I’m sipping probiotic tea after an IBS flare that hurt my abdomen significantly enough to launch me into another panic attack.
The tunnel vision. The pre-syncope stars. The pounding heart. The muscles that just will not to the point I couldn’t even flush the toilet and struggled to pull my pants up. Struggled as in the physical exertion feels infinitely more exhausting than running my first 5k did.
It would be humiliating, the inability to flush a toilet, if I could think about what was happening in the moment, but that’s the thing: the thinking part of my brain (the prefrontal cortex) just relinquishes all its power to the lizard brain (the amygdala) when I enter panic mode. So I look back on the event with shame, even though there’s not a damn thing I can do until someone invents a time machine.
Everything I’ve read assures me that shutdown is one of the ways it’s supposed to work in the the event of actual, life-threatening danger. My brain is not broken, just overwhelmed. The “disordered” part of having an anxiety disorder (and it’s looking more and more like panic disorder too) is that my brain has deemed pretty much everything anxiety- and panic-worthy.
For years I’ve tried to sort out why I’ve had an IBS flare when one occurs and then spiraled into overthinking.
Did I eat too much fat? Did I eat too much sugar? Did the weather get the best of me? Did I get too much sun? Did taking my medicine without food trigger an episode? Am I just too fat and unhealthy? Is my body broken beyond repair? Is this my life now? Will I never have another good day?
What psychiatrist Judson Brewer writes is that the what matters more than the why. Searching for the reason why is an attempt to rewrite the past and make a better one.
But that’s not possible. So I’m spinning my wheels trying to think of what I did to myself when I should be focusing on what anxiety feels like so that my brain can reform its habit loops based on the positive and negative feedback it notices.
I am still so very much a work in progress, by the way.
This anxiety disorder didn’t happen overnight. In fact, I think it likely stems from being dismissed by doctors, pushing for answers, and then getting the brain tumor diagnosis. For a decade now, I’ve felt like if I don’t investigate the problems myself, no one will. (If you’ve been following this blog for a while that might be obvious.)
I’ve spent years starting from the place of “I’ll probably die because no one who can help gives a shit.” Talk about anxiety-inducing. “I’m an English major! I didn’t go to med school!”
That negative assumption is not true, but I haven’t convinced my lizard brain that doctors aren’t inherently shitheads.
Anyway, I am reminding myself that getting better takes time just like developing GAD did. I’m trying to be patient with myself. Trying to remember that when I have panic attacks I’m not regressing, not starting over.
It’s like pressing pause on a movie to get a snack from the kitchen. I don’t need to start the whole thing over from the beginning. So I’ll sip this tea and spend a few moments reflecting on the progress I made.
Because all is not lost. Because I can do this hard thing. Because I have help.
If I have learned anything from the latest lung biopsy scare after the lymph node surgical biopsy following two lymph node needle biopsies sandwiched between episodes of anxiety, inflammation, and IBS flares, it’s to trust myself when I say it’s time for steroids.
It’s day three of my dose pack, and despite the excessive hanger and steroid insomnia, I feel human again. For the first time in almost two years.
In my adolescence, I used to get a steroid dose pack every year around May when Ohio River Valley pollen and GE Plastics pollution landed me at the doctor’s office with a raging sinus infection. It suppressed the inflammation and made the pain and pressure go away while the antibiotics took the time they needed.
Now doctors look at me like I’m begging for Vicodin and a Shetland pony when I ask for help getting inflammatory shit under control. “We don’t like to prescribe steroids. Only as a last resort.”
I. Have. Brain. Cancer. If I don’t qualify for a little pain relief, who the fuck does?
I’m not mad at my doctors. Just so frustrated that every little thing feels like a fight for me.
I don’t know when this “steroid steward” thing happened, or if it’s a regional phenomenon or what, but I miss palliative care so much. They’d call me once a month, and make my life as tolerable as possible. I need to find this kind of care here.
I understand better than most what risks come with steroid use. When I request it, I’m way beyond needing a little help. I’m desperate. I haven’t taken steroids since Boomer had a surgical liver biopsy in 2022 and I needed an assist walking across the University of Illinois campus while their veterinary building was under construction.
Did I mention I have a brain tumor and sometimes my body needs help?
This post is entirely self-serving. For the next time I need to be more assertive. I can be a bitch with or without ‘roid rage.
I’ve listened to Unwinding Anxiety a few times through now. I’m reluctant to praise anything too much, because I know how isolating and depressing it can be to want relief and not find it in places where others have. This Review of Unwinding Anxiety comes with a disclaimer.
Applying Brewer’s approach to my own anxiety and IBS seems to be working for me, but it might not be as healing for you. I want you to know that I see and fully acknowledge your struggle.
I’ve been stymied by that battle for what feels like an eternity, and I only drop affiliate links to make this book easier to access if you’re curious. Not because I think there’s a miracle, one-size-fits-all cure for this shit. If nothing else, reading could lead you to discover something that helps you more. That’s all I expect anyone to get from my review today.
But listen to me: if it doesn’t help like you want, it’s not your fault. It’s so important to me that you know that.
I still have anxiety, and I will always be prone to my anxious tendencies. The difference is that now I recognize it, have tools that can help me process it, and can clearly see the benefit of applying those tools.
Like I said a few days ago, I’m not moved much by woo. I prefer hard science, and Judson Brewer broke it down for me in this book. He explained his research plainly, and I found his writing clear but thorough.
Still, I’m the type who picks up on new things every time I read—it’s like when I’m rewatching a favorite movie and I notice something for the first time. I intend to give the audiobook a third listen after the initial ideas in Unwinding Anxiety have had a little more time to simmer.
Unwinding My Own Anxiety
My earliest memorable dealings with anxiety harken back to when I was about 8. I was in bed one night trying to sleep when I thought about the story of John Henry. We’d sung a song about him in music class earlier that week.
When I thought about Henry’s death and then realized my own was inevitable, I struggled to breathe. I felt sick to my stomach and hung out by the toilet for the night. It was my first panic attack, and I have only this week come to understand that’s what was happening.
Unfortunately, my best friend was sleeping over that night, and she wanted to go home. Adult me totally gets it, but little me was kind of heartbroken that my best friend didn’t want to hang out. Her mom or her grandma or someone came to pick her up. I was not just feeling anxious, I was feeling rejected.
My parents tried to console me that night, but I don’t think they understood my experience because I didn’t have words to articulate my fear. Besides, even at 8 years old, I already understood that I should probably just get a grip.
I got that same anxious feeling in my gut about Gifted & Talented class and tried to quit. But the G&T teacher was a hardass. She told me I couldn’t quit unless my parents wrote a note. I thought I’d be a disappointment to them—and I didn’t want to break their hearts—so I stayed in the program and never again brought it up.
And so it went for another 36 years.
I knew when I got stressed and anxious, my IBS would show up, but I had no clue I had developed full-blown generalized anxiety disorder until I heard Brewer define it. Then I remembered the joke I saw on Twitter about all the G&T kids being perfectionists with anxiety.
Hahahaha. Heh.
*nervously glances around room*
That plus recalling Dr. Pulmonologist recently noting the connection between IBS and anxiety caused me to have a lightbulb moment while listening to Unwinding Anxiety.
If I didn’t have a brain tumor to worry about, I might have put the pieces together sooner. After all, I have been diagnosed with anxiety because of my health.
Detailing My Anxiety Loops
Trying to get the anxiety and IBS to stop without understanding the connection was futile. My chronic illness and the physical manifestations of my GAD, were woven too tightly together.
With each new physical symptom, I’d spiral and feed the anxious habits I’d been actively suppressing for a lifetime. Every new doctor’s appointment made it all worse.
The constant internal battle over needing to know what was wrong with me but also needing to not have another expensive doctor’s appointment drain my bank account magnified my anxiety and made my IBS an even bigger problem. To the point I was noticing disordered eating in an attempt not to shit my pants. Sometimes not wanting to eat at all. When I would finally give in and eat because I knew I needed calories to stay alive, there would be even more severe consequences.
When Mom would join us for a meal, I’d stress about getting to the bathroom in time after eating. Or I’d fret about choosing the “wrong” food when ordering takeout, et voilá. I’d give the IBS something to IBS about. I’d try to identify trigger foods only to realize everything caused GI distress and be certain I was hopelessly broken. The suffering was endless.
Also? “You have cancer, we should see if this is cancer too” every few weeks might have been medically sound advice, but it was disastrous for my mental health. My doctors and I didn’t know what we didn’t know.
Pausing My Catastrophic Spirals
Garden variety anxiety had been on my radar for a while. So I tried earnestly to meditate myself to calm. The problem was that my anxiety had anxiety, as they say. Or, put another way, I was anxious I’d be anxious again. I was a hot mess.
I’m still a hot mess, if I’m honest. But Unwinding Anxiety has helped me understand what triggers my anxiety loops, why just mapping the loops helps, and how a subtle shift in how I meditate gets me to recognize what’s happening and press pause on the unraveling.
My brain has always been trying to help, since I was a kid, but I ended up very literally addicted to worry.
Evidence My Anxiety Was Exacerbating My IBS
Grasping for answers made me feel worse. Nothing is clearer to me now. Brewer encourages the anxious who try his approach to not just scrutinize his evidence, but look for their own.
I’m wary of things helping for a short time and ceasing to be therapeutic, BUT
My guts aren’t as inflamed. Which means my lungs have more room to expand and my breathing isn’t as shallow as it was just last week.
I can also hug both of my knees to my chest without any pain in my abdomen—something that inflammation and excruciating pain had made impossible for the last couple of years.
I am still eating “bad” foods, but my IBS-D episodes are farther between and less severe. I haven’t had an IBS-C bout since my first listen. Though it’s too early to say anything about IBS-C with certainty as that has always been an intermittent issue.
That level of improvement with my IBS coupled with my vastly improved mental well-being—in such a short time—is enough for me to keep on keeping on and write this long-ass post.
I’ve been trying really hard to stay positive, but today I am dealing with an IBS-D flare and back spasms. It’s taking all I’ve got to stay in the low-anxiety zone. And I’ll be frank, I am not good at it.
There are new lounging pants in my wishlist, and I will leave the rest to your imagination. Just know that it’s difficult to not be very angry at my body when it feels like it’s out to get me.
This back issue happened to me once at the hospital after a particularly long MRI. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m adjusting poorly to the new bed in addition to the usual irritable bowel shenanigans. It’s better for me, the adjustable bed, but I was used to the struggles of the old one. Now my back is being precious about it.
If the past is any indicator, the tension and immobility in my lower back will wane eventually, but until that time I’ve got my middle fingers out again. I’m exhausted by the setbacks and rotating ailments. I’m ready for some stability.
Less sucky stability though. I feel like if I don’t make that clear, I’ll end up with crap experiences on a technicality. Like when the genie takes away one of your wishes because you wish you knew what to wish for.
I know that I have a better sense of well-being when I can make room for the inconveniences of being chronically ill, but this level of meditation is new and hard. It takes time to make new habits. It’s not like I came with all this angst on day one.
Anyway, today I’m overwhelmed and need a hug, a penguin stuffie, and some peppermint tea. A little sunshine wouldn’t hurt either.
If there’s a way to be in abdominal pain and not also spiral into anxiety, someone out there please tell me what it is. Please.
I was up at 4:30 this morning again with intestinal distress. It was a mixed bag for me, emotionally. On one hand, I understand that the reason I still feel terrible is that this is not over. On the other hand, why is this still not over?!
When I don’t feel good, which is all the time these days, I watch Bob’s Burgers a lot. I recently saw the episode where Louise has an over-night with her class at the aquarium and gets constipated. Then I saw the Superbowl episode where Gene clogs a toilet at Jimmy Pesto’s. It occurs to me someone who writes for Bob’s Burgers has IBS.
Still no fever, which is good in all ways but the diagnostic ones.
Last night there was a family thing where everyone had calzones from Sauce on the Side—one of my favorites. Not only did I forgo the calzone to stay in bed, but I didn’t even throw myself a pity party about it. That’s how miserable I am right now. Eating rich foods sounds worse than enduring another four years of high school.
The only things bringing me GI joy right now are the Creamy Coconut Outshine bars. They’re like the pudding pops of my youth, but with coconut and without the rapist spokesperson.
I sent a message to the nurse practitioner to explain my situation last night and let her know I’ve stopped taking the hydroxychloroquine—at least until this clears up.
There are a few things that could have set me off, so I’m not ready to give up on it without a medical recommendation. However, it’s certainly not helping this present darkness, and I don’t want to needlessly develop a bad association.
Seeing how I ordered myself a grocery care package from Walmart and I was approved this week for Walmart’s affiliate program, I thought I’d share what IBS relief stuff is being delivered today.
Brief disclaimer since this is the internet: I’m disabled, but not so disabled I don’t delete comments from people who try to shame me about accessible delivery services, packaging, and whatnot.
Peppermint tea is soothing for the stomach. I frequently get tired of drinking the same thing, so I like to have a little variety. That leads me to my next purchase.
I’m not a fan of tea, but I always take my medicine. Ginger and I go way back to my first round of chemo. It helps with nausea.
FYI: Ondansetron (generic for Zofran) works well as an anti-emetic, but, girlfriend, it stops all the pipes from chugging. Give me some ginger and I’ll deal, thank you very much.)
I haven’t tried this yet, so I’m not vouching for it. It contains chicory though, so this has to be tried with forethought. It’s not time yet, but it will be waiting when I’m ready.
My taste buds prefer ice cream, but I’m trying to be kind to my intestines right now. The colder, the better even when it’s not the middle of July in the Northern Hemisphere.
Salt is just something I crave when I’m drinking a lot of water. Plus I really like the movie theater butter flavor on these. Popcorn hurts me, so I make do.
Lightly toasted with peanut butter for when I’m hungry, but not adventurously so. Dan and I both like them and just have them around anyway. This brand comes pre-sliced.
Usually I would treat myself with a package of Double Stuf Oreos, but graham crackers have less sugar. (Processed foods are a no-no, but YOLO. Also sugar is delicious but sadly a trigger for me, so I’m opting for less sugar. I’m a work in progress, okay?)
I’ve spent the last three days wondering if emergency surgery would be required to clear a bowel obstruction.
Here’s the thing. If me talking about poop troubles you in any way for any reason, you need to find something else to read. I have IBS, zero qualms, and a bag of edibles making me feel pretty bold right now.
I promise you I can’t be bothered to care whether this topic makes you squirm. Plus there are people out there who need me to write about this as much as I need to tell the tale.
Last night I went to bed near tears, my abdomen hurt so much. I spent most of the late afternoon using the shiatsu massager someone gifted me a couple of years ago on my belly. The heat and massage relieved some of the discomfort, and I was desperate.
Plus, I’d read that self-massage can relieve constipation and since I’m too weak and fatigued, I knew it was the closest I was going to get. I had to try.
I also sipped hot tea. I ate Activia. I took laxatives. I drank coffee. I threw caution to the wind and ate IBS-D triggers. Then, when none of that helped, I did the only thing I could. I panicked and let the anxiety in.
I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the blogger from 14 years ago who almost died because of a severe bowel obstruction. I saw her face and her hospital gown in my mind’s eye, and I pondered the worst.
Anxiety used to trigger IBS-D, by the way, but not this time. That turd wasn’t going to budge for nothin’.
I spent enough time on the toilet hoping for a bowel to twitch that eventually my legs went purple from the blood pooling around my feet and ankles.
(I have a foot rest, but after so much time even that doesn’t help.)
When I woke up this morning to take my levothyroxine, the water I sipped made me notice just how much I wanted to barf. I closed my eyes and willed away the nausea, falling back asleep for another hour. But when I woke again, the urge to hurl was still there.
I felt that familiar discomfort in my lower left abdominal quadrant where something (it was the poop) was setting off radiating nerve pain. I dug my palm in a little, pressing and pushing down toward my leg. My bowels rumbled.
“This is it! It’s happening! Finally!” I thought.
And so it was that I pooped today.
But you know what was waiting in the wings behind that IBS-C poop? IBS-D poop. That’s what.
No wonder I felt so awful. I might as well have been walking around for days with a cork up my ass.
And the best part is now I get to wonder if this is just ordinary IBS stuff or if the Plaquenil is making shit worse.
