PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, and Panic Disorder

Last night, I laid in bed, curled into a ball, clutching my stomach. The pain radiated around my torso and into my shoulders. I felt nauseous. My body broke into a cold sweat. I struggled to breathe and my chest felt heavy. Tears streamed down my face.

“Not again,” I thought.

The panic set in. How long would it last, this time? How bad would it get? 

I talked to my husband on the phone. “What do you think triggered it?” he asked.

“Labs. I have to take her to get labs Friday.”

After 6 years of taking my daughter, a transplant patient, to every appointment, every test, staying with her every time she was in the hospital, holding her down while she screamed, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I tried. I ignored my anxiety and the desire to hide in bed and dutifully did what I felt I had to do. Until my body wouldn’t let me do it any more.

It started when I had to hold her down during a minor surgical procedure when she woke up from anesthesia. I thought I had an ulcer, or gall stones. I went to the ER thinking I was having a heart attack. It took over a year for a medical professional to tell me, “I think you have PTSD.”

I went to therapy. It got worse before it got better. I understood what was going on, now. But I continued to force myself to suck it up and take her to her appointments. To hold her down. She struggles with PTSD, anxiety and panic attacks, as well. I would hold it together for her, only to cry all the way home and be struck with extreme fatigue for several days or weeks following.

My brain could no longer react correctly to stress. A basket of laundry overwhelmed me. My children fighting with each other made me want to run and hide. Some days I could barely get out of bed. My body ached all over. Lifting my arms was an accomplishment. I developed stress induced Fibromyalgia.

One day, I was preparing to take her for labs the following morning, and it hit. Suddenly, I felt sick. My stomach was in knots. It started burning. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I began sobbing uncontrollably. I literally could not stop. I turned a movie on for the kids and locked myself into the bathroom. I climbed into the bath tub and cried. I felt like I was going insane. The pain in my belly wrapped around me and threatened to break me in half. I could’t breathe. I felt like a trapped animal. I lost all control. My ability to rationalize faded. All I wanted was for this feeling to stop. It was unbearable. Thoughts of suicide began circulating through my head. I would push them out only to have them return. Escape. It was the most terrifying experience of my life.

I was able to reach my husband and he came home and took me to the doctor. I was afraid I would be committed to a mental institution. I was relieved to discover that I wasn’t going crazy. I was having a panic attack. 

In the months that followed I had others, despite the medication I had begun taking - which came with it’s own side effects. I started having panic attacks because I was afraid of having panic attacks. I was afraid to leave my house. I was terrified of having an attack while out, in public, with my three children, and unable to drive home. I hid in my house. Winter isolated me further. I sank into depression. Only a few close friends and family knew what was going on. I was embarrassed. I felt like a failure.

It has taken over a year for me to fight my way out of it, and it always lurks at the corners of my mind. Threatening to take over and pull me back under. I still have panic attacks. I struggle internally every time I leave the safety of “home”. I'm often irritable and impatient.

This is not me. I am a bright, happy, positive person who loves to travel, be outdoors, and be adventurous. I love to laugh, and help people. I enjoy my children and I tackle life head-on. 

This is PTSD. This is anxiety. This is panic disorder. This is depression. This is not something I can control. 

I’m writing this because, since I began this struggle, so many others have told me about their own battles with these disorders. I want you all to know that you are not alone. You are not a failure. I want you to know that, while you may always struggle and have dark moments, you don’t have to let it define you. You are still in there. You are strong. You are courageous. 

…“Labs. I have to take her to get labs Friday.”

“Why don’t we wait another week. I will be there and I can take her. You don’t have to,” My husband said.

And just like that, the panic began to retreat. The tourniquet threatening to break me in half began to loosen. The pain and nausea subsided. My heart rate slowed and my breathing became less erratic and shallow. Gradually, my body calmed with my mind. Just like that, it was over.