Battling the Asshole in my Head
The first thing I became aware of was a bead of sweat trickling down my back. Then the world slowly began to appear around me, like in a movie when the picture gradually comes into focus and the volume is turned up. I was behind the wheel of my Toyota Sienna, engine still running. A young bearded man was banging on the passenger door window. “Hey, are you OK? Are you on drugs? You know you’re trespassing? This is private property! Hey! Get out of here or I’m calling the police!”
My mind was struggling to start, like a cold engine with a weak battery on a frosty winter morning. Where was I? How did I get here? Who was this guy and why was he so angry with me? Why couldn’t I move my body, and why was I sweating profusely? I tried to speak, but nothing came out. The best I could do was roll my head toward him.
Suddenly the fog began to lift. As the adrenaline reached my brain, my awareness became hyper-focused. I licked my lips, lifted my head, felt the cool air against my sweat-soaked skin. “D-U-R …” I heard the guy reading my license plate over the phone. “I need to get the hell out of here,” I thought.
It started coming back to me. On this February afternoon I was heading north to pick up my brother. I had not been feeling well. I had stopped in a line of cars at a train crossing. The world started to spin. I pulled off into a driveway. I don’t recall anything after that, but somehow I had driven a hundred feet down this guy’s driveway and gotten the car into Park.
My brother! How am I going to pick him up from the train station!? What about our hiking plans!? How long before the police arrive? My mind started racing. OK, clearly I am not in a state to drive several hours and go hiking. I just need to get home and sleep. Maybe my mom can pick up my brother, and then we can go from there. One step at a time.
I felt clear enough to drive; clearer than usual, actually, on account of the rush of adrenaline. As I backed up, I rolled down the window and yelled, “Sorry, my kids have been sick, and I think I’m getting sick and just passed out.” He called back, “Whatever, druggie! The cops are on their way and they have your plates. You’re screwed.” “OK, well have a nice life,” I muttered. What a nice guy. I drove away looking for police cars, fully expecting them to spin around and pull me over when they spotted me. But I just needed to get home with every fiber of my being.
I called my mom.
“Hello?”
“Hi mom.”
“How are you?”
“I’ve been better…”
She said she could pick up my brother, and I just needed to get myself safely home. It began to dawn on me, with some degree of surprise and comfort, that I didn’t need to solve everything myself all the time. There were people willing to help, happy to be leaned on and support me. But I’m the rock, damn it! Leaning on others is a gamble that can ruin lives. I can take it! I’m the one to be leaned on. Until I can’t, apparently.
As a State Trooper flew past in the opposite direction, lights flashing, but didn’t turn around, I realized it’s possible there would be police at my house when I arrived, and my daughter would be arriving home shortly from school. I called my ex-wife and explained the situation. She told me to go straight to the doctor, but I declined, saying I just needed to go home and get some rest. She made me stay on the line all the way home to make sure I arrived safely.
No police. Good. I can just go in and sleep. I had only been curled up on the couch a few minutes when my daughter walked in, looking concerned. “Mom called and told me you’re sick.” “Yeah, but I’ll be OK. Don’t worry.” I felt like I was lying to her. Shortly after my two sons arrived, their mother also breezing into the house. “Get up. We’re going to the doctor. I called them and they’re expecting you.” “OK, OK, fine!”
At the walk-in, we were taken straight back. A thousand questions, a thumb prick, flu test, etc. All was normal. The doctor shrugged, said it was probably some weird virus, but I shouldn’t be left alone that night. Awkward. We had been separated for nearly 4 years. I told her I really appreciated her caring and taking me to the doctor, but I’d be fine. And of course neither of us wanted our 12 year old daughter to be the one to find me dead in the morning.
2018 had started off innocuously enough. Same old shit, new year. Kids sick. Run them here, run them there. Deal with the daily drama, the daily question of how can I best help them navigate their way into this crazy world while keeping up appearances of my own life. A big difference from previous doldrums was 2017 had utterly exhausted me. I had an epic year with a project at work, but all that overtime and pressure had taken its toll. I had also completed my life goal of becoming a 46er, meaning a hiker who had climbed all 46 of the Adirondack High Peaks. This goal had dominated my existence for the previous 3 years, and I found having it in the rear-view mirror a bit destabilizing. Then things started to get more serious. My daughter was crushed by a large boy passing out during a chorus concert. The kids began falling to the worse than average flu season. My son was having difficulties in school. My dad, fast approaching 70, was down with the flu and completely isolated and alone in the middle of winter.
What always brings me balance and perspective when things get hard? Hiking! So my brother and I planned an epic trip. I would pick him up at the train station, we would go spend the night with my dad, bring him some fresh healthy food to help him recover, do a winter hike the next day, then I would drive him back to Cleveland and spend a few days visiting before returning home. This would be my salvation from the stresses at home. Unfortunately as it approached, my stress over whether or not my health would hold up for it dominated. But a few days prior, I released it. I figured I was beyond the window of catching the kids’ flu, and my dad had been feeling better. My excitement for the adventure grew.
The morning of, Brian messaged me that the train was running late. As I paced the house wondering what time to leave to meet him at the station, I began feeling increasingly ill. My legs felt sluggish and weak. I lied down on the couch for a bit and when I got up I thought I would vomit and had a head rush. “Pull it together, man, your brudder is on the train and depending on you!” I paced around some more, barely holding it together until it was time to leave. I figured once I got moving in a direction I’d feel better, so I headed up Route 12 towards Utica. I was rocking back and forth, turning the radio on and off, on and off, taking deep breaths trying to find my balance when I suddenly came to a standstill in a line of cars stopped at a train crossing. “Oh shit,” I thought, as I realized I could not win this battle. The world spun and went black.
One of the worst consequences of this experience was the lasting trauma. Despite my friends and family jokingly offering to go kick the guy’s ass or TP his house, the damage had been done. I was afraid to drive. Whenever I pulled up to a stop light or was stuck in traffic, I’d have to steady myself as waves of dizziness crashed over me. I told no one at first, not even my counselor, thinking I could battle the asshole in my head myself. I’m strong. (You’re weak.) It’s all in my head. (Or are you dying?) I can overcome this myself. (You’re screwed. And by the way you’re also a failure.)
My confidence did build ever so slowly in the following months as at least I hadn’t had another repeat of losing consciousness. In May I decided to visit some friends by myself to get out of town for a few days. When I arrived I was again feeling unsteady and ill. Not knowing what was causing this or how to deal with it made it all the worse. I limped my way through the weekend, but when I awoke Sunday morning, the thought of driving the 3 hours home brought it all back in full. I had to get home to get the kids that afternoon, had to get to the grocery store, get the house cleaned up, do our weekly picnic and movie night in the living room, had to get them to bed and up for school the next day, had to get myself to work and get things done, earn my pay. But I had no idea how I was going to even make it home. I wanted to crawl into a hole, and especially not be a pest to my friends.
By early afternoon, nothing was working, not even playing the piano. They assured me I could stay a month and still wouldn’t be a pest, so I called my ex and told her I wasn’t going to be able to make it back. She reassured me that she knows I help her out a lot, and she’s happy to return the favor. We then decided I should go to the walk-in there. The physician’s assistant that saw me wanted to put me in an ambulance and send me to the ER. I had no idea what was going on, but it didn’t feel like an emergency to me so I declined, signing a waiver for refusing medical advice, and went back to the house to reassess.
Relying on the support of others does not come naturally for me. So when my friend said he had another friend who would be willing to help drive me home that night, a 6 hour, 2 vehicle trip for them, it was very difficult to accept. But it was clearly the right choice, and I couldn’t argue. It’s good to have amazing friends. But still, when we stopped at a Dunkin and they bought their coffees to stay up for the trip while I was in the bathroom, I berated myself for not paying for them. What kind of person has to rely on other people to stay up into the wee hours of the morning to get home, and then doesn’t even buy the coffee? What a piece of shit. Sure, I was in the bathroom, but I should have thought of it beforehand. I should have stayed out and given them money. I shouldn’t have had to rely on them to get me home at all. I should be the strong one helping others. I should be perfect! Isn’t that what everyone expects of me?
Knocked back down, over the following weeks once again I attempted to climb up out of the hole. Constantly running through my head was paranoia over what could be causing this. Did I have mold in my house? Maybe I’m allergic to this new tea I’ve been drinking. Perhaps my lip balm has lingering germs keeping me in a constant state of fighting an illness and slowly exhausting my immune system. Or maybe some mysterious disease was slowly eating my brain and taking away my faculties. Or perhaps I have a heart defect and I’m a ticking time bomb. But I have things to do, little people who rely on me!
As fear welled up, I became increasingly aware I was toeing the line and it would take very little to push me over the edge. The thought of my old cat passing, knowing that could happen at any time, or getting pulled over, or even one of the kids getting sick, sent me into full panic.
But life must go on, damn it! I must keep up appearances. Everything’s fine! So in June I gave in to my 10 year old son’s begging to take him up Giant Mountain, one of the High Peaks. I still hadn’t hiked since my final 46er climb up Sawteeth the previous October, but was confident I could pull this off at his pace. Despite a wave of dizziness when stuck in traffic from an accident on I-87 North, I was feeling decent. The one lingering fear trigger was the thought of me passing out or having a heart attack on the mountain with just my boy there to deal with the situation. But surely I’d be fiiiine. I always had been. Stuff stuff, shove shove.
Right from the trailhead, Oliver was over-the-top excited to be hiking, and talked incessantly. After the first mile I began to tire and feel the sluggishness seep into my legs, and then began to get lightheaded and hyperventilate. I sat down on a log, not wanting to admit to Oliver what was happening, but scared that pushing forward would only make it worse.
“Oliver, I’m not sure I can make it today.”
“I have confidence in you, Dad.”
“Part of that confidence is because I have to be smart enough to know when it’s appropriate to turn around.”
Physically I felt better once we started descending. Emotionally I was heart-broken. Oliver, who wouldn’t let a word in edgewise on the way up, silently cried on the return, yet was still sweet enough to occasionally check in to see how I was feeling. I had to figure out what was going on, and I had to figure it out now. Disappointing my kid, being unable to do a small-ish climb with him when I had conquered so many monster hikes in the past, was too much for me to bear.
I immediately made an appointment with my GP upon returning home. He ordered a score of blood tests and an echo cardiogram. Anxiety was discussed as a possible cause, but it was important to rule other things out. The echo was scheduled for several weeks out, but blood test results should be back within a week.
The very next day after my doctor’s visit it hit hard. I couldn’t function. I couldn’t eat. All I could do was lie on the couch. This lasted all weekend. A friend brought me a sushi platter, one of my favorite things, and I could barely choke it down. I didn’t know if I was dying or not, but at that point I wouldn’t have complained if I was. Sunday was Father’s Day. The kids were so sweet to me when they came home, and we just sat around and chatted for a few hours. I began feeling better, and was able to pull off taking them into the pool and getting through dinner. I went to bed congratulating myself on having survived the weekend. I had faced a low point and come out the other side.
Which made it all the more frustrating when I had insomnia that night and it hit again full force the next morning. After sending the kids off to school, I declined going in to work and returned to my spot on the couch, frustrations mounting. My chest was doing flips. I’d get pangs, my heart would race, my head would spin, and then I would feel overwhelmingly tired. This happened over and over again. Although I largely believed this was anxiety and there was nothing wrong with my heart, what if it wasn’t? By late afternoon I decided an ER visit was worthwhile just to squelch the fear. I didn’t know what else to do. Three days on the couch was too much. And I would feel like a supreme dumbass if I could have saved my own life and kept myself around to raise my kids but instead just laid down to die.
A quick call to my ex.
“I think I need to go to the ER.”
“Just go. I’ll leave right now and come get the kids.”
A quick email to a close group of friends.
“Is anyone available to drive me in to the ER?”
“I’ll be right there” was sent within a minute.
I called to beckon my dad to come down, who was 3 hours away. I was on the phone with my mom when my friend showed up. The intensity of the emotion in my mom’s voice, and trying to say goodbye to the kids when I didn’t know if or when I would see them again nearly overwhelmed me.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I noticed the hanging planter was dying. “Shit! I forgot to water that again!” Joe replied, “Good. Then it will die and you can get something nicer.” If I could think more like Joe then perhaps I wouldn’t be on the way to the hospital wondering if I’m about to have a heart attack.
After much waiting and a sprinkling of family drama, I was finally called back, my mom coming with me. All tests were normal. The nurse asked, “Have you had any stress in your life recently?” My mom and I both laughed. The doctor prescribed and gave me a Xanax. “Is this addictive?” “No not at all,” the nurse replied. “It’s a wonderful drug that college students often use during finals week.” Come to find out later, it is very addictive and dangerous, but is also by far the most effective drug out there for quashing anxiety.
And it worked. I went home that night feeling more normal than I had felt in months. So it was just anxiety all this time. Fucking anxiety. It can be unbelievably powerful when left unchecked. I had no idea before any of this.
The next day I returned to work. The morning was fine, but by mid-day I felt the anxiety creeping back in, driving me back down into my hole. Facing people, attending meetings, even with the most wonderful of co-workers, was too much. So I took half a Xanax and got through the afternoon. This became my routine over the next few days.
Then I learned how dangerous Xanax can be, and I was thrown for another loop. How the hell was I supposed to function without it? By 11am every morning the anxiety was rising to my neck like the water in a breached ship hull.
I went on an SSRI (anti-depressant). Xanax in the short term got me through the literally constant panic attacks. I’m thankful for that. The SSRI has helped me maintain that long enough to work on natural anxiety management through personal growth.
I started writing this over 3 years ago and never finished it. During that time I’ve learned a lot about myself and anxiety. Anxiety remains ever-present. Some days it’s heavy, some days light, but it’s always there. Recognizing it as such, and knowing better how to respond to it, has made all the difference.
Following are a few hard won lessons I have found helpful:
- I cannot effectively take care of others if I don’t take care of myself. This was life changing for me. There is no martyrdom in burning out while leaving those you burn for behind.
- I am worthwhile without being perfect. I am not perfect. I am human. Say it a thousand different ways. Just do your best, paradoxically also knowing your best means you can always do better. But if you’re doing that and it’s not good enough for someone, then fuck them.
- I have as much right to exist and enjoy my time on this planet as anyone else. I occupy space, space taken up by my meat suit. It’s mine and it’s unique and it’s wonderful. Please respect that. Otherwise stay the hell away from me.
- Reconnecting with the carefree joy of childhood can move mountains of anxiety. It’s not always possible, being an adult with many adult responsibilities, but it’s great when it is. Remember that. Set a reminder if you need to.
- Parenthood is fucking hard. You will make mistakes. Own them. They will make mistakes. Show them that owning them is ok, and in fact good, much better than not. It’s all part of the journey. Show up, give them your time and your attention, respect them as human individuals, and you’re already most of the way there.
This is a very personal story of my journey. I felt compelled to write it because we need to de-stigmatize mental health. Thankfully the pendulum is swinging in that direction. Had I been able to recognize, accept, and treat my crippling health issues as anxiety sooner, it would have saved myself and my family a lot of unnecessary trauma. Anxiety is real, and it can absolutely be devastating, even life threatening.
Recognize, accept, treat. Take care of you.