Phoenix Rising

Three months ago, I could barely leave my house. Even at home, the anxiety and panic would overwhelm me at times, leaving me feeling pretty worthless, irritable, and probably not that much fun to be around. 

As I write this, my brain wants to just skip to the good part, but the messy middle is always where the gems lie. You have to root around in the muck to find the diamonds and pearls.

It was a long, slow descent and not wholly unexpected as we globally became more aware of words like "viral load" and ideas of contamination. For someone like me, diagnosed with OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) more than ten years ago, the pandemic was both a blessing and a curse. Isolation brought me relief and control over my environment (it also brought its own brand of loneliness, new anxieties, a whole lot of reckoning, and some really, really good stuff, too).

When the world started opening up and I was feeling forced to adapt to life outside the confines of my bubble is when things truly spiraled for me. I could no longer reasonably request that my family stay home, stay masked, and not live their lives. (I had recreated mine so that my work and my social connections were nearly all online--but no less important or meaningful!). Every sniffle, sneeze, or cough sounded an alarm in my head. Every morning I would wake up and wonder about the health and well-being of my family, but moreover, because I couldn't control the outside world, I dipped back into habits that feigned control over my inner world. 

How could I keep the germs at bay? Don't touch, wash. Don't ingest. Wash. Don't go. Wash.

And out in the world? Mask, keep my distance, sanitize. 

Agoraphobia: the extreme or irrational fear of entering open or crowded places, of leaving one's own home, or of being in places from which escape is difficult.

In my case, secondary to OCD. 

Panic Disorder: an anxiety disorder where you regularly have sudden attacks of panic or fear.

Anxiety, little and big, has been a lifelong experience for me, but the panic and extreme physiological symptoms of disorientation, tunnel vision--feeling much like Alice while in Wonderland--was more profound than ever. 

As mentioned in a previous blog post, my therapist Dr. T had retired at the beginning of 2022 and I was on the waitlist for his predecessor, Mr. New Guy. I continued to use the tools and strategies I'd learned over the years to cope and was masking pretty well. It's never always just darkness, we are all more familiar with that now as memes of shiny, happy faces of people we've lost to depression are shared far and wide. But, the dark continued to outweigh the joy. 

I took a leave of absence from my teaching job at the end of the school year, grateful that I would finally have some space to breathe and do the work. At the end of September, I got the call and my teleheath visits with Mr. New Guy began.

Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT) is the leading successful treatment of OCD and anxiety and if you do the work, it works. As a rebel, I get resistant to the work, but I've learned to recognize that, too. It's all about willingness.

"Are you willing to breathe through a straw for 30 seconds?" he asks.

We begin there, because anything longer or any other items on the list of activities that are meant to mimic the physiological symptoms of panic just seen way too hard to do. 

I consent. It's easier than I thought. "I'm willing to try it for a minute now," the emphasis sarcastic, because duh.

"How about while standing, too." He pushes just a little more, a good therapist knowing that fine line.

"Fine," I reluctantly get out of my chair and adjust the laptop screen. I handle my straw like a cigarette. It feels oddly comforting even though I quit nearly 20 years ago.

This time it's less easy. For a moment, I feel like I'm not getting enough oxygen and the panic sets in. But then I remember I can slow my breath. I count to four and look down to watch my belly rise, on the exhale I go slower having learned that the outbreath slows one's heart rate. It becomes easy again.

"The fear of what might happen, what it might feel like, is usually worse than the experience itself," he says.

And I understand this to be true. I lock it into a mantra I can return to, among others, and it helps as we tackle each new activity and real life experiences week by week.

Over time, my ability to do daily tasks like shopping, driving, showering become more easeful. My perception of what I'm capable and willing to do shifts. There is no cure, but there is better. 

In November, my son asks me about going to Phoenix for a national tap dance festival where his former teacher is leading a couple of workshops (alongside other, amazing tap dance professionals). I want to support my son's goals and dreams. I want him to not fear what's possible. I want him to stay brave and curious. "We will figure out a way to get you there."

I rolled over options in my head. We looked at trains, thought about people who could fly with him, mapped out the drive. There was no easy answer; and, even though he is 18, that's not old enough to rent a car or even check in to a hotel. I felt like there was no other choice but for me to go.

This wasn't the first time a dilemma like this arose, and it wouldn't be the last. There would be more trips, more festivals, more dreams for all the people I love to support. 

I had to show up. I had to be willing to go.

With exposure therapy and CBT, we talk a lot about benefits outweighing the risks. This trip was a no brainer: the benefits of warmer weather in the middle of winter, of seeing my son be challenged and thrive, of bringing my youngest to the doorstep of her best friend who moved to Phoenix a few years prior, and spending dedicated time with my eldest daughter exploring new places. These benefits and more far outweighed the real AND perceived risks.

Mr. New Guy and I spent the next few sessions on things related to the fears I had: of falling, of eating, of getting sick, or others being sick, of the airplane ride, and more... 

First is willingness and deciding. I would start with the first step: Choosing to go. Then booking the tickets, the hotel, the car. As each day passed, I would get waves of anxiety, but I would take time to reframe the thoughts, refocus on what was right in front of me in the moment, and trust that I'd figure it out each step on the way.

Phoenix became one massive exposure therapy opportunity and I conquered it.  Not without fear, but with willingness, choice, surrender, trust and a whole lot of gratitude. Even before the trip was over, I felt renewed, transformed. 

The work doesn't stop here, but it was and will remain, a powerful leap on the journey. There is so much to unpack, and that, too, will come with time.

Sometimes we circle around in the dark for a bit until, with the help of others, we see a way out--a step up to a new path where we are able to begin again.

And we continue to be brave. Every day.