does help, even coming from a mustachioed stranger who looked like he was straight out of Reno 911. I decided maybe I should try to take my mind off of it and talk about other things. “So…get anything good for Christmas, Officer?”
Lisa and I went back to her house and relaxed with delicious take-out sushi and "Sex and the City" DVDs. I began to feel better, although my heart rate never really felt like it was back to normal. The next day I went to see “The Aviator” with my parents, and we had to leave about 15 minutes into the movie, because my shaking and sweating was back. Crap. Even Leo DiCaprio couldn’t calm me down. This was serious. I needed to fly back to Oakland, California the next morning and was terrified of being a convulsing nervous freak during the entire flight. I went to the ER. I signed in and shared a nice little laugh with the intake gal, when we realized that the last time I was at St. Clare’s hospital was the day I was born. After a bunch of tests, I was given the great news that nothing at all was wrong with me. “Probably just an anxiety attack,” the doctor told me with no trace of bedside manner.
“Wow!” I said. “Super psyched to hear that! Don’t know if it’s in my chart there, but I’ve never had an anxiety attack in my life so this isn’t exactly great news.” I tried to explain that it seems that something IS wrong with me if I’m repeatedly getting anxiety attacks for reasons that are completely unclear to me. And given the situation while I was driving, it seems that these little “attacks” could shape up be quite dangerous. The doctor’s answer was to hand me a prescription for Xanax.
“Here- you can take this if you begin to feel anxious. Probably want to see your local doctor when you get back to SF.”
Thanks, dude.
I didn’t sleep at all that night because not only was I terrified of more panic attacks, I was scared to taked a drug I’d never taken before, and then get on a plane by myself. In one day I had become a completely different person. Where was the gal that could travel to Africa by herself? The one who could drive across the country alone? Suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of driving down the highway or getting on a freaking plane.
It’s a miracle I didn’t get addicted to Xanax.
I reluctantly popped a pill before my dad and I headed to the airport. The doctor said the Xanax would take about half an hour to kick in and sure enough, just as I arrived at the airport, I felt remarkably calm. It’s as if the travel gods wanted to test Xanax’s limits. I stood in the long security check line at Newark Airport with all of post-holiday humanity crammed around me. Not one trace of anxiety! My fellow Newark to Oakland travelers and I sat on the tarmac for at least an hour before the plane took off. I was cool as a cucumber. Another passenger yelled, “I’ve got a phobia of flying and if we don’t take off soon I’m gonna seriously FREAK OUT!” Poor lamb. I’d offer her a Xanax if I had the energy to move my arm. Oh well, probably better nap instead.
The Xanax had pretty much worn off by the time I took the shuttle back from the Oakland airport to my apartment. My heart was racing again and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. It’s nearly impossible to describe the feeling to someone who hasn’t experienced it before. My body would suddenly be drowning in a feeling of terror with absolutely no focus for the fear. No matter how many times I’d hear or read that you can not die from a panic attack, it’s hard to imagine it when you’re in that moment. Every time it happened I was pretty sure my heart might just stop. That, of course, is no way to think if you want to calm yourself down.
I immediately made appointments to see my doctor and get blood tests to make sure there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. Xanax was okay for the time being, but it left me lethargic and completely unproductive, so it definitely wasn’t the magic pill, so to speak. In the two days before seeing my doctor, I did some epic googling on panic attacks. I read something about how panic is sometimes a side effect of certain drugs and I nonchalently thought, "but the only medication I’m on is my birth control.” On a whim I googled: Yasmin Panic Attacks. I hit the mother lode on a website where people posted side effects of various medications. The side effects for Yasmin were pages and pages long, as opposed to the few posts for the other types of birth control. I was up half the night reading the posts. They were both comforting and petrifying. I read about people who experienced multiple panic attacks a day and had to quit their jobs because they couldn’t bring themselves to leave their house. There were women who had invested loads of money and time on all sorts of therapy to try to uncover the underlying causes of their anxiety, only to find out years later that it was a side effect of their birth control. I read about women whose significant others’ patience with their panic wore thin leading to break-ups and divorces. In summary- it was scary shit.
First I thought, “Wow- the internet is pretty cool sometimes.” Then I got overly resentful about the politics of birth control and the powers of the pharmaceutical marketing machine. Then I printed out some pages of side effects so I could show my doctor. Then I popped a Xanax and went to sleep.
My blood tests showed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. In fact, the doctor praised me for my excellent cholesterol levels and my overall good health. I would’ve been pleased if I had not being waist deep in the throes of the worst I’d ever felt in my life. The gynecologist who prescribed the Yasmin got ridiculously defensive when I told her it gave me panic attacks. “It can’t be the Yasmin! No patient has ever told me that before!” She glared at me with the, “Oh these idiotic patients diagnosing themselves over the internet!” look. I got in touch with the aforementioned resentment about the politics of birth control and the pharmaceutical marketing machine, and unleashed it all over her. She nervously stuttered something about how maybe I should go to a therapist to discuss the anxiety. I’d be damned if I was going to let this clueless bitch get to third base with me again.
“I’m switching my PCP,” I said and walked out.
My internet diagnostics coupled with discussions with friends who are doctors told me that even though I got off the birth control, it could be a few months before it was out of my system. They were right. An added bonus was the 'ol “it might get worse before it gets better.” The next few months were hell. I felt like a shell of my former self where every day was a battle to not freak out for no reason. In an effort to not get addicted to Xanax, I only took half the prescribed amount and I did my best to force myself into situations that made me feel like crawling in a hole and weeping. I cut sugar and caffeine out of my diet completely. I talked to friends about it and I tried to exercise regularly and eat healthy. I did all the crap that the panic experts recommend. And it still sucked. Avoiding a panic attack consumed about 90% of my thoughts for months. After many many days that involved the occasional panic attack while on a packed train, or having an enjoyable concert ruined by the sudden feeling that I might pass out, or a simple round of sobbing in my room out of exhaustion, I felt a little better with each day. It was about six months before I felt pretty much back to normal.
About a year ago, I was on the train headed home from work and out of nowhere, felt my heart start to race. My body flooded with the feeling that I needed to get off the train immediately. I was pissed. Prior experience with this crap made me sure that I wouldn’t die and that I would be ok. But good god, enough with this already. I got home and made an appointment to see a therapist. At the end of my first meeting in which I laid out my situation, the therapist said, “My take is that you don’t have any unexplored underlying issues leading to the anxiety. You took a medication that gave you panic attacks and now your body remembers that reaction and occasionally uses it as a response to every day stress.” That was reassuring but also irritating. I longed for the days when my body chose to convert stress into moodiness and a headache.
There was a period during my social work career that I considered going into counseling. A supervisor of mine said I should become a “reality therapist” because of my lack of patience for bullshit. I think she meant it as a compliment but I’m not sure. Anyway, this new therapist of mine was the reality therapist I can only dream of becoming. She assured me that conquering the panic was very managable. She turned out to be right, for the most part. After less than two months of her teaching me about the science behind panic (being able to translate crazy reactions to a series of chemical actions was somehow comforting to me) and figuring out tricks to teach the panic who was boss, we both decided that I didn’t really need to see her anymore.
After my final session, I walked around Horner Park with a spring in my step. I thought back on the times two years earlier when I sat in my apartment in Oakland, terrified to leave. I reflected on the times when the ten minute underground train ride from Oakland to San Francisco seemed like two hours. I thought about the many times I would try my best to distract my panic by counting specks of dust on the ground or trying to think of people's names for every letter in the alphabet. I thought about how, for a time, I was horrified that I was on the brink of literally losing my mind. I had come a long way. I was in a new city with a new job and new friends and new hobbies and a new outlook on life. Now when I feel a wave of anxiety overcome me, I’m still not thrilled, but I see it as a sign of where I’ve been and where I’m going. The whole situation was a hard lesson in appreciating my independence but remembering that I can’t get by without others helping me along. Driving alone on a busy highway still terrifies me a little, but I know that I can handle it, because in the worst case scenario, I can always pull over and find a friendly cop looking to kill some time.
Yesterday I was waiting at the Rockwell train platform and saw a man standing by himself. His arms were a little shaky and his whole body was slowly rocking back and forth. Who knows what his story was but it looked like an impending panic attack to me. He looked so unhappy, nervous and uncomfortable that I literally shed a tear. Part of me wanted to go ask if he was okay, but I couldn’t decide if he’d want the attention. In a move that even shocked me, my sadness quickly turned to gratitude. If that hellish panic period has led me to be more empathetic to other people, and be more able to break down the masses of people around me into individuals struggling to conquer their personal battles, then, and I’d never thought I’d say this, I’m thankful for it.
(Side note: The title of this just caused me to add “High Anxiety” to my Netflix queue, if for no other reason than so I can hear Madeline Kahn say, “Jeepers Richard, that was terrific.”)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)