Anxiety Whispers

I walked into the psychiatric clinic with the feeling of a million eyes watching, fingers pointing at me, taunting me.  I took in the waiting room and the people therein.  They didn't LOOK crazy, they looked normal.  Or at least I think they did.  You see I had been brought up in an era, an era of the church that is, where therapists and psychiatrists were looked upon negatively.  There was a belief that mental issues were akin to spiritual oppresion and that all matters of the mind could be dealt with in the Pastor's study and with prayer.  Now, dont misunderstand me, I am not in any way implying that we should not first pray for out infirmities.  Having said that, I will make the point that mental illness is as much a physical ailment as heart disease, diabetes or cancer. 

I was nervous waiting for the therapist, not sure what to expect.  I was eventually called into her office which was comfortable and relaxing.  There were not finger puppets or water colors for me to "express" myself, just a couch, some nice decorations and plants.  She sat down at her desk and we made small talk for a bit.  She didn't ask me about how I felt about my childhood, mother or father, she just asked me what had brought me to her office.  Voice quivering, blinking back tears,  I explained some of the things I had been suffering and then I began to tell her the events that had taken place in my life over the last two years.  As I retold my story with all it's sordid details, I observed the good doctor as her eyes widened her chin dropped to her chest and her mouth gaped open.

As I finished my story I felt completely spent, drained.  Envision a balloon that has been filled with air to the braking point and then suddenly all of that air has been let out in a matter of seconds, and now said balloon lies limp and deflated on the floor, that's how I felt, but it felt good!  It was nice to tell a completely unbiased, non judgemental person whom I had never met in my life how I felt.  It was liberating.

Her reponse to my story and symptoms?  "Shawnacee, I am diagnosing you with PTSD and depression".

Anxiety's Story

I needed to write!  That's what I thought.  Tell my story, finally get it out there.  It would be threapeutic, writing has a way of healing me.  Its as though the stress flows from my brain, thru my arms and out my finger tips as I pound the keyboard.  And that is exactly what I did.  I told my story in blog form, entitled "Finally". 

What I thought would be a short blog series turned out to be a very LONG series of blogs.  The more I typed the more I remembered.  At times I wrote with tears streaming down my face.  At other times I pounded out my anger on those keys and ended my sentences with a lot of exclamation points.  I was obsessed, and my husband noticed.  I felt driven to release the pent up emotion and deep secrets that had plagued me for years. 

The response of the readers was remarkable.  I had expected perhaps a hundred or more people would read my story, never envisioning that it would touch thousands.  I was stunned!  At last count that one series of blogs has had over 20,000 hits.  I received private messages on facebook from people I had never even met before who had loved ones, or who they themselves were suffering the same thing I and my late husband had suffered.  It gave me great pleasure to know that in some small way I could be a voice to all those people who remained silent in their pain.

Write a book!  Write a book about this!  Was the request of many.  I called Headquarters and explored their methods of publication.  I considered self publication.  However there was one problem.  The telling of the story had pummelled me, destoyed me, sent me to my knees emotionally once again.  I didn't see it at first, but I finally realized that I was in a deep, dark sea of depression brought on by dredging up things better left under the blood.  I was beaten to a pulp.  I did not have the emotional strength to write a book.

It was hurting my relationships.  I had to let go of this, let it be in the past where it so desired to be.  I could not spend my life living and reliving over and over again the events that led up to August the 6th 2009.  I had to move on, put one foot in front of the other and just walk!  I had not relaized the toll that writing that blog had taken on me.  And so, I decided to shelve the book idea and with the encouragement of my husband, I went to a "head doctor", a therapist............................................

Anxiety Speaks

Approximately two years ago I wrote a series of blogs about the untimely and tragic death of my late husband,  Reverend Tim R. McCary.  This created a sort of, for lack of a better way to phrase it, "fan following" of which I still experience today.  Don't get me wrong, it's not a BAD thing, just different.  In fact, only today I fielded private messages from followers attempting to attain my personal cell phone number.  Apparently I now have ALL the answers and have Jesus on speed dial, lol.  Sadly, it seems as though there are plenty among us who have faced the same battles as Tim, which ultimately cost him his life.

I should feel flattered you may say.  Hardly, I would gladly pass the experience of losing someone to suicide or sending a son off to the frontlines of the "war on terror" in Iraq to someone else in a heartbeat.  But then again, no I would not, I would not wish that on my worst enemy.

So, if I am so vocal on Facebook and in my blogs, and freely say what eveyone else is thinking but do not have the internal fortitude to speak aloud, then why was I shaking like a leaf wishing the floor would open up and swallow me at Camp Meeting?  Good question.  And I think I have the answer, but first, a little of my personal valley thru the shadow of death........

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I stood in the shower of my new home, the water mingling with my tears as I cried.  What was wrong with me???  I was happy!  So very, very happy!!  So why was I so so sad? 

I slept all day long every day.  A feeling of worthlesness and wandering around aimlessly, as if lost pervaded my thoughts day to day.  Who was I?  What was my role in this play called life?

I felt like a foreigner in a foreign land.  Living a dream.  Watching my life unfold as if from a distance.  Was that really me down there, no longer a Pastor's wife?  How do I live life in a normal manner?  A life where I am not leading and guiding and speaking and planning and giving and giving and giving, and just living?

And then, there were the nightmares.  Every single night the nightmares, and they were always the same.  The funeral, the casket.  Tim, not gone afterall, but alive.  I had been mistaken about his death.  But what about Paul?  My beloved Paul who had become my whole life?  I longed for Paul but my morality called me back to Tim.  If he were not deceased then surely I was still his wife, living in sin!!

I would awaken panting, in a cold sweat.  Relieved to have Paul at my side yet once agained sickened at the reality of Tims suicide.  I longed for the return of Christ just to be free of the horrible reminders and deep seated emotional pain.  Would I ever be free???

TO BE CONTINUED

I was no longer like a little bird, I was a colt, all legs, neck and arms.  And skinny?  Skinny does not quite cover it.  I wall all bones, white flesh, freckles and hair, a LOT of hair,  It seemed that my appendages grew as rapidly as my shining glory.  My mother had a difficult time fitting me with tights as they were never long enough and bagged ambarassingly around the ankles due to my thinness.  Most days you could find the crotch of my tights hovering somewhere around my knobby knees.  I would pull and pull on the waistband of those tights, but somehow, that crotch remained.  There was so much open air between the waistband and crotch that I could have transported an entire  Mariachi Band in that sucker.

Life was grand if it weren't for the fact that my cousin Kim had received the Holy Ghost before me.  Nine months older than me, we were more like sisters than cousins, and those few months always seemed to give her a leg up on me.  I would sway back and forth at the altar, eyes squeezed shut, imagining abused puppies just to get a tear to roll down my cheek.  And when I was actually really and truly under the power of the Holy Ghost, well, I capitalized on those stammering lips.
Boy I tell you I stammered the heck outta those puppies, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not speak with tongues.  Kim was so proud of herself that she had received the Holy Ghost and I was just sure that she looked down on me as some sort of heathen.  Of course, I made sure that I was baptized on the same night as her, no way was she gonna get ahead of me in that department.  As I came up out of the cold water, teeth chattering I prayed that somehow, someway, a few foreign words would escape my lips.

The thug life was my destiny I assumed.  I told myself that I would NEVER be able to "yield' to the Holy Ghost properly.  What did that mean anyway?  The sisters in the church, including my "fully saved" cousin Kim would gather around me, holding my arms up, alternately telling me to "hang on!  Let go"!  And of course, yield.  I was so confused, which one should I do???  I was a pitiful mess, sure that I would most certainly split the pit if the trumpet sounded before I could receive the Holy Ghost.  Then came camp at Camp Sylvester.

I could take you to the place where I was sitting when the camp evangelist gave the altar call asking for those who wished to receive the Holy Ghost to come forward.  I went forward once again, lacking faith.  I raised my hands as the tears begin to flow as my friends gathered around me.  After a long while they all dispersed and I stood there with stammering lips determined to speak with tongues.  Suddenly, I felt a presence beside me and heard the voice of Reverend James Prather speak into my ear, "the devil is a liar".  At that very moment it was as if something broke within me and I immediately began to speak with tongues and rejoice.  I was so elated and could not wait to tell my friends and my mother!! 

Unfortunately the lure of worldly music and dancing plagued me as well as my cousin Kim.  However, we found a scriptural way to enable us to dance to the Bee Gee's without guilt and conviction........................

She came.........May 14th, 1972.  With her dark skin and dark hair, a total opposite from my pale Irish complection and red hair.  She was an intruder, come to take the limelight off of me and turn it upon herself..............I was bitter.  Glacinda was her name, a combination of my mother's name, Linda and my maternal grandfather's name, Gleason.  She was adorable and completely annoying.  I was a rebel in a foreign land of aliens who were no longer completely bowled over by my dancing antics and my evil ways.  I would have to concoct other means by which to get the attention that I so deserved.

So, I started kindergarten and became a hypochondriac.  As a toddler I had been rather sickly, so I decided to carry this over into my rather grown up life as big sister and kindergartner.  I was surely going to die on a daily basis.  Every scrape or bruise was most definitely melanoma.  Bumps were of course cancerous tumors and I was convinced (with my grandmother's help) that if I did not eat all of the food on my dinner plate that I would develop leukemia.  I of course had no real clue as to what these diseases were, only that they killed people.  People like my Papa Majors who passed of stomach cancer.

I hated school, worse than Kiddie Kollege.  I didn't want to sit in a circle indian style for book reading time.  I didn't want to fingerpaint or play with blocks.  I wanted to be home, searching my body for discoloration and watching the Mod Squad!  This school thing was not for me!  My mind was too creative for this, it kept wandering, making up stories, my soul craved drama and I was not finding it here........that is until Brian Blanco decided to stick his hands down my pants one day during storytime......

Now let me tell you about my grandpa.  He was a 6ft 5" Dutchman with hands the size of hams.  He served both in the Army and the Air Force.  In the Air Force he was an airplane mechanic and continued on in that profession during his civilian life.  He had a tender, heart of gold, but that all changed when Brian Blanco's fingers did the walking.  He called the school and demanded a meeting with a mortified Mr. and Mrs. Blanco and my teacher.  He dragged me along with him and I had to stand there and listen as he pointed his large finger into the faces of Brian's parents and demanded that if they didn't do something with their little pervert, that he would.  And then, he turned on the teacher and demanded that Brian not be allowed within spitting distance of me in the future.  From then on, Brian was always on the opposite side of the circle during story time.

I adored my grandfather.  He would go to the store almost everyday to pick up things my grandma needed and always returned with something for me.  He would take me way out onto the country backroads, set me on his lap and let me "drive" his old Pontiac.  He would lead me around his farm explaining to me about all of the animals and the things growing in the garden.  He would take me into the garage and try to explain to me about how the engine in the car worked, as though I understood or even cared.  He was my hero and Brian Blanco's worst nightmare.

   

So, yes, this was my life, a life of table dancing, modelling, tv watching and attempted smoking.  I was a rebel, a loner.

As time would have it my hair began to grow, and let me tell you, when it began, it did not stop!!  It grew until I could sit on it.  As homely as I was, I must say that my hair has always been my shining glory.  Everywhere I went people would stop and look on in awe and my booty length, thick auburn curls.  I can remember my grandmother washing my hair in the sink.  I would stand on that vinyl kitchen table chair, bent over at the waist listening to my grandma mutter under her breath about how she had never seen so much hair on one person in her whole life!  It was at least a forty five minute ordeal as she would wash and condition one section at a time.  Then would come the combing which brought about more muttering and fretting.  Finally, she would sit me on the den floor and put my head under one of those old fashioned hair dryers that they used to use in the salons and such.  I would happily sit there and watch scooby doo, all snug as a bug in a rug as my hair dried.  Hours later I could often be found sound asleep under that warm dryer, hair still damp.

I LOVED being at my grandparents!  They had a small farm with goats, chickens, a horse and a bull that my grandpa had purchased to slaughter for the beef.  Unfortunately, my grandfather was an animal lover and named the bull, and we would walk out to the pasture, pet, feed and talk to said bull.  I will never forget the day that the butchers came to the farm, strung up our pet bull and slaughtered him.  My grandmother's freezer was full of what was left of what's his name.  It was tense and awkward as my family sat around my grandparents dinner table, pushing the steak around on our dinner plates.  It was dead (no pun intended) silent.  Finally, my grandmother spoke up and asked, "Does this beef taste a little gamey to you"?  I sighed in relief as one by one all of the adults agreed that the beef did not taste right at all.  It was quickly thrown into the trash, and so was the rest of what was left of what's his name in the freezer.

Thruout my life I came into contact with a bevy of animals.  We always had dogs, cats, or as I stated previously, animals on my grandpa's farm.  Which is why it was so exciting for my parents to take me to a local petting zoo. I walked among all the cute little animals petting the goats, pigs, ponies and a variety of other farm animals.  I was especially intrigued when we came upon the Llamas.  They were so funny looking and fun to pet.  I stood there stroking the nose of one particular llama as my mother and father explained the odd animals to me.  Suddenly, the llama reared back, made a strange noise from the back of his throat and let loose with a geyser of green slime.    

I stood stock still, mouth and eyes clamped shut, trying not to breathe for the odor.  And suddenly, I hear laughter from onlookers as my parents swooped down upon me.  I was literally covered from head to tow with llama loogie.  It was everywhere, in every nook and cranny.  My ears, my nose, down into my shoes and between my toes, and all thru my hair.  And the stench!  Oh my word it was awful.  I can remember people laughing at pointing at llama snot girl as my parents raced me to the car, removed my clothes and tried to clean me as best they could.  Once home, I was quickly immersed in the tub and scrubbed until my skin shown red.  The hair was a different story altogether.  As thick as it was it literally took weeks to get all of the green mess and stench out of my hair.  Needless to say, I have steered clear of llamas ever since.

It was around this time that the Lord began to deal with my parents about returning to church and raising me in the house of God.  And, my mother became pregnant with my sister Cindy.  Now what a way to go and mess up my perfect, only child, ultra spoiled, heathen life...........

On any given day you could find me glued to my Grandparents black and white watching shows like, Gilligans Island, Bewitched, Romper Room, on and on and on, AND, as an added bonus, I could sing all of the theme songs word for word, on cue, and with delight, for anyone who seemed even remotely interested, and those who were not.  Now the churched preached against that 'ol devil's box, that one eyed demon was surely going to split the very pits of hell, however, apparently my ever so strong headed Dutch/German Grandfather had not gotten the memo.  My parents also had a television due to the fact that neither one of them were in the church at the time.  I can remember so vividly my mother picking me up from my grandparents after she got off work, rushing home, rushing into the house and turninig on the telly just in time for Star Trek, this was followed by the Tom Jones Show.  I would sit mesmerised by his dancing abilities and the pretty ladies dancing around him, my mother on the other hand was mesmerised by the gold chain lying in a field of chest hair and Tom's open to waist silk shirt.

I was a strange child, content to stay indoors, talking to myself in the mirror, making myself cry, admiring the tears as they rolled down my cheeks.  I had a little imaginery friend who lived behind the headboard of my bed, we talked nightly, but that was the extent of my social contact.  I remember once my mother picking me up, setting me on the back porch and telling me, "You are going to get out of the house and play"!  I had never been in our backyard alone and I did not know what to do.  I saw monsters behind every bush and tree, I was paralyzed by fear, sitting there on the stoop crying.  I guess this is why my parents decided to enroll me in that God awful, horrible, torturous place called "Kiddie Kollege". 

I HATED Kiddie Kollege!  I cried every single day when my parents or grandparents took me there.  Didn't they understand that I was a complicated child who needed to be alone to hone her table dancing and theme song singing skills?  I didn't want to be here with these dirty children with their runny noses and soiled diapers!  I was of better stock than that!  They didn't really care about my protests, so every day, off I went to my personal hell.  The only things that kept my sanity intact were the early morning dance hour where I would show off my profound abilities, peeking to see if the teachers were watching me.  Usually, they were.  That, and lunch time where I would be served spaghettios with sliced cheese!  Heaven!  To this day I love that!  And everyday I asked when my mommy and daddy were coming and every day they told me the same time, and everyday, I went home, to Tom and his swivelling hips.

As time went on I noticed a change in my parents.  I would lie in the living room floor and hear my grandma and my mother talk.  My grandma was telling my mom that she and my dad needed to go back to church, that I needed to be in church.  I remember one day so vividly laying on my tummy watching television, but I wasn't watching, I was listening, to them.  My childish mind began to think of spiritual things, things I could not comprehend, but I knew that something was missing in our lives.  Something was afoot and if it had anything to do with the removal of the big black and white" boxes from our living room, I was having none of it!  And for good measure I attempted to take a drag from one of my dad's unlit cigarettes to prove just how much of a rebel I was.  It was unlit thankfully,  unfortunately however, my behind WAS......