I fell following a panic attack. And it was fine.
One of the things that I am realizing is that Dan was always in a rush to get me up off the floor when what I needed was for it to be okay that I was on the floor.
The bed became my safe space because if I was in bed, then maybe he would leave me alone. I thought letting him do things his way meant that his anxiety wouldn’t become my anxiety, but I was wrong. He’d come in and prod me raising my angst and priming me for another panic attack. He never had a good thing to say, and it hurt.
I know caregiving isn’t easy, but neither is being a patient. I told him we just weren’t compatible anymore. But even that was a fight I didn’t have energy for.
Living my life in bed all the time to avoid needing his help made me more anxious. I was taking up such a small space in my own home, and it was profoundly damaging to my physical and mental health.
What I wish I knew sooner was that I was making things harder for myself trying to appease him. As they say, I should have been putting the oxygen mask on myself first.
It feels foreign to me to be listened to now by my family. I would ask Dan for passive help like telling me “it’s going to be okay” or just listening to the way I wanted to handle things. But I was never given that agency and it did a lot of damage. Everyone now seems to be listening. It feels remarkably safe.
My panic attacks are so bad now though that they are stroke-like. But I’m getting better, and it is empowering to see how quickly I am getting better. I already feel like I’ve made huge progress and it’s only been a couple of days since Dan left for Las Vegas.
I can do hard things. As Carrie Newcomer sings “Impossible just takes a little more time.”