PTSD

Less than a week before Christmas I had a full on panic attack at Costco. It was two-fold. The first part happened while I was sitting in the ophthalmologist's chair, listening as her voice slowed down and I heard that I'm going blind.

Now let me be perfectly clear, with myself mostly: I am not going blind.

But that's what my brain processed as the very nice Costco ophthalmologist casually told me that my contact prescription had changed dramatically in the past 12 months. And that I had a new stigmatism. And that I had likely been overcorrected with my prescriptions my whole life.

The room went fuzzy and my eyes filled with tears and I couldn't stop anything. Not time, not the crying, not the tightness in my chest.

When the very nice Costco ophthalmologist finally looked up from the prescription pad and focused on me, she realized what was happening. She connected the story I'd told her of why I was on Xarelto and that I was having a PTSD episode and she felt horrible and tried to comfort me and then I felt horrible for having to be comforted at the eye doctor and she got me Kleenex and I eventually went on my way.

And then I saw my sister and my mom in the electronics aisle and I lost it. Part two of said panic attack. Right there in the middle of the Christmas-busy store. And then the checker was not nice when we left and then that night at dinner I had to tell my dad about my experience and I lost it. Again.

And here's something I've learned in the last five years: panic attacks have no rhyme or reason sometimes. And sometimes they make all the sense in the world. Because I have a smidge of post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). No, I've never been to war. And yet, still the PTSD.

Because five years ago today I was in the emergency room with anaphylaxis. My eyes were swollen shut. My throat was swelling shut. It took two shots of adrenaline to get my body to settle down. But it did. And I didn't die. Score one for modern medicine.

Because two years ago today I was in the emergency room with deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism and what we now know is a blood clotting disorder. My legs were hurting and swelling, my heart was having a bit of a hiccup and there was some trouble with my blood. But the doctors and nurses took care of me and again, I didn't die. All the points for modern medicine.

And yes, I'm still talking about these experiences. No. I can't get over them. I likely won't ever. And that's okay, because they are part of what's formed who I am today, who I will be tomorrow.

The moments, or hours, of panic have become less over the days, months and years. I have this spray I use and I use it so much less frequently than I used to. Two years ago I was using it daily. Now I use it like once a quarter, and that might be generous. And sometimes I use it just to make Angela feel better (she's aware of this fact).

It's been five years. It's hard to fathom it. And yet? That morning in the ER with the anaphylaxis seems oh so far away. Because it really is. I haven't had another experience with penicillin since and I've not had an issue with anaphylaxis.

It's been two years. And yet at times it seems like it was just yesterday since I laid in the hospital bed, heart monitor on, Heparin coursing through my veins, scared out of my mind while at the same time feeling completely safe because I was in the hospital. I had never been so happy to be somewhere ever.

But the PTSD is very real. And I acknowledge that to myself on a regular basis. I talk about it with my people. I try to breath and allow myself to feel what I'm feeling. To cry, even if I do feel stupid crying about new contacts. I get to be scared because life is scary. Almost dying is scary. Almost dying a second time is terrifying. Having a disease or disorder is scary. Thinking that every single gallbladder pang is a new pulmonary embolism is scary. Trying to decide if each breath is a normal one or a burdened one is exhausting. And scary. It is very real. It is PTSD. It will subside. I get help. I really am all right. I really am fine. But --

It takes a lot. It takes effort. It takes prayer and quiet time and not thinking and watching television and asking people to make me think about anything else. And sometimes I can't think of anything else and I'm just going to cry it out. And sometimes I have to force myself to get up out of bed and find a book and focus on the words of a novel. Sometimes I have to stand in the freezer section of Walmart and hold on to the door handle and breathe past the gallbladder attack and tell myself twenty times I am fine, I am not dying, it's the stupid gallstone, not my lungs.

(Side note: Gallbladder issues are being dealt with, maybe, some day, we'll get rid of them -- and it!)

Mental health takes effort. So much. It's time-consuming and laborious and important. And I'm working on it. And I have so many people supporting me, which is amazing. And I know that the panic attacks will continue to improve, to go away, to come back, and maybe some day? Never find me again. But that might not be how it turns out. And I have to be okay with that. Because that's just a part of me now, a part of my last five years and probably a part of my next five or fifty years.

And eventually I can look back on those moments, five years ago, two years ago, a month ago, and realize that things turn out perfectly fine. And I remind myself of that a lot. Yes, things are different but things are fine. And I am lucky and blessed and alive and happy. And I have new contacts. And I got to laugh really hard on Christmas morning when I unwrapped a gift from Angela: a copy of Cory Booker's book in large print. She had bought it online without knowing it was large print but I got to tease her that she bought me it because I'm going blind. Because sometimes humor is all that gets us through the day.

I talk about my experiences because I know I am not alone. Not in my experiences. Not in my troubles. And not in my life. I am healthy and happy and overall, mentally well. I have these issues, I likely always will, or some remnants of them. And that's okay too. Because PTSD has taught me a lot.

Today I think about the last five years. Today I think about what I've experienced. Today I think about what's next, and how grateful I am there's a 'what's next' in spite of it all. Even if it's messy and scary and tiring. Because that's life. And it's grand.

Oh, January 23rd, how you've changed me so.

71 days since...

It's been 71 days.

Seventy one days since my candidate lost and their candidate won.

Seventy one days since hope was banished. Since despair set in. Since anxiety became the norm. Since I have read the news, social media, turned on the television with not a sense of momentary relaxation or escapism but with sincere dread.

Prop 8 rally - 2008

Seventy one days to wrap my mind around what has happened and what will happen. To hear the rallying cries of people I admire and respect and look to for counsel and guidance. To watch people trying their best to come together, use their voices, take a stand, do something, anything.

But it hasn't just been 71 days, has it? It's been years. Decades. Centuries. Of fighting. Of resisting. Of yelling. Of not normalizing. Of working. And I know it will continue.

HUMC ready to march - 2008

I've been political my entire life. But when I moved to Los Angeles, I stepped up. Before I knew how to get home without a map, I was riding the subway downtown and marching against Prop 8. And then it was protesting education cuts at the local level. And then working to get Obama elected. And elected again. And then trying our best with Hillary. Oh and in between all that? Rallying constantly against education cuts at every level. Fighting so that Angela could get her job back, keep her job, have protection at her job.

It doesn't end.

And yes it's only been 71 days. And I know the next four years are going to seem so much longer. And I know we have to use our voices, individually and collectively. I've read all the articles this week, listened to the podcasts, heard the opinions and rallying cries.

But this week I don't feel it.

I will not march Saturday.

2008

2008

I will pay attention. I will listen. I will watch. I will plan. I will contemplate. I will help Angela study for a salary point class because those cuts will come and she'll have to learn to do more for her kids with less. I'll retweet articles for the cause. I'll like all of your posts. I'll cheer you on.

But right now? I'm not sure what the march is for. I want something more concrete. I need tangible. I need action items. I need to know how to use my voice. For the union? For the teachers? I'm there. I'm all over it. For Planned Parenthood? I'm in. For gay marriage? Yep. For my candidate? I will pick up the phone (even though I hated that part of it).

But not this weekend.

2016

2016

It's been 71 days. I am hopeful. I am heartbroken. I will march again. I will rally. Eventually. I will figure out what my heart is telling my brain. I will pray. I will be with you in spirit. I love you all. But Saturday I will be quieter. And I think that's all right. It's taken me weeks to figure out how to say that out loud. How to feel like I'm not letting people down by not marching. But I realize that the most important person I have to be okay with on Saturday is me. And I am.

I am heartbroken. But more? I am hopeful. And I'll come back around. I promise. To myself more than anyone else. I promise.

Happy Birthday, Dad

September 1979

He's known as Dad #2 to one of my college roommates. He's a favorite Facebook friend of many of my friends, some of whom he's never met or only met once. He is always an hour early to pick me up from the airport (well, except that one time but we'll blame mom). He spent hours driving alone on Michigan and Indiana highways to see me play golf in college and made me cry by showing up unexpectedly to my last ever match that was pretty far away. He sat with me and studied at the dining room table every single night the year I took AP American History (and probably learned more than I did). He made me practice my multiplication flash cards even though I never got much better. He will always, always, do the dishes after I cook or bake. He has stood outside of women's dressing rooms and gone to get different colors or sizes more times than I can fathom to count. And yes, he always holds our bags and purses. His laugh is infectious. To the point that we'll get giggling around the dinner table and it takes concerted effort to bring us all back past the point of crying.

He's had two holes-in-one so far in his golfing career. He's served his country in the Air Force and then again working for the State of Michigan for his entire career. He was the field trip dad and the choir concert parking lot manager (even if it was twelve degrees outside) and the parent who showed up at school when there was sickness or strife. He asks us what he should watch on television. He reads whatever I write and makes sure others read it too. He cries whenever anyone wins an award or a game or anything. (And as his daughter, I do too.) He devours books and crushes crossword puzzles. Ask him to help paint golf balls into garden ants? He starts an assembly line. Want a giant Jenga set for the yard? The next two days are spent in the garage cutting and sanding and staining.

January 1, 2017

There is nothing he would not do for me or Angela or my mom, or most likely anyone he knows. He's the guy who goes to the meetings, volunteers, helps set up or clean up, shows up at the party, tells the jokes, laughs at yours, and then asks, what's next? He's honestly the best man I've ever known.

Today Tommy Lee Knapp turns 70 years old. I've known him for only 39 of those years but I am blessed beyond belief. I am loved beyond belief, by him. Because he loves us all. Our family, our friends, my friends, people he's only heard me tell stories about. As my mom might say, tongue in cheek, he's perfect. Well, actually, he's human. But I'm so glad he's one of my humans.

I love you, Dad. More than words could ever express. I can't wait for our next adventure together.