I had my first panic attack in my mid-twenties. My job was stressful and not at all satisfying, friends were confiding in me and I did not agree with their choices, old boyfriends I had hoped to reconcile with someday were exclusive...and not with me, and my inability to deal with death plagued me. I was desperately searching for some sort control over my life but at this point, I had none.
The major panic attack that pushed me over the edge still occupies a section of my brain. I was hanging out in my parent's pool with a group of friends and started feeling pins and prickles going up and down my arms. My heart was racing and I was short of breath. My friends suggested a beer might calm me down. It did not. I began to hyperventilate and as a last resort decided to go to bed and ignore the sensations altogether. Unfortunately, these feelings that had taken over my body were all too familiar. As a kid, I struggled with anxiety and often found myself in the nurse’s office at school with stomachaches only to hear the nurse say, “Angela you are fine, go back to class.”
My night’s sleep was restless and dreadful, so in the early morning hours, I gave up my fight and drove myself to the nearest emergency room. My parents were out of town and my friends in the house were sleeping, so I went alone, convinced that I was having a heart attack.
The emergency room was vacant allowing me a prompt evaluation. I was questioned first then received a full examination but ultimately my personal trauma brought little concern. My diagnosis was not life threatening but it was disheartening. I had experienced a panic attack and the medical staff could do nothing for me long-term. I was to find a therapist and get to the root of my problem.
Scared and confused can only begin to describe my disposition. The doctors provided me with ten anti-anxiety pills but again stressed that they were a short-term answer to a long-term problem. Bottom line, I needed to seek out a counselor.
Desperate for answers, I followed their advise and found therapist who categorized my condition as general anxiety disorder. As a coping mechanism, I allowed any loss of control to overwhelm me causing me physical and emotional stress. The therapist equipped me with multiple tools to overcome my problem and journaling was one of them.
Once I gained control over my anxieties, I noticed the size of my personal journal. As I flipped through the entries, I thought, if someone read this journal, they would think that my life was awful and that I was in constant disarray. I knew that wasn't true, those anxieties were part of my life, they did not define me. After reflecting on my experiences, I decided that a drastic measure was necessary to free me from that past. I ripped apart my journal, tossed the pages into my charcoal grill and lit a match. The fire was beautiful.
Years later I began journaling again, but this was a different type of expression. I was journaling about the lovely things that were happening in my children’s lives. Every entry was written with such love that anyone reading those words would have thought my kids were the luckiest kids around.
Not long after journaling about my children, a divorce struck my life and everything started to fall apart. I thought about journaling again and realized that this time my entries would be filled with a crushing sadness. All of the sad times in my life came crashing down on me and it was as though sadness was a black cloud that followed my every move. I could not squeeze any other emotion into my thoughts or memories.
Eventually the devastation began to wear off and I started to think clearly again. I realized that this feeling of being locked into one emotion for a lifetime would make for an interesting story. This line of thinking brought me to write the book A Life Out of Context.
I began brainstorming ideas for the emotions I wanted to capture and the stories I wanted to tell. The stories are from my life and are my best recollection of events from my childhood and adulthood. I have decided to change some of the names of people from my experiences only to protect them from any unwanted attention.
After all, I am from Minnesota and that is a “Minnesota nice” thing to do.
The major panic attack that pushed me over the edge still occupies a section of my brain. I was hanging out in my parent's pool with a group of friends and started feeling pins and prickles going up and down my arms. My heart was racing and I was short of breath. My friends suggested a beer might calm me down. It did not. I began to hyperventilate and as a last resort decided to go to bed and ignore the sensations altogether. Unfortunately, these feelings that had taken over my body were all too familiar. As a kid, I struggled with anxiety and often found myself in the nurse’s office at school with stomachaches only to hear the nurse say, “Angela you are fine, go back to class.”
My night’s sleep was restless and dreadful, so in the early morning hours, I gave up my fight and drove myself to the nearest emergency room. My parents were out of town and my friends in the house were sleeping, so I went alone, convinced that I was having a heart attack.
The emergency room was vacant allowing me a prompt evaluation. I was questioned first then received a full examination but ultimately my personal trauma brought little concern. My diagnosis was not life threatening but it was disheartening. I had experienced a panic attack and the medical staff could do nothing for me long-term. I was to find a therapist and get to the root of my problem.
Scared and confused can only begin to describe my disposition. The doctors provided me with ten anti-anxiety pills but again stressed that they were a short-term answer to a long-term problem. Bottom line, I needed to seek out a counselor.
Desperate for answers, I followed their advise and found therapist who categorized my condition as general anxiety disorder. As a coping mechanism, I allowed any loss of control to overwhelm me causing me physical and emotional stress. The therapist equipped me with multiple tools to overcome my problem and journaling was one of them.
Once I gained control over my anxieties, I noticed the size of my personal journal. As I flipped through the entries, I thought, if someone read this journal, they would think that my life was awful and that I was in constant disarray. I knew that wasn't true, those anxieties were part of my life, they did not define me. After reflecting on my experiences, I decided that a drastic measure was necessary to free me from that past. I ripped apart my journal, tossed the pages into my charcoal grill and lit a match. The fire was beautiful.
Years later I began journaling again, but this was a different type of expression. I was journaling about the lovely things that were happening in my children’s lives. Every entry was written with such love that anyone reading those words would have thought my kids were the luckiest kids around.
Not long after journaling about my children, a divorce struck my life and everything started to fall apart. I thought about journaling again and realized that this time my entries would be filled with a crushing sadness. All of the sad times in my life came crashing down on me and it was as though sadness was a black cloud that followed my every move. I could not squeeze any other emotion into my thoughts or memories.
Eventually the devastation began to wear off and I started to think clearly again. I realized that this feeling of being locked into one emotion for a lifetime would make for an interesting story. This line of thinking brought me to write the book A Life Out of Context.
I began brainstorming ideas for the emotions I wanted to capture and the stories I wanted to tell. The stories are from my life and are my best recollection of events from my childhood and adulthood. I have decided to change some of the names of people from my experiences only to protect them from any unwanted attention.
After all, I am from Minnesota and that is a “Minnesota nice” thing to do.
Welcome to: A Life Out of Context.
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