Last night I woke up at midnight in full panic mode, like a lightning bolt of anxiety struck my heart and flung me out of bed in one swift movement. It’s been years since this last happened, and I don’t know that it’s ever been so powerful or frightening.
I made the rounds, ensuring all my children were safe, asleep, breathing. I did this twice. I turned on the porch light and stared out the window for an obscene amount of time. Nearly an hour went by before I sat down again, and I stayed in the living room—more central to the house than my bedroom—so I could easily hear any of my children should something happen. I paced and fidgeted so much, I made the dogs nervous. Yes, that’s right. We have two dogs, both of whom would quickly alert me to anything awry in this house. Still, I couldn’t escape the panic.
Logically, I knew I wasn’t in danger. My children weren’t in danger. Everything was fine. Yet I felt in my bones: something horrible was going to happen.
I sat with this feeling a long time, trying to talk myself out of it. It didn’t work. So I did something I often do when I can’t sort through my feelings—I prayed.
**Disclaimer: Whatever your beliefs are or your stance on prayer is—that’s for you and this is for me. I’m not here to debate the power of prayer or the existence of a higher power. Ok? Ok. Moving on.**
Most of the time, prayer eases my soul. It calms my heart and mind and fills me with peace. But there are times—like last night—where it doesn’t. These moments where a private conversation with God doesn’t lift even the slightest burden—physically or mentally—have always troubled me, but I’ve never given it too much thought.
Until about 1:30 this morning, that is.
I can’t explain the way my mind works, nor could I draw you a map of the thought process that ensued, but I’ll try to cover the key points.
As I pondered back on experiences where absolutely nothing calmed my worried heart, regardless of my devotion, I had a couple realizations.
Setting aside the fact that I didn’t even begin to understand my anxiety until my mid-late twenties, most of the time when I’ve experienced an anxiety attack (mild, moderate, or severe), it’s happened to me whilst fully awake. I’ve seen the progression. Whether it was gradual or quick, whether it seemed logical or not, I’ve witnessed it as a completely conscious being. Whether it’s: I’m repressing tons of feelings and this minor inconvenience is sending me over the edge. Or: So many things are going wrong all at once and I don’t have time to process this. I’m spiraling. Or even: Something catastrophic is happening and I can’t deal.
But memories came flooding back to me last night as I gave it more and more thought. Days where I woke up overwhelmed by a massive black hole in my middle. A deep, horrific, and aching sense of dread that something horrible was happening or about to. That someone I loved was in danger. That I was in danger.
Sorting through these memories, I had an epiphany.
THOSE WERE PANIC ATTACKS.
Maybe mild panic attacks compared to others I’ve had, but still…
I felt like such an idiot. And then I had another, even more frustrating epiphany, and felt like an even bigger idiot. A colossal idiot.
I’m 35 years old, and I never learned how to distinguish anxiety from intuition.
I’ve attended weekly church meetings for most of my life. In my youth, I was taught that “bad feelings” were warning signs. While I don’t think this is inherently wrong, it’s a half-truth. An incomplete, misguided, half-truth, preached to kids as if anxiety isn’t a legitimate ailment. As if mental health comes down to “Did you pray about it?” Again, I am not here to debate the power of prayer. But there are people (me) who grew up not knowing there was a clinical term for their “bad feelings” that no prayers could dissipate.
Setting aside the fact that my ADHD went undiagnosed until I was nearly 34, I realized I had depression by my late teens, though I had no idea what to do about it or how to treat it. I understood that I had anxiety in my early twenties, again lacking any knowledge about how to handle it. I didn’t gain the vocabulary I needed to express it until years later, and now at 35, I’m still trying to understand it, manage it, cope with it, and treat it.
A couple years ago, my doctor and I were discussing my anxiety, and she gave me these beautiful, tiny white pills to take when I felt an anxiety attack coming on. She added, “If you’re having trouble falling asleep at night, these might help calm your brain and allow you to get the rest you need.”
Was I having trouble falling asleep? Only every night ever. Granted, my children are horrible sleepers and this has scarred me deeply. But even when they are all asleep, all is well, I’m safe, they’re safe, my home is secure, nothing horrible is happening, my brain WON’T SHUT OFF. It’s infuriating. But I never connected the dots enough to draw the conclusion, “I should talk to my doctor about anti-anxiety medication.” Why? I honestly can’t explain it. It seems so obvious to me now.
Hindsight, am I right?
However, that prescription was given to me two years ago and I’ve refilled it two—maybe three times. Why? Because I talk myself out of taking those pills more often than I take them. Why? Well, yesterday I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. But somewhere around 1:45 a.m. today I realized it’s because I think that by taking those pills, I’m welcoming danger. I’m turning off my “warning signs” and making my entire family vulnerable.
All those days where I woke up certain something was terribly wrong, made phone calls, checked in on friends and family, and despite hearing nothing but “all good here!” went to bed hours later still feeling like the world was about to cave in, I didn’t need to pray. Well, I mean, maybe I did. But I didn’t only need to pray or meditate or have a private, spiritual communion. I needed to take a dang chill pill. A literal, prescribed, clinically proven chill pill.
The hours of my life I could have claimed instead of giving away to panic and fear.
Oh, my side part for a time machine.
**Yes, I’ve said that before. I meant it then and I mean it now.**
Somewhere around 2 a.m., I gave myself permission to take that pill. Perhaps ironically, the moment I decided I was going to take the pill, a weight lifted off my chest. I still felt the anxiety, but the choking dread gradually dissolved.
I slept. My kids woke me up unreasonably early as always, and I’m definitely tired, but I’m also calm. I shudder to think what I’d feel like right now if I’d stewed in that useless anxiety all night long. I’ve done it before. It’s been a while but I have done it. Knowing what I know now, I can’t believe I ever did. It’s ridiculous to me.
To be clear, I don’t harbor ill will toward the people who inadvertently taught me to recognize anxiety as intuition every single time. Has anxiety prevented me from making some mistakes in my life? Absolutely. There have been several times in my life where feelings of dread caused me to reexamine the decisions I was making or about to make, and I spared myself heartache and misery. But anxiety has also held me back because I deemed it a warning sign rather than recognize it for what it was: a very real and diagnosed mental illness.
Now, does this epiphany mean I’ll start popping tiny white pills like they’re candy? Absolutely not. They make me sleepy, and I’m already battling that on the daily. Does it mean that next time I wake up in a panic, I’ll immediately talk myself into take a pill? No. I can promise you I will still check on all my children—twice—to make sure they’re safe. I’ll probably turn on the porch light and stare out the window for a while. But I won’t let myself sit in that dread for two hours before doing something about it, either.
Maybe last night/this morning wasn’t as significant as I think it is. But every time I learn something new about myself or the way my brain works, it’s like finding another piece of the vast and complicated puzzle that is my life. There are obviously a multitude of pieces left to uncover, but tonight I know something about myself that I didn’t know last night. And I think that’s pretty powerful. I feel empowered.
Not physically of course. Not really mentally either at this particular moment because my three-year-old spent the majority of the day screaming at me. But theoretically, I’m feeling empowered, and I’ll take it.
Genalea Barker 