One ticket, please.

(Why yes, I have done that on more than one occasion, source)

Once upon a time I stood in an auditorium and helped to present a new protocol for my hospital network. I fielded questions in the room and later outside in the foyer over bad hospital coffee and dry biscuits. Questions relating to the implementation process were interspersed seamlessly with meaningless small talk. In the months prior, I had sat in a room full of senior staff and held my own. Always saying my piece without fear. Well, until after. In the moment I was good. A switch would go off in my brain and I would be in full work mode. Afterwards I'd beat myself up  for stupid remarks and things I should have said. But somehow in that moment I had the gift. What my father would call, an ability to "baffle them with bullshit," though in truth some of my bullshit also had substance. Prior there was stress too. Panic that what I was doing wasn't good enough. What was I doing? I wasn't senior enough to be doing this. Imposter Syndrome is the term bandied around now and I had it in spades. In reality I knew my stuff. But that little voice in my head was a total Mean Girl. Work mode vs personal mode, night and day.

That anxiety and lack of confidence continues to plague me. Though those old instances were like a half-arsed trial run. Someone playing at anxiety. Or maybe I was trotting the boards playing at confidence. (I now have "Act, Gary. Act." stuck in my head.) Either way since becoming ill my anxiety has hit some quite spectacular levels. Losing the limited confidence and skills that I once had has been hard. I hate social situations. I hate interacting with people. More than hate, it scares me sick.

Last year I made a decision to put myself out there and both seek out and take any opportunities offered. Having said that, the Mean Girl has never let up. Telling me I had no chance. No one would want me. I was a complete idiot to even think I could. And my hair looked stupid. As exciting as a yes email was, it was also a shock, followed by pee my pants fear. My long suffering family can give you many tales of me prostrate on the ground fighting off rising panic as certain events came closer. I'd wind myself up with anxiety. I say "I'd" as if it was a past issue. But it's not. Not even close.

I'd rather dig my eyes out with a rusty spoon than make small talk with people. I call my family members "buffers." They are my safety zone in a social situation and without them I can feel the panic rise. It seems ridiculous writing it out. I'm a 41 year old woman who'd rather spend the rest of her life in a cave than have to speak to people, or worse yet, meet new people. Swim with sharks? Sure, why not. A dinner with others? Watch me flee as fast as my stumbling lurching legs can take me.

I run through all the stupid things I'll say or do, long before I get somewhere. And in the moment, the panic that suffuses my body means that the words that come out are often harried and odd. Add in that I often have trouble speaking at the best of times, between the dysnomia and dyspraxia I am very self conscious when I'm out and about. I'd rather sit quietly in a corner pretending to sip a drink than interact. Thank goodness for a temperamental body that means I am often physically unable to go places. Go, Dysautonomia Go.

Being ill I have also lost the social currency that is a job. What's the first question you get asked when you meet people? "What do you do?" Ugh. Already I am screwed. I tried to say I write the other day and my lack of confidence just made me look like a fool. And "I'm home thanks to illness," doesn't have quite the same ring to it. Writing from the safety from my bedroom in my pjs I can be confidence central. Out in the real world I melt like ice cream on a Summer footpath. A very panicky and insecure ice cream.

And yet a part of me keeps fighting.

Yesterday I took the plunge and bought the second last ticket for a local International Women's Day event. A. SINGLE. TICKET. I'll pause to let that sink in. Excuse me while I hyperventilate for a bit.
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That's right. I completely lost my mind and booked the ticket before I could think. I blame the pain meds I took for the knives slicing into my abdomen. There's an anti-drug message for you.  Now it is dawning on me that tonight I will be alone.

In the next town.

At night.

In a room full of strangers.

In my chair.

ALONE.

I can already feel the bile rising in the back of my throat as the enormity of what I have done becomes clear.

So tonight I'll be watching a film about yodelling lesbian twins from New Zealand, and listening to Clementine Ford speak. All while swallowing down fear vomit and clenching my cheeks to stop anxiety bowels from making a break for it.

Wish me luck.

Next week I am going to a blogging event that requires networking. OMFG. NETWORKING. If you're in Melbourne for that, I'll be the woman in the wheelchair hyperventilating or feigning death in the corner.

Tell me. Have you taken any leaps into gaping maws of death of late?

Michelle

As I descend into a spiral of panic as tonight draws closer, I am turning to Madonna.

You're a superstar, yes, that's what you are, you know it.

Repeat ad infinitum

Here's hoping I don't unconsciously start doing the hand movements as I mumble this mantra tonight.

Only as much as I dream can I be.

(source)

Sometimes anxiety gets the better of me. I try and fight it. Sometimes well, and sometimes I'm down for the count in the first round. My personality, which worked well in my career, can trip me up if left unchecked in my life as it is now. You see, I've always been someone who likes to be in control  Even now the sicker I am, often the more stubborn I become, as I deludedly try to assert my dominance on the situation. Which of course always works out so well. And I really don't do well with uncertainty. I have on occasion, even been known to catastrophise things. For example, this was my response to having to leave work thanks to my deteriorating health:

 "The world had ended.  The stars were falling from the sky.  My failure was responsible for the hole in the ozone layer, global warming and Justin Beiber.  Even the demise of the Pollywoffle was directly related to my failure (RIP little marshmallow bar of goodness).  My life was over.  I had failed me.  I had failed Mr Grumpy.  I had failed the rug rats.  I had failed my family.  I had failed my friends.  I had even failed the slightly creepy guy who delivered our junk mail. (And I wonder where my youngest gets his drama queen genes from)." (Zen and the Art of Tupperware) 

I like to think this is just another in a long list of less than helpful skills my Type A personality chose to perfect. Up there with deciding to get one of the crappier versions of a crappy illness. None of this half-arsed business here. My anally retentive tendencies would never allow that. Even if the outcome will be undoubtedly shitty, I'll have the best worst outcome, damn it!

Having an unpredictable disorder has not helped. Feel well one minute, out cold on the floor the next. Some days you get lulled into feeling a little less symptomatic and try to do a little more than usual. Like today, I showered, got dressed AND accessorised which of course left me clutching my chest and seeing spots on the bed. Luckily I didn't get all crazy and try to put on lip gloss or I may have been out for the count. So simple yet so unexpectedly difficult. Events like today tend to make me worry. How can they not? 

Some days I can get away with vacuuming a couple of rooms or pottering in the garden. Those days I felt like I did earlier today. But for some unknown reason apart from feeling the white noise of being generally unwell I was okay. As to why today a wee bit of personal hygiene ended poorly, I have no idea. It's not like I get a heads up or can work out why today was worse than those other days. Some days I can have everything in my favour and still end up bradycardic and vague out on the floor. I can tick every single box on my list to give me the best chance of a good day and two seconds later it all ends in tears.

It's been a hard truth to come to terms with for someone as anal retentive as myself. If I'm honest it's one I'm still working on. My tips so far: swearing, sobbing and pouting whilst not exactly getting at the root of the problem do make you feel better. 

It has meant that heading out of the house does make me anxious. I hate admitting that, but it is the truth. If I am going to have a full-body meltdown I prefer to do that in the privacy of my home. Having it in front of others, particularly strangers, still bothers me, even though logically I know it shouldn't. 

The reality is that something as simple as going to the supermarket is a big deal. Not just the physical side of the things like fatigue and weakness, a blood pressure that can drop with little notice, or the realisation that I'll likely have to use the disgusting public rest rooms, no doubt more than once. But the chance that I will fall, have my legs give out, start slurring, throw up in my cart, not be able to sign for my credit card, end up on a bench sucking down water and salt sachets whilst people walk by staring and muttering about the weird pasty faced woman lying on the bench whilst her "poor kids" stand at the checkout (No, I am not drunk or on drugs, judgemental people. Sheesh). I could go in feeling fine and dandy and 10 minutes in be a sobbing blancmange on the foul floor of the public toilet clutching a puke bag. That can make a gal a little anxious.

It's hard. Taking that first step mentally and physically seems an impossibility some days. But the reality is that I can either become a hermit and half live my life in fear of what may be, or I can say "screw it" take a deep breath and hold on tight to hope. Self-imposed exile from the world was never on my To Do list, yet I can easily see myself slowly sinking into it if I don't take myself in hand and down a big can of Harden up, Princess.

I hate the bad days, days like yesterday where I was stuck non-functioning in bed, or days like today that started a little better and went downhill fast. If I could avoid them I would. But I have to acknowledge that sometimes they are simply unavoidable. I do get through them. Every time. It doesn't feel like it in the moment, but I do. At times it's embarrassing or seriously unpleasant, but I'm still here kicking on seven years down the track. I can chose to limit myself in fear of what my body will serve up for the next day or next hour. Or I can suck up my anxiety and let myself reach, seek, look and dream. 

And who knows. I might go arse-up at the check out, but at least I'll have managed to get out of the house, or have some new pots in my garden to admire from my comfy spot at ground level, or wear some fabulous accessories even whilst I am feeling a little like death warmed up on my couch. 

Who knows, tomorrow I may even risk the lip gloss.

Cheers

Michelle :)

Time to shake the crap out of my head.