I was always shy growing up and as I entered my teenage years I also became incredibly depressed. I had been dealing with mental illness off and on since I was 8 but didn't know it. I wasn't diagnosed until I was an adult. Long story short I dealt with a lot of self hatred, anger, and contemplation of suicide. I felt ugly inside and that began to be reflected in the way I didn't take care of myself outside.

I don't remember the place, the day or even the person, but someone gave me a compliment. As I had done a hundred times before I shrugged it off. Maybe I told them they were just being nice, something to that effect. Their response startled me.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

I had NEVER seen my actions of deflecting praise as coming off like that and it was shocking. I've never forgotten it and it changed me. Over time it helped me realize the difference between real and false humility and ultimately helped me accept the Savior's atonement in my life.

That's what this video is all about. I wrote the poem first and then I wanted to find an interesting way to share it that might help others who were unaware of the implications of their words and thoughts like I was. Perhaps someone else can find joy in repentance and in the atonement in the way that I have since that eye opening moment.We are all so much more valued and loved than we realize.

THE CLAIM He claims He can redeem us, Yet some state that He cannot, Saying, ‘No one has the sinful Tendencies and thoughts I’ve got. No one’s ever made such missteps In precisely the same way. His grace will be beyond my reach When comes the judgment day.’ These self-abasing sentiments May grant some consolation, Till the moment scrutiny Reveals their true fixation. For at their center lies disguised That age-old enemy pride. In saying Christ can’t save our souls, We’ve all but said He lied. In setting ourselves up As an exception to His claim, We suggest that we know better, Thus, disparaging His name. The Son of God has given all To claim all those who believe, For none will ever merit Any grace they might receive. When we seek to do good, For mistakes make reparation, It’s not to purchase Heaven But to practice emulation. This is true discipleship; The wellspring of charity. A pathway not just one and done But trod continually. This is faith untainted A humility that is pure. Its fruit is confidence which grows With each day that we endure. Our efforts won’t be perfect But as we move on with resolve Our attitudes and habits Will assuredly evolve. Then, when before the bar we kneel Invoking our Savior’s name, He will say unto the Father, ‘On these I lay my claim.’ © Summer Owens

From the time I was 8 years old I knew something was not quite right in my mind. Horrible thoughts would plague me constantly and I became obsessive in trying to counteract them mentally. I had no idea that I was struggling with Primarily Obsessional OCD. All I knew was that the thoughts were frightening and bad, and if I was having bad thoughts then I must be bad, therefore I needed to do everything possible to be a better person so I could get rid of them. Certainly this idea that if I was more righteous I could be healed of whatever darkness was in me stemmed from my religious beliefs, after all I had grown up hearing stories of righteousness and faith that resulted in miracles. So at the young age of 12 I decided to become the most righteous person I could be. I studied the scriptures constantly and took notes, I pleaded morning and night with my Heavenly Father and offered up silent prayers throughout every day.  I kept every commandment, and did acts of service for others. My parents will testify to you that I was a very easy teenager to raise. Yet over the years I continued to struggle with intrusive thoughts and the agony and despair that came with them.  How I loathed myself. I cannot convey the depth of my self hatred and how often I thought that death must be better than living with my tortured mind. What more could I do? Surely I had shown faith, so there must be something I was missing! After all, scripture told me that ..."despair cometh because of iniquity" (Mor. 10:22)  right?

Then in 2005, after 12 years of constant devotion to God in pursuit of peace something did happen. I've gone into some detail in previous posts on this blog but to summarize, a medication interaction gave me instant panic disorder. It took months to stabilize my body and mind so I could function normally again. During that time my two young children and I were flown to Utah so my mother could take care of us while my husband continued the demands of grad student life. My feelings at the time can be well conveyed by echoing the Savior's words, "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" (Matt. 27:46)

Until that time I did not believe things could feel any darker. Everything I had learned to associate with feeling the Holy Spirit was lost to me. There was little but terror and its effect on my body was profound. I lost 15 pounds in a few short days because of the adrenaline surging constantly through me. Sleep, which had always been a refuge from my unnamed affliction, eluded me. I felt utterly abandoned by God and no longer sure that He even existed. How could he let such a thing happen to me if He were there? I began seeing a therapist but was still too afraid of what could happen to me if I explained everything. Would they commit me? Would they take away my kids?

However, something changed after being in a near constant state of terror for weeks. The terror gave way to anger. I was so angry that I was being controlled by the whims of a body that panicked without reason. At that point I hadn't driven a car for a month because it induced panic attacks. So, I decided it was time to take a drive. My goal was simple; make it around the block without stopping until I was back in the driveway. Before I even got in the car, I could feel my body reacting. As I backed out of the driveway my legs were shaking badly and hot flashes shot from my head down through my arms. But I started that slow crawl around the block and every time the panic inside yelled at me to pull over, I yelled back, "No!" Pulling back into that driveway without having stopped once is still one of the most victorious moments of my life. I hadn't stopped until I'd decided too. My own body had been fighting against me but my will had kept me going. And while I realized that my will alone might never change those feelings of darkness and fear, it could help me function in spite of them. The anger gave way to resolve. I could, I would fight! Though my body still panicked I knew it would pass. Though bad thoughts still plagued me, I could live with them. And shortly many of the inhibitions I'd had for so many years about appearing strong and sane melted away. This allowed me to be honest with the therapist and what relief I felt when I was told that there was a name for what I had described and that others dealt with it too! I can't begin to describe how my burden was made lighter just by knowing I wasn't alone.

It's been 13 years since that time and I still battle the demons of anxiety, depression and OCD. I've accepted that I always will. God hasn't removed this thorn in my side but I know now that it wasn't necessarily because I lacked faith, though I didn't fully understand what having faith meant at the time. I know now that the object of faith is not to change the will of God but is "...accepting His will and timing in our lives - even if the outcome is not what we hoped for or wanted."

He has not removed mental illness from me. He did not reward my faith in the one way I most desperately wanted, and yet I can say that I have been healed. After 12 long years of prayer I got an answer to what was happening in my head. I learned through a very unique experience to recognize the Spirit in a way wholly detached from the warm, peaceful feelings I had always associated it with.  I realized that while despair can come from sin it can also come from mental illness in perfectly good people. I realized that the most righteous man on earth was not exempt from horrible pain and suffering and that living a righteous life does not result in freedom from trials but increased capacity to weather and grow from trials. I let go of any facade of having it "all together" and learned to talk openly about struggling which has in turn helped others who struggle.

Some would say that this event in my life happened for a reason. I don't personally believe that God picks specific trials to inflict upon his children. But I do believe that we can choose whether the trials that happen in our lives will be purposeful. Will they increase in us gratitude, wisdom and compassion or will we stunt ourselves with self-pity and bitterness?

Do you know how loved you are?

Yes, you.

You, staring at the screen this very moment. You, who are wondering if every breath is still worth it. You, who can't fathom that somebody might still love you because you no longer love yourself. You, who are thinking of taking that awful leap into oblivion.

I've stood on that precipice and looked into the gaping abyss below. It is a beguiling choice when you loathe yourself and believe that the lives of those you love would be better without you. Indeed, what some call the most selfish of acts is one you feel would be the most selfless.

However, you must know the truth.

In your absence you will leave chaos. Shock, grief, anger and guilt will all battle with one another in the minds of those you've left behind. They will hold themselves accountable for kind words unspoken and good deeds undone. They will know guilt in the anger they feel towards you. For they will be so very, very angry with you at times because they love you so very, very much.

Those you were closest to will struggle with feeling that you must have disliked them to want to leave them. Confusion will hound them with one question continually.

Why?

It's the one question that even a carefully written note of explanation can't satisfy. There is no acceptable answer and there never will be because it is not acceptable that you are dead and that you chose it.

The ripples of your decision will reach people you never even knew. For those who know people who love you, will mourn with them. 

I ask you to realize two things:

First, you have a choice.

Turn away from the abyss. Choose to keep living life, one breath at a time if needed. Choose pain, choose emotion, choose to believe you just might be wrong about leaving.

Second, you are so loved.

You may not feel it or recognize it but it is unequivocally true. For besides countless others who value association and friendship with you, I love you. I love you and I empathize with you because I know your struggle. My heart breaks for it. But I promise you that it is not insurmountable.

Choose to live.

Image Credit: Pixabay.com

Today, in the process of organizing and decluttering my home, I went through a box filled with notes and cards from my past. Many things I had forgotten rose to the surface of my memory. One of these things was mail about the publication of a poem I had written. It was one of those vanity press publications where a plethora of poems from many individuals are published in a "deluxe hardbound edition" that they want to charge you an arm and a leg for. I never bought the book and I remember being a bit miffed when I discovered I had submitted my poem to such a website.

Anyhow, I started writing poetry when I was 8 and by the time I was 13, my carefree rhymes about candy and play had shifted to reflect the inner turmoil and self loathing I was going through as a result of deep depression. Though I am no longer in such all consuming darkness I still feel the weight of what I wrote in every piece (there are more than this) created during my teenage years. Though most of my teenage poetry is dark I still value it because going through and overcoming that darkness has molded me into who I am today. I wrote this when I was 13 or 14.

Delusion

The noble chin which held erect

the wrinkling face with faded smile;

like old jeans washed, starched and bleached,

now a thousand memories all removed

clouded as in sorrow filled eyes

swollen a moment, but all you could see

inside a mirror

where reflection hates reality.

Years of use for self annihilation

as you stare back

piercing cold glass to your core

your one friend because it cannot disagree,

and find now what you're looking for

visible only for want of it

this distortion that you love to see.

© Summer Owens 1994

As I cuddled with my husband late one night last week I was feeling particularly emotional. We chatted about this and that and suddenly, through the course of my chatting I had a realization,
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I said frustratedly
“Oh stop being so dramatic,” came his reply, a smirk behind it.

I was being dramatic. Sometimes it’s fun to say things as though your lines are being read by someone in a book. But dramatic or no, it rang of truth.

Who was I? Who was this new person who had given her business card out to 4 strangers within the last two days? Who was this person who felt glum that she hadn’t had enough human interaction that day?

I suddenly realized that the words I’d always used to describe myself - introverted and shy, didn’t apply anymore. Sometimes I’m still reserved, but if I am it’s because I choose to be. Not because I’m afraid of people or of social situations.I use to prefer books to friends. While I still love books, I’d rather be with friends if the opportunity arises.

I use to sit as silent observer at social functions feeling awkward and unsure of myself. Now I’m unafraid to voice my opinions, start a new conversation or even make a joke.

I use to sit quietly at public play areas or in church waiting for others to introduce themselves to me. Now I’m the one introducing myself and seeking new friendships.

The change must have been gradual but the realization was sudden and stunning. The person I’d always defined myself as, scattered like sand and slipped through my fingers. The grains that still cling are only memories of her.

The moment I woke up on that 7th day, I felt inside that something was terribly wrong. I thought it was just the anxiety again but soon enough I realized it was more. More than fear. It was paralysis. It was darkness so deep I was afraid I had no control. I called a friend on the phone and sobbed to her.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t stop crying. I’m so afraid I’m going to do something to myself.”

I called my mother and told her the same things. My body was burning and shaking and so was my mind. All I could do was lay down and tremble, terrified beyond capacity to even function. The medication had washed from my system, cold turkey, leaving an even bigger mess in it’s wake. My mother told me she was flying out immediately. At the same time I was terrified I might do something to myself, I wanted to die. My body and mind were in a state of constant torture and I wanted it to end.

Here I learned the power of love in keeping a weary soul going. My children knew I was sick. Of course they didn’t know the scope of the illness but they were so tender with me, asking if I would be ok, telling me that they loved me. And somehow their love helped me get a better grip on reality. I needed to be ok, for them. They needed me and they loved me and I loved them. I couldn’t be consumed by this thing, for their sake.

So I waited and sobbed and sat paralyzed and wondered when it would end. One hour felt like a day as my mind raced and sent shockwaves of terror and darkness through me. At times the intense darkness would let up but then it would return, leaving me unable to function again. Only adding to the stress was that this break down had come at the worst possible time for my husband, who had a huge deadline to meet. Both of us were frustrated by the timing of this thing. So I looked forward to hope on the horizon. My mother was coming.

To be continued…

I’ve debated for a while on whether or not to write this post. OCD is, in my opinion, one of the most misunderstood mental illnesses around. I suppose I feel compelled to write this post today because this week has been especially difficult for me. Maybe I can help somebody else dealing with this garbage. Maybe it will help me if talk about it.

First of all, let’s talk about what OCD isn’t. The term OCD has become a common phrase, flung around carelessly when people are perfectionistic, meticulous, fixated on doing certain things a certain way or the like. I have to say it’s a pet peeve of mine to hear people casually say things like, “Oh, I am so OCD” as if it’s something quirky or funny. Certainly perfectionism and meticulousness may be present in a person with OCD but many people truly dealing with this vicious disease would not be able to so easily make light of these tendencies. Edited to add - I’m of course not angry at anyone who has used the term lightly, just frustrated because it gives a false impression about what OCD really is.

Now, let’s talk about what OCD is. Wikipedia defines it as …”a chronic mental disorder most commonly characterized by intrusive, repetitive thoughts resulting in compulsive behaviors and mental acts that the person feels driven to perform…aimed at preventing some imagined dreaded event. Also, the psychological self-awareness of the irrationality of the disorder can be painful.”

When a person has OCD the brains “alarm system” so called, overreacts. Irrational fears that may come and go in an instant for normal people will take seed in the thought of a person with OCD and play out over and over causing severe anxiety and distress. Thus, the obsession part of OCD. Perhaps the most distressing part of all is that the person with OCD can’t control this. They know these fears are irrational, they know (or hope) that these scary thoughts are not of their own making or will, yet they can’t get rid of the thoughts. In my case it’s often more than just thoughts. Images will flash in my mind over and over that I can’t shake. It’s like someone has my eyes peeled open in front of a horror movie. Or like someone shouting in my head ceaselessly.

So what does a person do when they are hounded by scary thoughts? What do you do when a disease takes hold of your inner fears and taunts you with the idea of acting on them, or being victim to them? You try to beat the thing out of your head that’s what. Thus the compulsion comes into play.
Somehow you think that if you act a certain way or do a certain something that it will lessen the severity of the intrusive thoughts. So maybe you decide you have to count to 7 three times in a row, or lock the door 3 times in a row to prevent that terrible thought from playing out. Or maybe you have to say a prayer every single time a disturbing image hits. Not that prayer isn’t good, but when it becomes a part of the compulsion, it’s not.

It’s a disease I wouldn’t be surprised if the devil himself created. Why? Because acting out the compulsions only make it worse. As a kind psychologist once told me, it’s an invincible dragon. The more you try to slay it, the more it feeds off your distress and the worse it gets. I could hardly swallow it when he told me I had to stop trying to kill it. I had to learn to live with it. How do you learn to live with something you hate with such a passion? 

Knowing what your dealing with is only 1/4 of the battle. It did help when I was finally diagnosed and knew that these disturbing thoughts weren’t me. But after that I had to yield. I had to hear the stupid disease shout at me and not do anything about it. I had to learn to agree with my adversary while it was in the way with me. I had to see that intrusive image or have that intrusive thought and think “Yeah, that would suck” and try to focus on something else. The trick is finding balance, distracting yourself a little when needed without allowing that distraction to become a compulsion.

Many people I know always seem to be in wonder at how much I accomplish in a day, at how much I teach myself. Well now you know why. I don’t like to let my mind idle. I love to learn new things anyway and while doing so there is less opportunity for me to focus on disturbing thoughts. But sometimes no matter how I try to get along with this disease it will still rear up and beat me into exhaustion. Sometimes I can’t resist the urge to shout back at it. Sometimes I can’t wait for the day to end so I can find release in sleep. But I keep trying to live with it, keep trying to believe that who I really am inside is independent of it and that when I pass into the next life I will finally be free of it.

To read more about the type of OCD I most struggle with visit this article. 

My grandma received news that they’ve found another spot of cancer. This time on her liver. It’s new and small and they think they can shrink it with treatment. So she’s going ahead with the chemo. She has a wedding she wants to go too and I would love for her to see our family again. But I guess the treatment for this particular spot of cancer will be very vicious. It’s called the Red Devil, I think, because the side effects are so bad.

Let me start this next thought by telling you that I’m not questioning my faith or God, but I have been pondering lately on how very unfair life can be. My grandma grew up with alcoholic parents and rarely had peace of mind or situation. Somehow she turned out well balanced in spite of all the chaos in her life. One of her half brothers is an alcoholic and the other one has been abusing his body with smoking and alcohol for most of his life. She’s one who has taken good care of her body and yet it is ravaged by cancer. I wouldn’t wish the cancer on her brothers but it seems so unfair that her body has betrayed her this way.

When I was younger, I had a false notion that making smart or righteous choices would always yield fair or favorable outcomes in life. But as I got older and realized that very bad things can happen to the best of people I had to wonder why. I couldn’t understand why those who were good people, wouldn’t always be rewarded for their goodness. But it began to make sense when I had children of my own. If my children know of a promised reward for their behavior, they will almost always choose to act in a way that will earn them that reward, even if their heart is not in it. But I don’t want to bribe them into doing good, I want them to choose good, to be good no matter what. When it is right to reward them I will, but it is not always right to do so. Somehow as a parent, I can just feel where to draw the line. What they need is almost never what they want. It struck me with such force as I came to realize these things that God is in the same position. Do we not call him our Heavenly Father? He is a parent. And though he is God, he is still bound by the same feelings. By the knowledge that to deliver every one from every trial, would be the most growth stunting thing he could do for us. I don’t necessarily believe he wants us to go through or decides exactly what hardships we will face, but I do think that he rarely prevents those events because we’re better for it. And I really believe we are.

I've written on here before that a few years ago I went through the effects of a toxic drug interaction. My body was stuck in an awful hell for months. I had never felt such despair, such loneliness. I had never had my faith shaken so badly. I questioned the existence of God and was terrified that I felt at liberty to do so. But I felt nothing. In spite of this I was determined to know if he was really there. I kept going through the motions, praying and hoping that if he was there he might heal me. I had lived such a good life, I wasn’t perfect but I was doing a pretty good job so why wouldn’t he heal me?!?!? I figured it was because I lacked the faith. That if I wasn’t even sure if he existed that of course he wouldn’t do anything if He did. As I went to therapy and tried to heal my mind I remember for the first time in my life being too angry to care. Angry that any of this happened, angry at the unidentified malady that had plagued me for 12 years. So angry I lost all inhibitions. Things I had been too terrified to tell anyone went on in my head, finally came out and with it came the answer to 12 years of prayer. It didn’t happen overnight but those 3 months of torture transformed me. I never want to go through anything like that again, but I am a better person for it. My faith in God was nearly extinguished but I chose to keep trying to believe until I felt it again. I have a better understanding of Him than I ever did before that experience. Dare I say I’m thankful for that experience? I wish it hadn’t been so miserable, but would the rewards have been as sweet had it not been?

I know God exists and that while he may not take our trials away, he will help us get through them if we allow it. I know things will be ok for my grandma eventually. Death is after all only a new beginning.
And to finish this off on a less somber note. If all goes well with her treatment, our whole family will get to see her again this Christmas. My sister is getting married very close to Christmas and my mom has been so gracious as to fly our family out. It will be our first Christmas with our families in 5 years and I’m looking forward to it.

For the most part I am. Malleable I mean. But occasionally even I, multi-tasker extraordinaire find I’m being stretched too thin. Oh no, I’ve got a gaping hole over my emotions! Yikes, there’s a slight tear in my resolve!

Yes, sometimes I find I’ve turned into a figurative doughy mess and I feel too stretched out to be able to snap back into shape. Aggravating that precarious state of mind is the fact that I know (somewhere within that miscroscopic logical part of my brain) that nothing is wrong. So bawling my eyes out when I know there’s no good reason for it just makes me feel like more of a failure.

The sad thing about this? It’s a cycle. I’m chuggin’ along feeling great, taking on more and more and suddenly the mental load I’ve only added the tiniest bits and piece too, becomes more than I can bear. I crash and I burn and I cry and I get mad at the world and grumpy with people in general. Then ticked at myself for doing so. Then I cry some more. I just can’t win! I am simply never going to live up to the woman I think I should be. Often this is a good thing, a high motivator. But it eventually always brings me to a complete stop.

Then, after the anger and the crying and the spark of hope that starts my engine chugging again, I find further healing in a bowl of ice cream and a good romance movie. Shortly after that, I realize once again that I can conquer the world…

Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t end up going to the hospital. I know I wanted to at times but I had a vague idea that my body was going through some sort of panic disorder and I knew there wouldn’t be that much that could be done. Yes, they probably could have given me something to calm me down but the thought of taking any medication actually sent my body into a frenzy all over again, though I was still taking my thyroid medication. So I stayed in bed for close to two days, dealing with the shock waves pulsing through me. I never knew what would trigger the panic attacks. Sometimes it was a loud noise, sometimes it was the way the light filtered through the window, sometimes it was a simple thought. Every night the going down of the sun triggered one. I would find myself feeling hopeful and positive one moment and the next I would feel warmth spreading through my body, fear seeping into my emotions and a heart racing in anticipation of some sort of supposed doom.

I called the doctor who had prescribed the medication and told her what had happened. She didn’t seem very concerned or informative. I asked her how long the medication would take to flush from my system and she told me 6 days. I decided I could survive that long and that once the medication flushed out of my system, everything would be normal again.

For 6 days I waited. The third day after the interaction, my husband went back to school. I was terrified of being alone with the children. What if it happened again? Could I even make a phone call this time? As the door closed I could feel myself starting to lose control. It knew it was battle of mind over matter, but I was new to fighting it and my bodies responses were so strong. I started shaking. I paced nervously around the room, my arms and legs trembling.

“I’m ok, there’s nothing wrong, I can do this.”

As the terror welled up in my throat I willed it to dissipate and I set to work. Distraction was what I needed. Everything I did seemed so new because now it was with such purpose. Unloading the dishes was done with forced vigor and a smile. I wanted to believe things would be ok, I hoped that acting the part might make it so. The whole day was a fight to control my body, to not get swept away by my emotions, to tell myself that though I felt one way, it wasn’t a reality. It was triumphant to make it through without calling my husband to come home. But then after he came home and as night fell it became too much. As the sun went down I could feel my body reacting once again as it had done every time darkness fell the past 3 nights. The warmth, the spasming of every muscle in my body that no positive thought could control. I lay on the bed writhing in agony as my body spasmed and twitched, heat rushing through my limbs in waves, praying for it to end soon. Eventually it did and I tried to sleep, although hoping for peace in sleep was even beyond my expectations at this point.
I had barely slept at all in the past 3 days. I was beyond tired but my mind would not shut down. I would find myself drifting off and if my mind took hold of a thought for too long the panic would set in. I made due the night previous with a half conscious sleep, my body trying to slip into panic the entire time. I found that if I let a multitude of thoughts simply rush through my mind and not focus on any of them, I was ok. But I was on the brink of a full attack the entire time. That third night after my first day alone, sleep would not come at all.

I was angry, I was exhausted, I was scared and I was beaten. So I did the only thing that came to mind, I asked for another priesthood blessing. This time another brother from our church came over and assisted. The peace I felt was instantaneous, my body relaxed and soon I knew I was ready for sleep. And sleep, unmarred by nightmares or panic for the first time in three days, came to me. I needed as much undisturbed sleep as I could get for the battle to come…

To be continued…

Every second I lay curled up shaking felt like an eternity and yet I was surprised at how quickly it seemed my husband made it home. I heard urgent pounding steps in the stairwell outside our apartment door and knew he was coming. I would get to see him one more time.

I heard the lock jiggling. I heard the door slam. I felt his hand on my face as he knelt on the floor beside me. I can’t remember if I told him I loved him but I know I willed him to feel it. I knew there was only one thing that might alleviate my suffering so I asked him for a priesthood blessing.

He was calm as he laid his hands upon my head and uttered a few brief inspired words of healing. Immediately my constant shaking calmed to an occasional quiver. I felt such gratitude to God for this immediate act of relief.

My husband helped me back to my bed where I laid down to try to get some rest. But now that the shaking had dissipated I noticed other things were happening. My heart would race and slow and race and slow. Each time it began to race my body would fill with terrifying warmth. I suppose the best way to explain that is to say it is the kind of warmth you feel when your conscience tells you you’ve done something very wrong. Amplify that ten fold and it kept throwing me into a panic. My mind was so confused at that time, mixing these sensations with fear that I had done something terribly wrong. I call it a hellfire feeling, as though you’re about to be consumed by the agony of guilt.

I also suddenly realized how very sensitive to noise I was. As I lay there, the minutes ticking slowly away, I would hear an occasional yell from one of the kids or a loud bang and my body would immediately start to quiver, my heart rate sky rocketing, filling me again with terrifying warmth. You can imagine that prayer was always upon my lips as I struggled to calm these reactions. I still had no idea what was going on, I only hoped that this physical and mental presence of mind would wear off quickly. Unfortunately that was not to be the case.

To be continued…

We all have one. A day. The day. The day where something in our lives changed drastically forever. For me, May 14, 2005 was that day.

The morning started off with the usual routine. I took my thyroid medication for my Hypo-thyroidism. Then I took a new pill, 40mgs of Celexa. I had been having severe anxiety issues and had asked my new doctor if I could get back onto an anti-depressant. After an evaluation she agreed that I ought to be on one. So I began my treatment. And after that, the details become so very clear.

It was approximately 8:00 a.m. when I took the Celexa.

Exactly 2/12 hours later at 10:30 a.m. as I sat on the couch watching Rolie Polie Olie with my kids I began to feel a little nauseated. I went back to the bathroom thinking I would throw up but then the wave dissipated. I sat back onto the couch when another wave hit, this one twice as strong and with it came the feeling that I was losing consciousness. Suddenly I felt something was very wrong.

My arms were pulsing with warmth. Warmth shot from my head down to my toes. Every muscle in my body began quivering. I dialed my husband to tell him to come home. He could tell I sounded panicked and tried to talk me through what I was feeling. As I started talking to him my body calmed down slightly but towards the end of our conversation that jolting nausea accompanied by struggling to keep conscious surfaced. I told him I was passing out. Then I screamed into the phone that I was dying. I was sure if I lost consciousness I would be dead.

After I hung up the phone I found myself shaking violently again. I knelt down on the floor desperately trying to retch. But I couldn’t. My children were nearby asking me what was wrong. I just told them to watch the TV.

The shaking and zinging feelings shooting from my head and into my arms got worse and worse. I couldn’t even stand. With a prayer on my lips I crawled into the hallway until I couldn’t crawl anymore and curled up next to the bathroom. I couldn’t stop the trembling that had consumed my body. I felt so sick but I couldn’t throw up. My kids came into the hallway and hovered near me and I told them how much I loved them. Then I prayed that my husband would get home soon enough after I had died that they wouldn’t get into any major trouble running around the house on their own.

To be continued…

P.S. I have to continue it. I can’t write anymore. I thought I had worked up the courage to share this story but I’m actually shaking as I relive it.

The following information is presented according to Summer. I am not a physician, nor do I claim to have any answers. Always seek the advice of a medical professional if you think you are struggling with any ailments

A panic attack is defined as the abrupt onset of intense fear that reaches a peak within a few minutes and includes at least four of the following symptoms:

* a feeling of imminent danger or doom
* the need to escape
* heart palpitations
* sweating
* trembling
* shortness of breath or
a smothering feeling
* a feeling of choking
* chest pain or discomfort
* nausea or abdominal discomfort
* dizziness or lightheadedness
* a sense of things being unreal, depersonalization (like an out of body experience)
* a fear of losing control or “going crazy”
* a fear of dying
* tingling sensation
* chills or heat flush

Panic attacks often occur unexpectedly, sometimes even during sleep, which I've had happen.

There are two aspects of a panic attack. The physical and the emotional. Either one can show up first or they can show up together. Usually, if the physical symptoms present first, then I can keep myself emotionally under control. I can realize that my body is having a panic attack or “fight or flight” response, and therefore not get, well, panicked that something is horribly wrong. That doesn’t always mean I can stop the physical symptoms right away, but I won’t aggravate them further with fear about what could be happening.

When the emotional symptoms present first, it’s a lot harder for me to realize I’m having a panic attack, therefore easier to panic and swirl into a downward spiral of negative thoughts.

I had a beast of a panic attack Wednesday evening, the likes of which I haven’t had for about 18 months. I honestly think it was some depressing thoughts that triggered it this time, due to the book I had just finished, The Giver. I’ve never read that book before and as it unfolded I became more and more horrified at the society that was represented and the things people were doing. I got waaaay to into it you might say and put it down feeling very depressed.

Depressing thought led to depressing thought and somehow I found myself scrutinizing my own behavior, focusing on every negative aspect of my mothering and suddenly things became very wrong. I began crying uncontrollably and feeling an awful sense of doom. I felt intensely depressed and intensely afraid that I would do something to myself because of it. I called a friend to get some perspective but she (well meaning though she was) brought up some things that made me more terrified of what could happen because of the way I was feeling. I was also terrified that I would feel that way forever, become a basket case and not be able to be there for my family. My mind raced through every possible reason why I might be feeling this way so strongly and so suddenly. Not coming up with any answers made me panic even more.

I hung up and sat at the dinner table, sobbing and gasping for breath. That’s when I realized I was shaking badly. And suddenly I knew what was happening. With the knowledge came the will to stop the sobbing, and breath. Slowly, terrorizing warmth spread through my body, but with that I knew, came the peak of the attack. And it began fading away. Leaving me to wonder, why I had been such a mess in the first place.

When you’re in the middle of a panic attack, it is nearly impossible to see clearly, to think clearly, to realize the despair you feel won’t plague you the rest of your life.

These feelings were even harder for me, because at one time a few years ago, despair and panic attacks did plague every day. My only respite was sleep, my only focus, survival. Somehow I got through. But I pray to God I never have to go through that again.

Sometimes, I’m surprised by how much I have changed in just the past few years. I got thinking about this tonight at a recipe exchange.

There, surrounded by good food, good people and good conversation I found myself feeling perfectly comfortable. Why, at book group just last week I was unafraid to voice my opinions or even, heaven forbid, try to be funny. Which I sort of was. This seemed slightly unnatural to me, for I remembered past gatherings of this variety where speaking out and feeling comfortable were not the case.

Just three years ago I would attend similar gatherings where I found myself feeling self-conscious, and quiet. My husband was concerned as I came home from each event feeling depressed. I felt bitter at the conversation going on all around me as I sat quietly listening in the corner chair. I listened to certain women speak up and speak often with ease, bitter that they would draw all the attention to themselves and not give others a chance to say anything.

I felt bitter that there were so many obvious close friendships that I was not a part of. Bitter that I heard of play dates and events to which I was not invited. I felt certain that I was ugly and annoying and that I was only invited to these events because they wouldn’t be able to hide their having occurred from me. Yet I kept going to them and came back feeling more depressed every time.

So I found myself wondering, what is different now? Is it that those women have moved away? After all, they hated me right? They were the reason I was so sad right?

No.

What was different then, was that I hated me. So I assumed everyone else did too. How can I possibly expect anyone to think better of me than I think of myself?

No one was stifling me. They would have allowed me to speak out had I chosen it.

No one was trying not to include me. But you can’t force friendship.

I went through a lot of hurt before my perception of me and my assumptions about what others must be thinking of me, changed. I’ve realized that being comfortable around others, starts with being comfortable with myself.

I wish I would have learned that sooner. I think I missed out on some really great friendships because I was busy assuming no one wanted to be my friend.

She sits slumped over the black and white keys, hands in her lap. Her eyes are closed as she slowly rocks forward, letting her head drop. She stops, her nose so close to one of the keys it tingles in anticipation of the actual touch. A single tear forms in the corner of her closed eyelid and begins it’s descent down the slope of her nose. It tickles her skin yet she makes no effort to interrupt its descent. Now it clings to the tip of her nose and stretches, bridging the gap momentarily between emotion and release.

Her hands, flaccid with grief, find their way to the keys. Time to play. Time to escape. Time to transfer the grief into something palpable. A song for her sorrow. The fact that she stumbles through the creation does not hinder her emotion. She is still slumped over the keys as her fingers fumble for the notes that will ring out the true feelings of her soul in this moment. Her body sways side to side, back and forth, trembling at times under the weight of so much feeling. But as she continues she finds herself getting stronger, or perhaps her burden getting lighter.

She still sways but with an upended posture. Her body now trembles with release. She weeps freely, salty drops splashing onto the keys below. Though blinded by tears, her fingers more sure of their course, play the right notes effortlessly. They convey adequately the depth of her sorrow, and then suddenly, something she did not expect. This, a mistake of her fingers, yet it rings true in her heart. She thought to be consumed with grief, but sure as her fingers played it out over the keys, she feels it. Hope. Determination.

She finds the despair is flushed from her by a desire to overcome. She weeps no more with sorrow but with conviction in her ability to choose. She can choose for her life to play out differently. She can choose to remember without being brought down into despair. She can choose to face the darkest parts of herself without thought of escape or denial.

She will not let the song of her soul be one of monotony.

~Summer Owens

Have you ever avoided posting personal content on your blog because you thought you might sound like something of a downer?

That would be me this week. I can’t pin down any exact causes, it just seems to be everything and I’ve avoided posting anything about it, because I didn’t want to scare anyone off with a doom and gloom attitude. But Kailani asked a question for her Aloha Friday meme today that really got me thinking. She asked, Why do you blog? I put down something about a means of communication with the outside world or some such. But as I gave it more thought I realized I started blogging mainly just to say what I wanted to say. To feel there was place outside of my own home where I could truly be me. And to find clarity on different things I was thinking about. You see, writing allows me to really understand myself. As I write down my ideas and feelings, I understand them more. Sometimes I don’t know what’s bothering me until I start writing and then it comes out.

Ah, so that’s why I feel like hiding from everyone. How stupid!

And then I feel better because I know what’s going on and I can fix it or change my attitude.
But lately I haven’t even been honest in my blogging or willing to use it the way I originally intended. I’ve found I’ve been hiding from myself, and just now as I’m writing this I figured out what’s going on.
If you’ve read my blog for long you know that I struggle with, oh, let’s see, depression, anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder. The OCD is the main offender and the depression and anxiety usually stem from that. OCD takes many different, ugly forms, and I won’t go into details on how mine works, but when it’s at it’s worst I really would rather lay down and die than try to live with it anymore. Yes, I said live with it.
For so long, it was so natural to try to fight it, and yet fighting seemed to make it worse. I didn’t even know just what I was fighting until I was diagnosed and then I was told that I couldn’t fight it. That it was like some invincible dragon thriving off of every attempt to kill it. The more I fought, the more I fed it. I had to learn to accept it and then put it aside as a false threat. But the threat feels so real. When it’s at it’s worst I feel like I am desperately clinging to hope, to my beliefs, to my faith that I am a child of God and a good, sound human being. Feelings, even when we know they are false, are so difficult to ignore. But I have to do it during panic attacks and when the OCD rears it’s ugly head or I find my mind spinning out of control with terror and despair.

Then of course there is my unwillingness to accept the problem in the first place. Not only do I have to agree with the devil while in the way with him, I have to admit that I’m dealing with the awful disease in the first place. I want to think that every time I get a break from it, it’s gone for good. I don’t want to accept that it is slowly making it’s way back into my head, and when I don’t, it usually culminates into a melt down. Me ignoring what’s going on until it’s so bad it all falls on me at once and I’m left sobbing and praying for relief.

I know that without this God forsaken illness I might not be able to feel the kind of empathy I do for others, I might not be as accepting or understanding of the strange things people do, I might not have such a wild and crazy imagination. I know that without this illness I wouldn’t be who I am today, and as much as I hate this illness, I sort of like, me. So no, I would never change the fact that I’ve dealt with this since I was twelve. But if I could just up and get rid of it at this point, I would. Until it retreats into the shadows for an unknown amount of time again, I’m glad I wrote this and figured out that it’s bothering me again and I’ve just been pushing it aside. Now to willingly accept it and live happily along side it. Easier said than done.

 *names have been changed

There is a giant range of experiences we can have in life. They are of course either good or bad, and they affect the kind of person we grow into to. For me, it often seems easier to focus on the troubles I’ve had. But I have begun to see that with the trouble, come great opportunities for learning and growth. Troubles also generally come with little miracles. Things that are small, but just big enough to give hope or confidence in taking another step out to face the world again. When I look back and think, “How did I ever get through that?” The fine details begin to appear.

Have you ever loved someone so much you would do anything for them? Even die for them? That kind of love is the most beautiful creation we have been given. To be able to love like that is a gift that surpasses all other beauties. Most of us love our families like that from the beginning. Our parents, siblings, spouse and children. But it can be learned as well.

Have you ever had a friend mean that much to you? Have you ever loved a friend so much it hurts. You hurt when they hurt. You would give your soul to make them happy. It is overpowering, exhausting to feel this way and yet I would never have changed the passion I felt, the love I felt for my best friend, even though it sometimes hurt.

Sherise spent her first 14 years of life in Southern California. Nearly half the population is Hispanic. She had friends that were hispanic all her life. Dating them, however, created a problem with her parents as she found out after they had moved to my neighborhood.

I remember Juan from grade school and junior high. A shy, quiet, pudgy boy with a warm smile. When I saw him next in high school after a few years, he had gotten taller, had slimmed down a little, but he still had that warm smile, those dark eyes. Sherise really liked him. They were “going out”. She asked him to a dance. I wanted to go too, but I didn’t attend their High school and I was afraid of boys. So I decided to skip the dance, but go on the date prior to the dance, as a fifth wheel (another couple was coming with us).

We went down to the local college campus. The boys were blindfolded and were walked through the arboretum. They were trying to guess where they were. After we removed the blindfolds we sat down and had a picnic lunch. Then we went to the game center and went bowling.

I remember a few months after that, I had to go with my school to the local college for the  language fair. I saw the railing that Juan’s hand had slid along as he walked up the steps those few months ago. His hands that would never feel anything again.

A month after my fifth wheel date, Juan asked Sherise to Homecoming. This is where Sherise’s parents stepped in. She told me they sat down with her to have a chat. They told her that you marry who you date, so she should be careful. I was furious. Careful, why careful? Just around Juan? Because he was Hispanic?!?
They said they had seen other cultural marriages fall apart because of the difference in beliefs or ways of doing things. But Juan had lived in America nearly his whole life. Spanish was his first language but he had no accent at all when he spoke English. He was an American citizen, he lived life like any other American. I was so angry that they asked Sherise not to date him anymore.

At a school fundraiser, a car wash shortly after her parents had spoken with her, Sherise told Juan what her parents had told her. She told him it didn’t mean anything, that she cared for him and wanted to be with him. He was quiet, then got in his car and sped away.

As she told me this on that Saturday night, I envisioned the entire thing and suddenly I said, “Sherise, brace yourself, Juan may commit suicide.” Were those words given me to help us prepare? That was the last time Sherise saw Juan alive.

We had known he suffered from depression, just like Sherise and I both did. But we didn’t
know that things were so dire for him that he would snap, that the moment Sherise told him about her parents concerns, was his breaking point.

I remember the following Monday, another friend came to visit me. She had news about Juan. He had been found in the Canyon, a lawn mower in the back of his car, all the windows shut tight, Juan not breathing.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.

I didn’t see Sherise for a few days. The police had come to talk to her about what had happened before this event. She was numb, she was in shock. I was numb, I was in sock. And then, then, I was angry. I was furious that Juan would do something so heart breaking. He was gone, and I hurt more for Sherise at that time than I’ve ever hurt for anyone. I knew him too and was sad, but Sherise? What must she be thinking?
She was thinking she was to blame.

Rumors abounded at school. People called her racist,  nobody had the right story, not even the newspapers. Sherise received death threats in the mail, which her mother hid from her and told her years later about.
Why are people so quick to hate without really knowing why or if they are justified in doing so. And is anyone really ever justified in feeling pure hatred for another? There are much better things to feel in this world than hate, that venom that poisons the soul.

The impact that Juans death had on me and everyone around me was huge. I saw and I felt what it was like to lose someone by suicide, and I knew that never again would I seriously consider taking my own life. But I wanted to know how I would make it through without sinking into despair. For years I had struggled with severe depression. I blamed myself for it, telling myself it was all in my mind and I could fix it. I was wrong.
I talked to two of my friends at school about killing myself, all the time. One of them always laughed and made some joke about it, the other always smiled and said I shouldn’t talk about things like that and quickly changed the subject. It was a cry for help that they didn’t understand.

The suicide of my friend was devastating, but I decided to learn from it. I learned to turn to a better source of relief. I turned to God. I came closer to him than I had in a long time. On my knees, I wept. I cried out in anger asking him why. I begged him to help me be strong in fighting the thorn in my side. I felt his presence many a time in those dark hours and eventually I pulled through, stronger and with a greater knowledge of the love of my family, friends and Heavenly Father. I learned, that as I loved and hurt for Sherise, God loved and hurt for me. He wanted to help me pull through, and only waited for me to ask him.

I learned never to discount the feelings I have about calling someone, or just dropping by to say hi. We are often the vessels through which God answers others prayers, and what if we aren’t listening to him? I am so grateful for those who were listening to God in my time of despair, and I try hard to do the same.

I am driving the car. The flood water is rising. How will I make it through? The rain pounding on the windshield is blinding. Suddenly, a break in the rain brings to view a car, hood smashed right in front of me. I swerve to avoid it. People are surrounding the crash, trying to help the victims get to higher ground. The water is still rising. I’m going to drown.

My eyes spring open, my body jolts upright.

Just a dream. A flurry of dreams. The last one actually better than some of the first. Then I notice it, that tingly warm feeling pulsing through my arms and down into my hands. The muscles in my legs start to spasm very slightly. A feeling of dread and despair begins to seep in.

No, no no no no no no no no no no no NO!!!!!!

I am angry and terrified at the same time. How long has it been? When did the last one come? Why now?
It isn’t fair!! Sleep is suppose to be my one safe haven, a place where my thoughts and body are at peace.

The panic washes over me in waves. One moment I feel calm, the next, my muscles are spasming as I cling desperately to happy thoughts.

Happy ones aren’t working. Must empty my mind completely.

I wake my husband and ask him to please hold me while I fight it. He does. Just his presence is comforting. But it won’t always be there when this happens. I must remember how to get through it on my own. I focus on my breathing. Breathe slowly, calmly.

What if this feeling lasts forever?
Muscles spasm harder.

No, no, it won’t, it will fade. I am fine. I am fine. Everything is okay.

What if it’s not okay? What if I have to increase my medication?
Warmth pulses into my hands. It’s like little jolts of electricity zinging from my brain down to my finger tips.
Every negative thought feeds it.

I am calm, calm, calm, calm, calm. Must be calm. It will fade.

Breathe in……..

Breathe out.

Afraid to sleep again. Don’t want to wake up like this again.

So tired, tired of fighting this thing. But grandma did it. She’s done it her entire life. I will make it through like she has.

Gradually, fear subsides, body relaxes, sleep comes.

When daylight hits, it is only a memory.

I will face it again, and will get through it again with that memory, knowing that I did it before. These attacks may never completely go away, but I will be strong.