Type A, for Anxious

Let’s talk about something…

As I’ve mentioned before, I am a Type A person. I have a Type A personality - To. The. Core.

Most of the time, I speak those words with confidence and pride. It is directly related to my organization, problem-solving, and planning skills. I feel like it allows me to simplify things – processes, plans, even thoughts. I believe it pushes me to be more assertive, and passionate, and strong-willed. It’s what makes me chant, “Girls!” right along with Beyoncé, when she asks, “Who run the world?”

But, medically speaking, a Type A person is not the most desirable of personalities. We are uptight and particular. Things, like straying from our plans or outlines, can upset us - physically. We get stressed easily and wear it longer. We have high blood pressure and a prevalence of heart issues. We are more prone to anxiety disorders, and thank God we find people to put up with us…

Our laid-back counterparts, with Type B personalities, live much longer. They can go with the flow and let things roll off their backs. They have simply mastered the “subtle art of not giving a f*ck.” In so many ways, I am envious. I want to let go of things. I want Heath to put a cup on the back of the sink and for my brain to tell me, “that’s alright; it’s no big deal.” Instead, I have a little itch in the back of my mind that continues, until I move that stupid cup. Ugh…

The particularity was certainly something that I was gifted by my father. I once made fun of how he stacked the mail, next to the toaster, biggest envelopes on bottom and smallest on top. Or, how he would neatly fold his paper towel, to set underneath his cup of iced water. Or, how all the items in the center compartment of his truck have a place, and are not to be touched. Today, that is me. And, thankfully, over time, I have watched some of my father’s particularities fade; there is hope for me yet!

Nevertheless, this personality of mine has always made me a bit, what I lovingly call, “crazy.” I assess things, I over-think, and I base my decisions off all of these emotions. This has made me a bit overwhelming, for lack of a better word, in the past. As you might remember from previous ramblings of mine, I have frequently obsessed about being away from my kids, the risks of SIDS, and many other things. I would dump those concerns on anyone with ears who made eye contact with me. Spewing my apprehensions made me feel comforted and more in control. That was really what my obsession was about – having control. Kids seemed to take that concept away from me. Once you have children, you quickly learn how not in control you are. You think things will go a certain way, and HA! Yeah….no, kids have their own agendas. And, ultimately, God runs the show.

For several years, I tried to explain to Heath how anxious I could get, over seemingly not very big things. I mean, everyone around me was telling me that I was over-thinking. I would agree, but couldn’t stop. 

“I’m just an uptight person.”

“It isn’t hurting anyone, by taking extra precautions.”

“I just get nervous.”

“I can keep it under control.”

"I can control it."

I seriously could control it, for several years. That is, until I couldn’t.

Almost two years ago, we made a very impulsive decision to buy a new home. We walked into a home, not planning on buying it, and then made an offer on it just three days later. The whole thing was a whirlwind, and so very much not like me. Many nights, I cried, thinking we made a huge mistake. We had three kids, and then we added another mortgage. We spent about six months showing our previous home. That meant, to this Type A woman, I spent six months cleaning the house like a crazy person, limiting the kids’ activities, and keeping them contained to particular rooms. We simplified, and organized, and planned for our uncertain future. And, I cried. I cried a lot. Honestly, I didn’t know what else to do. I was, to put it bluntly, “freaking out.” I like plans. I like knowing what the next step is. I like familiarity. The lack of control was draining me. Several evenings I would sneak out of bed, go to the living room, do fire-breaths, write in a journal, and cry. I tried so hard to control it. If I could just have a good cry, I would be fine the next day. 

One particular night, I was sitting on the couch, writing in my journal about my neurosis. I had tears streaming down my face. I was just…worrying…about nothing, and everything. I didn’t know what to think about our future. I was overwhelmed, and stressed, and tired. Heath came out from the bedroom and saw me. I tried to dismiss him, telling him that I was just a bit overwhelmed. 

This was the first time that Heath suggested that I talk to my doctor.

“I can control it,” I told him. “I’m fine.”

More months passed by. We sold our home, and decided to move into the fixer-upper that we bought. When I say fixer-upper, I can’t even begin to explain to you what that meant. We set up a temporary living situation in the lower-level of the home, with a very make-shift, but functioning kitchen. The upstairs living area, we gutted down to the studs. The environment was unorganized, hectic, and…made me crazy. I hated living in such an unorganized mess. Even better, I work part-time from home, so I got to be in this mess all day, every day – just looking around at all the things that needed to be done.

Within all of this, my brain decided to focus my worry, anxiety, and apprehensions on the safety of the kids. I mostly blame it on the unfamiliarity of the house, the walls, the layout – it didn’t feel like “home.” I still believe I have a somewhat rational fear for the safety of my kids. I mean, what mom doesn’t worry about her children constantly? But, it got to be too much. I started obsessing over it. I tried to control it. I tried to vent my way through it. One morning, I couldn’t stop my thoughts, and I actually became physically ill, worrying about the kids. Just worrying…

I couldn’t control it after all...

I called Heath and told him, “I need to talk to Dr. B.”

I imagine he was silently praising the Lord, thankful that I finally swallowed my pride.

When the words poured from my mouth, and into Dr. B’s ears, she immediately responded with, “I knew it was only a matter of time before you talked to me about this.” Unlike me, she wasn’t dismissing all of my rants. She was taking note, knowing that one day I would be ready for, well, help.

I was prescribed anxiety medicine. I was told that it may just be this season of my life, and I may find a time in my life that I can stop taking it – once again being able to control my thoughts a bit. But, for now, why fight it? Why suffer? Why cry my eyes out with worry?

So, I left the doctor’s office to go pick up my prescription. I was, ironically, anxious. Ridiculous, right? I called Heath, doing what you ask? Crying. Of course, I was. I’m going to be on meds. I was going to be taking a pill daily. There would be side-effects. What if they changed me? What if I could never go back off of them? What if? What if? What if?

I drove right passed the pharmacy that evening and didn’t fill my prescription.

The next day, I called the doctor’s office, basically asking the nurse to talk me into taking the medicine. And, she did. I went and bought them, and took them, and prayed. 

Then…I felt better. I felt so much better. I didn’t realize how “out of hand” it had gotten, until I was no longer dealing with it. That was when I decided that I wanted to talk to my family about it. It wasn’t until after I spoke about my experiences that I found out - both sides of my family have a history of anxiety. One family member, never really knew why she had anxiety and fought it her whole life (back in the “olden days,” before we understood). It made me sad.

So, I started talking about it to everyone who was willing to listen.

I once shied away from the topic, or felt the need to justify it. I know how important mental health is (obviously! Psych background!). But, having to be on this side of it, when you feel like the spotlight is on you, is not as easy as it is taught. Nevertheless, as time goes on, I become more confident in myself. I feel this weird sense of responsibility to talk about my anxiety. I hope I can make others feel more comfortable with their own struggles, and perhaps encourage them to talk to their doctor. It is not uncommon. It is not weird. It isn’t something that we all need to whisper about behind closed doors.

I know, for some, me talking about this makes them feel uncomfortable. Sorry, but really…I’m not sorry. This is the reality for some of us – more of us, I think, than you realize. 

I wanted to tell you all, because if you want to know much more about my journey in this life, you have to know this integral part of who I am. 

I have anxiety. And, I take medicine for it. And, that is okay.

Stressing for the Sake of Kids

Once upon a time I had one child in elementary, one in preschool, and one that was lovingly attached to my leg most days. I got up in the morning, barely put myself together, got the two older ones around, and maybe found a pair of Uggs to walk to the garage and get into the van. I buckled the youngest one in, who may or may not have been in his pajamas still, from the night before. At our school drop off, we were impressing no one.

During that time in my life, we also lived in a home that was a bit outdated and in need of a Johanna Gaines-type overhaul, but was completely maintenance free. It was new enough to be clean and nice; but old enough to have peach grout and honey oak everything. I had done all that I felt I could with that home, and cleaned almost daily. Also, I was not involved on any local Boards or teaching online yet. So, my cleaning schedule was fairly easy to maintain. And, yes, I had a cleaning schedule... (I heart organization.)

Do you have a clear photo in your mind of what my days were like? I actually had plenty of time to do things. Time to enjoy my kids before they were involved with numerous things themselves.

So, when Red Ribbon Week came around back then, and the school released the themes of each day, we went all out. We busted out the markers, old t-shirts, tulle, ribbons, and glue gun, and we made costumes. I remember that Lucy loved it and even told me on one such day, "Today is going to be epic." Whew! What expectations, right? When is the last time you got your hair done and that was enough to make the rest of the day "epic?" It meant a lot to her.

Fast forward to now. I am teaching three courses online, involved with one Board officially, one unofficially, helping out with the kids' activities, and am in the middle of a complete home renovation (different house, which we took down to the studs). I'm not saying that I am any busier than any other Mom. I am probably less so than most. Nevertheless, compared to two years ago, I am swamped.

We received the Red Ribbon Week schedule again this year. They had cut down on theme days; I believe it to be the voice of parents who implemented such a change. Only three days this time, and they were fairly simple (or so it would seem).

Today, Tuesday, was superhero day. I am sure this day was chosen as an easy option, as most kids have superhero gear already. But, sadly, we do not. Heath and I liked the Batman movies when we were kids, and who didn't love Captain Planet, etc.?! But, we have not gotten much into the Marvel comic characters or superheros, as adults. We saw Deadpool and that's about it... Naturally, this translates to our children and they do not watch much of that stuff or have clothing representative of it either. That meant, to participate, I would have to be creative. Ugh! I love being crafty...when I have time. But, last night, was a busy night. I had a board meeting, and Lucy and I had practice. I still needed to complete a few items for the courses that I am teaching, and write a letter for another Board. It was a chaotic Monday, whether typical or not.

So, when Lucy asked about the "Superhero outfits" at approximately 9 PM, I didn't know what to say really. I wanted to say, "Nah, we aren't going to do it." It wasn't even that I had these spectacular ideas and didn't have the energy to execute them. I really didn't have a clue how I could "create" superheros from literally nothing. Cut t-shirts into capes? Glue an emblem on the front of an old shirt? No idea.

I did what any mom would do; I dismissed Lucy, told her to get to bed, and finished my to-do list with multiple huffs and swigs of caffeine. It wasn't until I poured myself into bed at midnight that I thought, "What am I going to do about super-hero day tomorrow?" I was kind of irritated with my younger self, for setting the bar so high, dammit. But, the kids loved it and I knew that I simply couldn't tell them to forget about it. Lucy would undoubtedly tell me that she was "the only one who wasn't dressed up." I know that it wouldn't be true, but the guilt would feel like it was.

I quickly searched Pinterest for a few ideas, came up with some possibilities and prayed (not literally) that I could find everything I needed in the morning. Zzzzz.....

When my alarm went off this morning, I wanted to hit snooze. I am a big fan of the snooze button. I start my alarm almost an hour before I need to get up, just so I can hit snooze multiple times (about six times, actually). The only thing that got me out of bed was Red Ribbon Week, Superhero Day...

Thankfully I found a Batman shirt that my mom bought Henry, and a mask that my sister bought him. Typical boy - he was set. Easy peasy. Then, the girls...By some miracle from God, they each had black pants, black shirts, and black shoes that FIT and were CLEAN. Hallelujah! I quickly threw on some cat ears for Olive, a random blue cape for Lucy, and we were well on our way to Cat Woman and a female Batman. Olive had no clue who Cat Woman was, but went along with it, as I knew she would.

After searching for face paint, I came up with just one little black pen. It had to work. I drew masks on the girls and held my breath, while they stood in front of the mirror.

"I love it," they said. And, I knew my status as "Awesome Momma" was safe.

I somehow managed to be successful today, with Red Ribbon Week - theme day number 1. But, it was not without shortness, and complaining, and irritation, and telling Olive the same thing five times. Or, saying, "Hold still!" to Lucy enough times to make me blue in the face. It was accompanied by "hurry up"s and "we are gonna be late!"s. It was a very grumpy, rushed, stressful morning.

I sit back now and wonder. Will they remember the "awesome" costumes and face paint that Momma helped them with for school? Or, will they remember that Momma was a freakin' psycho this morning, who wouldn't stop rolling her eyes, huffing, and asking, "Why aren't you doing what I said?!"

Of course, in those moments, we think the important thing is the day. The task at hand. If we can just get to school on time, dressed up, I will be successful. But, is that true? If I am a complete asshole in the process, is it really being successful? And, successful at what exactly? I'm praying that the joy of what today brings will erase the memories of their stressed out, jerk-of-a-Momma.

It's funny, right? You think you are doing something great for your kids, but in the process are not being a great example... I believe we do that a lot as parents. We stress out trying to create these amazing memories for our kids; but, we often run the risk of their memories being about our stress instead. Aren't several of your own memories about your parents, just them being completely fed up with you and your siblings on trips and vacations? Yeah. They were just trying to do something nice for us and it was incredibly stressful.

Tomorrow's theme is "orange day."

Friday is "red day."

I think I can handle those...