This image has been taped to the wall above my desk for over a year. These words have brought me comfort; easing me away from anxiety. I have kept faith in the belief that things happen when they are meant to, even when I was feeling stuck, and afraid of what becoming unstuck would mean. Sometimes that belief was desperate – I needed it to be true; needed to believe the Universe would intervene – even though I simultaneously feared how it would happen.

I believe those words more now than ever. The Universe has been working its magic in my life, speaking louder and louder until finally something that needed to happen, happened, and I knew in my heart it was the right time and the right way.

This personal thing that happened came yesterday, on the eve of the new moon, which some believe is a magical time of beginnings. The time felt right to practice new moon intention setting, something I first learned about practicing yoga. In some ways this is no different than choosing to make a change on the first of the month – it is a logical and deliberate place to begin. But by setting intentions and conducting some sort of ritual, be it simple or complex, with the start of the new moon, you can add a little bit of magic to the experience. Hopefully, you will see your intentions come to life and take shape in sync with the moon, culminating with its fullness when you can assess your intentions.

Last night I wrote down my intentions for this new moon, my moon, since I am a Gemini. I have these to focus on and devote my energy to during this moon cycle. Although this may sound new-age or a little too “mystic” for your taste, this is a next step for me on my journey, something I am willing to try to keep me focused. Marianne Williamson explains it best in A Course in Weight Loss: 21 Spiritual Lessons for Surrendering Your Weight Forever when she says:

“Spiritual growth is a fascinating process when you allow it to be. It is an inner journey from one insight to another, in which helpful realizations fall into place as you are ready to receive them.”

The timing feels right to set these intentions and face things I have been afraid to face, in an effort to release myself from them, and move forward.

If you are feeling stuck, I ask that you put faith in time or at least believe that what needs to happen will eventually happen. It may be cliche, but sayings only become cliche because they are said so often, meaning many people believe in the words:

Everything happens for a reason.

I do not claim to know the reasons. But I do trust the process… and the timing.

They say you should do one thing everyday that scares you. Fears have the power to constrain exploration and development and therefore keep us from living a full life. If we face our fears, we might learn things aren’t as scary as we thought. But facing something you’re afraid of takes a lot of energy and courage. It often feels unnecessary, so we go on avoiding that which terrifies us because there is something even more worrisome on the other side… not knowing what will happen. I think for many of us, that’s the greater terror.

Some fears are unjustified or irrational. I don’t know why the sight of a spider, even a tiny one, causes me to sharply inhale, freeze, turn pale and perspire. I think it’s the legs. Even the sight of a web is enough to make me abandon a cleaning or gardening project, or pull my car over and search, terrified for the bugger in order to avoid a car accident when it inevitably drops down before my eyes. On the rare occasion I’ve had no choice but to gather the nerve to kill a spider, I cannot kill it enough. It is a hysterical shoe slamming desperation that requires adequate emotional recovery time.

So how did I find myself in line amongst grade school children waiting my turn to hold Rosie, the Butterfly Pavilion‘s resident tarantula? I think it was a combination of two things: I was on vacation and believe you try new things on vacation, and I figured if the kids could do it, so could I. So I handed my brother, Joey my camera and we got in line. Few times in my life I can recall being so simultaneously horrified and excited.

I sat across from Rosie’s handler barely breathing. I couldn’t take my eyes off the enormous and hairy specimen in his lap.

“Whatever you do, do not throw her,” he said as he gently scooped her up with one hand.

I nodded. He took my hand with his free one and held it firmly above his own. As he was about to place Rosie into my sweaty palm, I shrieked and ripped my hand away.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I took a breath, wiped my palm on my jeans and tried again.  The man was patient.

“Okay, ready?”

I nodded.

Again, I ripped my hand away at the last second. “I can’t,” I said, the heat of panic, tears and defeat rising in my face, and motioned to get up.

“How about I let one of her legs touch you first?” the handler offered.

I looked at my brother, standing nearby, smiling with the camera. I reluctantly nodded.

It took every ounce of resolution to not pull my hand away as Rosie’s front leg lifted toward my fist. I expected it to scratch, and have weight to it, but what I felt instead was soft and light as a feather.

“Okay, I’m ready now.”

Again the handler took my hand palm up and kept his own firmly beneath mine. I tensed as he placed Rosie in my hand. I was amazed by how light she was. I stared at this giant spider, the size of my palm, speechless. Poor Rosie, such a sweet name for such an ugly and terrifying creature.

After what felt like minutes, but was probably less than one, the handler said, “I’m going to have her walk onto my hand now.” He touched her backside and she walked across my hand onto his. The sight of this was worse than the sensation.

Once Rosie was safely with her handler, I exhaled and smiled victoriously. I was given a sticker proclaiming ‘I held Rosie’ and proudly stuck it to my chest.

“Did you see that!?” I asked Joey, as if he was not less than three feet away the whole time. “I held a tarantula! I can do anything now!”

“I was scared you were going to crush that thing,” he answered.

Rosie taught me a lot about fear and the perception of things. I thought she would be heavy, scratchy, and run up my arm, leap onto my face, stare into my horrified eyes and sink her monstrous fangs into my nose. But instead she was almost sweet. The people at the Butterfly Pavilion understood perception when they named her Rosie instead of something evil like Ursula or Cruella.

Ever since I held Rosie I have weeded without gloves, pushed aside webs with my bare hands and even let spiders live! Little did I know I cured my arachnophobia with systematic desensitization, otherwise known as exposure therapy.

I am left wondering what else I’m afraid of. What else is holding me back from living a full life? Is it fear of the thing itself or my perception of the thing? I believe it is the perception, but even greater is the unknown of not knowing what will happen…

I will never forget Rosie. She represents the epitome of fear. I had no idea what would happen. My imagination told me I’d be bitten. Logic told me the establishment wouldn’t allow children to hold a giant spider if it was dangerous. Reality showed me I am brave. I survived, unscathed and better off in the end. What actually happened in the end was more wonderful than any scenario my mind had conjured up when I was staring into the many black eyes of fear.

Maybe not knowing what will happen is all the more reason we need to find out…

Me, horrified. Rosie, chillin.

Following is the continuation of a 2 part story. Please click this link to read Part 1.

The day after I was diagnosed with PMDD and prescribed Sarafem, an anti-depressant specifically geared toward treating the symptoms of PMDD and that can be taken for two week stints leading up to menstruation, I had an appointment with my wellness counselor. I explained to her that I didn’t want to take the pills and that maybe I should work harder on a more holistic approach. “I could give it a month. Really mark out the calendar so I know when to do what. Inversions, more vitamin B, more carbs and protein, more naps, more meditation, more avoidance of emotional triggers.” We agreed I should give it a shot. She also pointed out that sometimes having a diagnosis makes a big difference in and of itself because there is a better understanding of what’s happening.

A few days later, I confided this latest development and my plan with my friend Kathy, who immediately whipped out a piece of paper and started drawing a calendar.

“Here,” she said, enthusiastically circling a square on the impromptu calendar, “is when you need to start increasing your magnesium. Pumpkin seeds and Epsom salt baths. Here,” drawing an arrow, “is when you need to start putting legs up the wall. It is so good for your body. Make sure you have plenty of healthy junk food in the house. And here,” voraciously circling a square repeatedly, “is when you need to be extra gentle with yourself. Dr. Christiane Northrup says that in a perfect world, women would stay home and rest their first day of menstruation.”

I had my plan and shared it with the most important people in my life, the ones directly affected by my behavior, and had their support. I would insulate myself against PMDD with sleep, the right food, vitamin B, meditation, yoga, and magnesium. It would be great. I would defeat the beast with graceful shoulder stands, indulge in healthy junk food and meditate whenever destructive emotions arose within me. I would be poised against the storm.

Things were going okay. Until they weren’t anymore. After a particularly hellish morning, another one in which getting to work was a victory in and of itself, I was distracted and emotional. I could hardly wait to get home to start my medication, desperate for some relief from myself. The holistic approach clearly wasn’t enough. I was going crazy. But like my counselor had suggested, knowing what was wrong was a little comforting. Countless times I had wondered, what is happening to me!? Not this time. This time I knew. And even though I didn’t think there was any room in my toolbox for medication, I started to think that I had been wrong. Maybe needing a little extra help wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe it didn’t mean I was a failure and a fake. Maybe I had been denying myself a very useful tool that had its place amongst the other tools. I am no stranger to depression and anxiety. I had exhibited great strength at times overcoming those emotions. One of my past yoga teachers once said that going into child’s pose, a resting pose, takes great strength because it requires you to admit that you need rest. I decided when I got home that evening and took my first antidepressant in over a decade that it wasn’t a sign of weakness, but one of strength. Here I was admitting I couldn’t do it alone and I needed help.

I was only on the pills for three days the first go around. I am a big fan of the placebo effect, and even though the pills were no placebo, they had an instant calming effect on me.

I recently finished my second go around taking the pills (this time for 2 weeks) and I noticed a difference. I spoke to my Mom briefly once my period had started. We agreed after my diagnosis that since our relationship is on the mend, it may be best if we didn’t speak leading up to my period. “You sound good!” she said. “I feel good. I slept a lot, which is unfortunate, but I don’t think forcing productivity would have been very successful. I prefer to sleep when my body needs it rather than be awake and emotional. The pills help me think clearer. Everything doesn’t seem so hopeless.”

I decided that I’m okay with needing a little help. I only feel better – emotionally and about myself – because with the help of this mild antidepressant, I have more control and can see a little more clearly and not be so reactive or destructive. I can still feel. Before going to see my doctor, I was downright scared of what was happening inside of me. I had a therapist who said, “That’s the thing about preventatives. You never know what you may have prevented.” She’s right. I consider my pills a preventative that have earned their place alongside my vitamin B.

Please keep in mind that in no way am I undermining the holistic approach that I had tried. I still continue to do these things every month and I do believe that they are beneficial. But right now at this point in my life, while I am cracking my nut open and wounded, it unfortunately just isn’t enough.

I am fortunate that I only feel this way a couple weeks at a time. For countless people, this is their daily life and there is no escape from their black pit of despair. If you have no idea what I am talking about, then I am happy for you, but I ask that you please have some compassion for those who have depression, mood and anxiety disorders, because the struggle is real.

I was torn as to whether or not to tell this story and admit all this to the world. I am worried what you all will think of me. But I went a long time without any help and seeking it out is now part of my journey to becoming a gentler, happier woman, and I am dedicated to sharing that journey. Also, I think it is important that we keep the dialogue open about mental and hormonal health and prescriptions and work on breaking down the stigma that medication is bad or for the weak-minded. Also, if you or someone you know, like your spouse or girlfriend, appears to be a different person before her period, maybe this story will encourage you to talk about PMDD.

I don’t plan to need these pills forever. I do believe that as I continue to crack the nut on my suffering and work toward a life more reflective of the one I want that I will be happier. Right now, I am rubbed raw, so the lemon juice hurts. Maybe in the not so distant future, new skin will have formed and things won’t be so painful.

But for now, this is where I’m at and I am meeting myself in the present.

This journey thus far has been an exercise in cracking the nut on my suffering; letting the light in to allow me to see better. I don’t always like what I find. But I’d much rather see, than continue to live my life with blurred vision, never really being able to make things out for exactly what they are. Through mindfulness and self-awareness I am finally seeing more clearly, and have detected some patterns in my emotions and behavior.

I have always been an emotional person, but at times those emotions are volatile. As a teenager my mood swings were chalked up to a chemical imbalance and I was diagnosed as bi-polar and prescribed medication that I rarely took because I thought it made me inauthentic. Over time, I just seemed to grow out of it, except for the one to two weeks leading up to my period, and then it was chalked up to PMS. I wonder now if my problem had always been hormonal…

Some months are better than others, depending on my life at the moment. PMS is an intensifier, like lemon on a wound. If life is going okay and stress is under control, it’s like a scratch, and a little lemon juice isn’t so bad. But if life is painful, an open wound, then PMS can make it downright unbearable. Nothing experienced during this time is disingenuous, just exacerbated. For women who are already emotional on a good day, this monthly roller coaster ride of hormones can be debilitating and destructive, disrupting work and damaging relationships.

Back in February, I experienced one of my lowest points so far this year. My mood changed directions like a weather vane in a tornado and a sense of sadness permeated my soul. On a regular day, I wake with energy and a mission before me, maintaining a fairly positive attitude as I work out, enjoy a healthy breakfast, prepare for work, fix my lunch and walk my dog, Cooper. I am focused and productive at work and my energy stays up through the evening as I continue to be productive. But some days, like back in February, getting out of bed requires monumental effort. I am exhausted, filled with dread and hopelessness. Nothing has meaning. I lay in bed as my tears soak my pillowcase and conjure possible call out excuses. Only maturity and the reality that work is a valuable distraction and that not going will only increase my anxiety gets me to slowly swing my legs out of bed. Working out doesn’t even cross my mind. By now, I will most likely be late for work anyway. I have no appetite so I skip breakfast and figure I’ll just buy lunch, something I don’t like to do, but I don’t care about money or routine. Cooper gets walked because he has to, but I don’t enjoy it, and I feel fatigued after 20 minutes. Driving to the train station, I daydream about car accidents and Cooper being left without his Mommy, and wonder if anyone would miss me…

This particular day back in February, no tool I had learned – meditation, yoga, nor positive thinking combatted the intense hopelessness and frustration that was interfering in my life. Everything was wrong. Desperate, I did something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I called my Mom and sobbed into the phone and explained every ugly emotion I was feeling. I needed sympathy, understanding, and advice. Out of my desperation came a phone call that would single handedly bring our relationship back from the brink of destruction, because she was everything I needed.

“I am so, so sorry you’re just like me,” she said. Together, we identified what might be going on. It was the same thing she had dealt with since she was in her early thirties: Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), PMS’ larger, uglier, angrier sister. Since underlying depression and anxiety are common in both PMS and PMDD, it’s possible that the hormonal changes that trigger a menstrual period worsen the symptoms of mood disorders, hence why emotions are so intensified. It made sense. I exhibited every symptom.

My mom listened and consoled, and urged me to see a doctor. “You have to call tomorrow,” she said. “If you don’t, in a few days you’ll feel better and then you won’t think it’s a big deal anymore. You need to see him while you’re feeling this way. You can’t go through this every month.”

“Can I ask for a hysterectomy?” I cried, dead serious. “You can ask, but menopause is no picnic, either.” We talked until exhaustion set in.

With some reinforcement from a friend (because the next day I felt better and the matter lost its sense of urgency), I did call the doctor. The morning of my appointment I was a mess. I sat in the chair, holding back tears. When the doctor arrived and asked what brought me in, I choked on my words. “You have no control of your emotions.” I don’t know if it was a question or an accusation, so I just nodded and let the tears stream down my face. “We can fix this,” he said.

Within minutes I was given a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription that burned in my purse. I was back on the elevator heading down to Walnut Street, my mind reeling.

My feelings have been medicated. There wasn’t even any discussion of alternatives. Sure, what I’m feeling is extreme, but these are my feelings, and I want to FEEL them. I don’t want to be numbed! Pills kill creativity and passion – they will change me. How can he prescribe me so quickly? This isn’t just a prescription, but a stigma. What will people think? I have endured for a long time through emotional turmoil and I have done it without medication. There is no room in my toolbox for medication. Healthy, happy people don’t take medication. This isn’t who I want to be…

Already as vulnerable as a seedling during a frost, I struggled greatly with this development and all my preconceptions against medication that would never even cross my mind had anyone but myself been prescribed. But despite the struggle, I still felt a desperation. A desperation that pulled me to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. The bottle would sit in my purse for a few days, and then the medicine cabinet for weeks… unopened.

To be continued…

Please click here to read Part 2.

This past week a theme has emerged in my life, smoothing the shards of heartbreak, like the long-awaited spring has softened the edge of winter.

I awoke on Monday morning fatigued from restless sleep. Sitting up, the recollection of upsetting events the day before hit me, pushing me back down in defeat. Curling up, tears fell from my eyes.

Everything is going to be okay, came my own voice, but soft, gentle. You can do this.

All day this loving voice encouraged me. Feeling fragile in the past, I’d chip away at myself, forcing the break. This time, I was treating myself with care, avoiding further damage, seeking out that which would reinforce me, like a walk with a supportive friend, nutritious food, exercise, keeping busy.

After writing about not loving myself the night before, I began to think I may have been wrong because here I was treating myself the way I would someone I care for.

That night I wanted to curl into bed early, having used all my strength getting through the day. But again came the voice. Yoga will be good for you.

When the teacher came around with a deck of cards fanned out, I reached with my non-dominant left hand, my receiving hand, for a bright yellow corner. Looking down at the vibrant card holding my intention for the evening’s practice was a woman, a sunflower growing out of her cupped hands. The card read, “Are you taking care of yourself? If not, begin your self-care practice today.” The Universe had intervened again, sending me what I needed.

That night in bed, propped up, not curled up, I made a list of all the ways in which I cared for myself that day. It totaled nine items. Settling in for the night, I prayed, placing my fears and worries in God’s hands. I slept soundly.

Throughout the rest of the week, I continued to care for myself the way I would a friend or a child. There were times it was like caring for a child. Wednesday I craved the comfort of food, an emotional and self-destructive response that has been my inclination since my teenage years (or longer). Okay, one piece of chocolate. No, no, don’t cry. Two pieces. But then you must clean your room.

All week long I took my time, making one sandwich at a time, a tool I learned applies to much more than just anxiety. I do care for me. I was wrong when I said that in order to love myself I must eliminate all the things I don’t like about myself. All I need to do is to continue to care for myself; which is ultimately an act of compassion, love and affection.

In my last post, I had mentioned that I was feeling great sadness at the hands of someone I love and wrote about how I was sending myself and them loving-kindness.

Since that post, I have learned firsthand quite a bit about cycles of negative behavior: how hard it is to break them, how hard it is to step outside and watch someone you love continue to go ‘round and ‘round, and also how it feels to finally witness the cycle you habitually participated in throughout most of your life. It feels absolutely awful.

Sometimes, opening your eyes is extremely painful.

After being hurt by this person, I realized that what I wanted most was to forgive. It was in that moment that I jammed my foot in the revolving door of my past behaviors and broke the cycle. It felt incredible. I realized that there were more options than to be angry and turn my hurt on the person who hurt me, ensuring they felt as badly as I did, ultimately evening the score and allowing for the eventual canceling out of both wrongdoings and a consequent truce. I decided instead that I would allow myself time to process my pain, create space for compassion, and come to a place of forgiveness before pushing myself to speak with this person. I didn’t want to risk falling back into the cycle I was trying to end.

I was proud of my decision and it felt good. Until with a sharp pain of manipulation on the part of the person who hurt me, I realized I hadn’t created that cycle alone. There was someone else behind the glass of that revolving door pushing hard to keep it turning against my efforts to hold it.

That’s when I learned that people don’t like their familiar cycles being toyed with.

I witnessed this person go through all the emotions of the cycle completely unprovoked and it was devastating. I experienced the attempts at manipulation, that gave way to guilt, that gave way to anger, that eventually turned to desperation, and finally exhaustion. I watched this person fight with an opponent who never showed up as I stood outside the ring in tears, fighting my own urge to jump in and scream “STOP! PLEASE!” I could barely stand the sight. But I knew the cycle had to play out. And even when horrible things were being said to me and I began to question what I had done to deserve it, I knew that I had done nothing. Nothing, except set this cycle in motion through years of participation. And I think that was the hardest thing of all.

Cracks need to happen to let the light in. Awareness hurts like hell. Waking up to the truth is hard; literally heart breaking, and I have cried more in the past two weeks than I have in a long time. I am still allowing myself time and space, although taking it worries me. I am afraid that something will happen to me or this person before things are resolved. But I also know that guilt and fear are the culprits at work behind that thought and I cannot allow fear to dictate my actions.

I’m still working it all out in my head. It is a lot to process. But I know I can only change my behavior and I can only be responsible for my own actions. My habits and behavior contributed to the creation of the cycle I was a part of. Perhaps I can slow it down for the other person as well if I continue to keep my weight against the door, no matter how much the push back hurts.

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One moment I was making a sandwich, the next I struggled to catch my breath. Heart pounding, I gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the cream laminate, vision blurred by fat tears that streaked my fresh eye make-up. It was a random morning and I was getting ready for work. Preparing my lunch, anxiety struck. Thankfully, I’ve since learned how to mange my anxiety.

Anxiety wasn’t an unusual thing. Anxiety attacks have brought me to my knees, seemingly out of nowhere. All I could manage was to wrap my arms around myself, rock gently and cry until it passed, whispering to myself, “sshhh, it’s okay.”

Understanding Why I Was So Anxious

The thing is though, my anxiety attacks didn’t come out of nowhere. I know now that they were invited by my stress and imagination; created by my overactive mind that worried incessantly about the future.

That morning in my kitchen, a thought burst through the chaos in my brain, loud and clear.

All you have to do right now is make a sandwich. Just make the sandwich, sweetie.

I took a deep breath, looked down at my partially made sandwich and continued its assembly, letting my tears do the seasoning as I grew calmer. I made my way back to the present.

Managing My Anxiety

I haven’t had an anxiety attack since I made that sandwich. Not because my problems have gone away – far from it. But because I know that no life decisions need to be made at 7 am on a weekday; that the conversations I have in my head never turn out in real life the way I imagine them; because I cannot tell the future; because I am learning to trust that things happen when they are meant to; that they have a way of working out in the end, for better or for worse and no amount of mental agony on my part is going to change that.

Life happens one thing at a time.

My dear friend, Kathy shared with me that one morning she was helping her three year-old go potty when he got very upset and sobbed that he didn’t want to go to school. “Right now,” she said, “we’re just going potty. That’s all.” He immediately calmed down.

I still worry and feel anxious sometimes. But now I have the tools to not let it get out of hand to the point that I am not in control of my body. I catch myself getting worked up and I say to myself, “Just make the sandwich.”

One thing at a time. Whether you’re making a sandwich, or just going potty, that is all that requires your attention at that moment.

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