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Anxiety

A Real and Raw Experience

By Casey DiNicolaPublished 6 years ago 14 min read
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Who am I, you might be wondering? Well, let me start off by telling you who I am not. I am not a doctor, psychiatrist, psychologist, scientist, or anything of the like. I do not have all of the answers (or probably any, for that matter). If you are looking for a secret or magical solution to your problems, you should probably stop here, because I don’t have that, either. But what I do have is a lot of experience. I am a small-town girl that has been diagnosed with multiple forms of anxiety disorders, and I’ve been through hell and high water. I have a story that, whether you have an anxiety disorder or just that normal, public speaking or test taking anxiety, you can probably relate to in some way.

Here it is—my story. Bear with me as I try to put it all into words, as this is the first time I’ve ever done so, and I still have trouble talking about it. I have always been an anxious person. As far back as I can remember, I’ve been afraid to sleep with a necklace on, or a headband, or headphones, out of fear of choking in the middle of the night. I have always been afraid of taking medicine out of fear that I’d be the one percent who experiences the deadly side effects or an allergy. I was afraid to sleep on the bottom bunk bed because, well, what if the top one fell? The list could go on and on, and it’s mostly small and simple things, but it’s safe to say I’m a paranoid person.

It wasn’t, however, until my junior year of high school that I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) and Panic Disorder. One day, my dad and I went to Boston to visit my cousin who was studying at Harvard University. We got lunch together at a small Mexican restaurant that I can picture so vividly in my head—where it was, what it looked like, where we sat. Shortly after sitting down, a weird feeling came over me. I was dizzy, lightheaded, short of breath, etc. My dad took me outside to walk, and as we were walking, I began to feel better, so we went back in and sat back down. But, as soon as I sat down, I was flooded by that same feeling, so back outside we went. After this cycle repeated itself multiple times, we decided it was best to leave lunch, head to the car, and head back home. The entire three-hour drive home from Boston, I sat with the passenger seat laid all the way back, trying to sleep, but paralyzed by thoughts that something must have been wrong with me. Why in the world was I feeling this way?!

The following day, I scheduled an appointment with my PCP. After many appointments and every test under the sun (blood tests, CT scan, MRI, EKG, EEG, I even wore a heart monitor for a week), we came to terms with the fact that that sunny day in Boston, I experienced my first, of many, panic attacks. What a sh*tty feeling that was.

I didn’t want to accept it. I kept thinking to myself, this is wrong, I don’t have anxiety, there’s something that they’re missing, there’s something worse that’s wrong with me. But, as much as I didn’t want to accept it, I didn’t have much of a choice. My doctor covered every possible disease and every possible organ.

So, I went on with my merry life. But the following week it happened again, and then it happened again, and over the next month, it was happening more and more often. More scared now than ever (of the fact that I thought I was deathly ill), I called the doctor back. I think to give me a piece of mind she re-ran some tests she had already taken. I was actually surprised when, again, everything came back totally normal. Ultimately, and much to my dismay, I agreed to try an anxiety medication.

It didn’t work. I have no science to back this up, but I still think it didn’t work because I didn’t want it too. To me, treating anxiety is all about mind over matter, and ultimately the placebo effect. In the back of my mind, I was so totally convinced that something else was wrong with me, so why would anxiety medication help? I found myself back at the doctors with a higher dose of medication. Obviously, she knew that anxiety is what I was experiencing, so she had faith it would actually work in the long run.

But once again, it didn’t work. In fact, I was making negative progress; having more and more panic attacks, and at this point, I was living every day with a constant, general feeling of anxiety out of sheer fear that there was something medically wrong with me and I was misdiagnosed. I was even afraid of taking the medication that was supposed to make me better. I was having panic attacks worrying about having another panic attack. UGH.

Over the next several years, it progressively got worse and worse. I saw multiple different doctors and specialists, but still, nothing was wrong. So I tried multiple different anxiety medications from SSRI’s like Zoloft and Buspirone to benzodiazepines like Ativan and Xanax. I went to therapy, both in person and online. I tried every possible home remedy—essential oils, meditation, self help books, etc. I even went so far as to getting hypnotized by a medical hypnotist in my town.

In the time that I was doing everything I could to get rid of this nasty feeling, my life moved on as normal. I graduated from high school and went away to college with hopes of becoming a doctor. My freshman year living in Newport, RI was one of the best and worst years of my life. I made the best friends I’ve ever had, and some of the greatest memories. But that didn’t take away the anxiety that I felt. I struggled with waking up in the morning and getting to class, focusing when I did, and studying or doing homework. I was drinking and partying too much. I was taking medication that wasn’t working but instead making me feel like a zombie, and was still paranoid 24/7 that something was going to happen to me. I was going to have a heart attack, a stroke, or something crazy. Why?!

This turned into a fear of being alone. Not emotionally lonely, but physically. Being in a room, walking down the street, whatever it was, if I was by myself, I was nervous. The school year ended, my grades weren’t the best, and I went home for the summer. I never went back. This was the summer of 2013. One that was incredibly hard for me. Strictly making the decision to abandon my education (which was very important to me), and not go back to the place where my best friends were, was tough. On top of that, it was like I was in a constant state of worry for no reason at all. But, at least I was still able to live my life like a normal person.

It was also that summer of 2013 where I fell in love with my boyfriend, Luciano, who, little did I know, would become my safe place. It was helpful for me. Right from the start it seemed that we were made for each other, having so much fun and sharing so much happiness. He took a lot of my worry away.

Leading up to this series of unfortunate events, I was always so happy and independent. I couldn’t believe that, for the first time ever, I was relying on another person to make me feel like myself. What in the world was happening to me? At the end of that summer, my boyfriend moved back to Boston. He lived and worked there, but relocated to my town for his job for the summer months. Him leaving was difficult, but only a three-hour distance wasn’t too bad. I had never driven by myself on the highway, and in October (for my birthday) I finally mustered the strength to drive there to be with him and go see my favorite artist in concert. Of course, my luck, I got in a car accident on the Massachusetts Turnpike that day, an hour from his house. There were four cars involved, and it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I hit my head and my knees. Any and all anxiety that I have ever experienced flooded my mind in the very instance that I hit the back of that purple PT cruiser right around exit 10. I probably shouldn’t have, but I refused medical attention. I called Luciano and he immediately left his job to meet me. My car was drivable (thank god for that Volvo), but I was in no state of mind to be behind the wheel. The very nice police officer allowed me to leave my car in a parking lot by the toll booths for the weekend, so there I sat, pacing back and forth, waiting for Luciano. Seeing him was one big sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, after this event, I was both physically and emotionally unwell. We never made it to the concert. As a matter of fact, I don’t think we made it as far as getting off the couch.

I think of this day as the beginning of a really long and miserable downward spiral. I stopped driving all together, and I was more anxious than ever. It put a lot of stress on our relationship because I was no longer able to make my way to Boston, so if we wanted to see each other, he needed to come to me, all while balancing a crazy, city work life. On top of that, I was irritable all the time and extremely jealous (which wasn’t like myself).

So, I wasn’t driving, and I wasn’t seeing my boyfriend. What does this mean? I spent the next few years in my bedroom at my parent’s house with very little contact to the outside world. I was so terribly anxious of every little thing in life. I was paranoid, I was sad, and I felt alone. I had always known people to have anxiety, but never to this extent.

It was then that I was diagnosed with mild agoraphobia. I refused to leave the house, unless I was with Luciano and very occasionally with my parents. On top of not leaving the house, I also couldn’t be alone. So, one of my parents needed to be there at all times. It was like I was a child again. It was embarrassing and heart-wrenching at the same time. I was depriving them of a real life. I was guilty. Life was damn rough, man. And I sure wasn’t blessed with a brain capable of dealing with it. Something up there was NOT right. This lasted for longer than I could ever explain – almost four years that felt more like a lifetime.

Let me just tell you how lucky I was to have found a man so caring, compassionate, and selfless. He left the life and career that he created for himself in Boston to move to my small town to be with me and to help me on my journey. I promised him that I would work much harder on bettering myself if he did. At first, life was at a standstill. I was crazy, we weren’t the happiest, but given the circumstances, it was okay. We got a house together, but I still wasn’t able to be alone. So, when he woke up for work in the morning, I woke up too, and he dropped me off at my parents on the way (I still wasn’t driving), and picked me up on his way home.

I decided to enroll in online school so at least while I was useless, sitting at home, I was working on my education. I went to Penn State (World Campus) as a psychology and health sciences major. I learned a lot about myself in that experience. And, at least, at the end of the day, I had some sort of satisfaction of getting something done. But, my anxiety still wasn’t getting any better.

Luciano forced me to push myself and try all sorts of remedies. One day, he went so far as to coming home from work to tell me that he made an appointment for me with a hypnotist, and I had to promise him I would go. I really didn’t want to. But, for him, I did. Together, we went to the medical hypnotist one random night. I HATED it. I doubted everything about it. Some people have good experiences, but it just wasn’t for me. Still, I went back a second time, for him.

And I think that is when something in my head clicked. I was looking to all of these other people and things for a solution to MY problem. The doctors and therapists, the hypnotist, my boyfriend, medications, you name it. But I never looked to myself for the answers. To my brain, which was the problem in the first place. I didn’t want too. I didn’t think there was an answer. After all this time there was still a hint of denial that I was mentally unhealthy, not physically. But I had to try. I spent FOUR YEARS of my life without a single 30 second span that I wasn’t in the presence of either Luciano or my parents. Yes, four years. That’s sad, crazy, scary to say out loud. To admit. To come to terms with.

This happened in September of 2017. From them on, I began talking to myself and my thoughts regularly. Not those crazy self-help book methods, because there was really no method. But honestly, I was in such a bad place for so long that I gave myself no choice but to get out of it. In fits of rage mixed with hysterical crying, I told myself that this is no way to live. Each day I wanted to challenge myself to do something I wouldn’t before. To show myself that there really was nothing to be afraid of. Still, I struggled with this, but I tried. And thank God I did. With this, I experienced some of the most anxious days of my life. From driving by myself again for the first time, even if it was for less than a minute, to being in the house alone while everyone went for a walk around the neighborhood. The littlest things. But those ended up being the biggest.

And here we are, today. Am I healed? Absolutely effing not. But am I better? Yes. I still have trouble doing a lot of things on my own. BUT, when my boyfriend wakes up for work, I don’t. When he leaves, I stay in bed, and I sleep, which I wasn’t able to do for years. I wake up in this house by myself and I spend the day here, alone, just me and my dog. I have a life. If you asked me just six months ago, I would have honestly said that NEVER again in my life would I be somewhere without my safe people.

Slowly, I’m becoming one of my own safe people. I’ve come a long way, but still have a long way to go. I still have battles with my own mind, and often find myself having to convince myself that I am okay, and that everything will be fine, even if it doesn’t feel like it will be. The slightest progress, though, showed me hope and I can finally see the brightest light at the end of the tunnel. If your struggling, you can too. Just writing that brings the biggest smile to my face.

This is a snippet of my life. This is only probably 5% of my journey and my struggles. But its real. And its still continuing. A work in progress.

This is my actual reality. I am here to allow you to hear from me, your everyday girl, the actual reality of living with mental illness. To give you someone to relate to, because I didn’t have that. Everything that I read was about your stereotypical “anxiety,” which is nothing like what I felt. That made me worse because I felt more alone. That is not what this is. This is the real deal. No sugarcoating or holding back. Real, raw feelings and experiences. Life. It is my hope that this can help you, even if it’s just in the slightest way. I think that’s the most important part.

Like I said, my journey is still in progress. Actually, it's only just begun. So, here I am, to share stories and obstacles along the way.

But before I go, one more thing:

What have I learned so far? That stigma is the biggest issue of all. There is such a known stigma around mental illness, and that hindered my ability to get better so immensely. I was embarrassed because of the way it was viewed. I constantly put off getting help or helping myself. I lost all of my friends because I was embarrassed to tell them what I was experiencing, so instead, I ignored their text messages when I wasn't feeling OK and I ditched all possible plans instead of telling them I was afraid to leave my house. I let anxiety rob me of my life and friends—don't you do the same.

So, on a final note: HAVE NO SHAME IN YOUR MENTAL HEALTH. Talk about it. Don't be embarrassed. Get the help you need, when you need it. Don't give stigma the power.

XOXO

anxiety
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