I cannot begin to say how wonderful it was to take a shower last night, save for the fact that I have red and blistering splotches on my skin from the heart monitor adhesive and the tape used to ensure it remained in place for 14 days. Trying to climb into and out of a tub, still avoiding water near the monitor, and then washing my hair in the sink was hard work. It was also immensely confusing for Amos. He's never seen me take a bath and kept thinking that since there was water in the tub it was time for his bath.
Here he is all exhausted from worrying about my change in bathing habits.
My dear friend Mary wrote some words that I wanted to borrow on her blog a while ago: Part of me really wants to feel like myself again. But I can be brave enough to admit this is me too.
Borrowed words. Not within the context of her life and how she meant them, but in the context of my life and how they spoke to me.
As I was reading her blog, I realized that they were words I needed, to speak, to think, to hear, too. In a large part, they are words I need with regard to the anxiety alone. By nature of Dysautonomia, I will never—baring great scientific advancement—I will never be free from anxiety. I need to brave enough to admit that an anxious person is me, too.
I've written before that for so long, I thought that the fainting was the first symptom of Dysautonomia, but that I now believe that it was anxiety. The epitome of this was how great the struggle to pack became for me. Even visiting my best friend was something that threw me into a maelstrom of doubt and confusion. What should I pack? I would call my friend and ask her to talk with me about packing. Me. Myrtle. The woman who packed up her entire life in a Toyota Corolla four years in a row whilst in college. I can load a car like no one's business. But I couldn't fathom what I should put in a suitcase, much less the car. It got to the point that my visits filled the car almost as much as my moves in college.
It was not just packing. Anxiety crept into so many areas of my life and my work. The part of my brain that allows me to see both the forrest and the trees turned on me, showing me the potentials hazards of both.
Of course, the breaking down of all my coping mechanisms that were a tattered patchwork quilt covering the wounds of my past brought its own anxiety. And two events—the pit bull attack being the second—led to the fruition of PTSD.
Flashbacks, panic attacks, anxiety.
Nigh terrors, nightmares.
Fear, horror, shame.
There is healing that can come from the effects of sexual abuse. There is healing that can come from PTSD. But I will not be free from anxiety because of the dysfunction of my nervous system, both central and autonomic. I do not believe the words I am borrowing from Mary are about accepting this, but rather understanding that the me I am now is still me, even if it is not the me I was.
Okay, that made no sense.
Back to Amos.
Amos fights his anxieties every day. The slightest bit of unexpected noise startles him. Even my sneezes. Especially my sneezes. In the Great Outdoors, nearly everything startles him. And then there is the GREEN grass. Oh, how it fells him.
Normally, Amos needs to conduct his major business twice a day. However, he does not always conquer his fear twice each day. As I have written, I used to force him. We would have major arguments over his doing so. We would spend hours each day having this argument. Begging, pleading, yelling, time outs—such was my life.
Now, I will let him choose to give up the battle, if he has made a good faith effort to tend to business but cannot bring himself to actually step out onto the grass. If he skipped the morning, then we do not go to bed without accomplishing his business. If he skipped the evening, after he has breakfast, we will not come back inside until he has done so.
Even when I must be firm, I find it near impossible. I know I must be because a body will override the mind when too much time has passed. He will be sorry. He will go and hide. But he will poop inside. So, I sit on the steps and wait and call out, "Amos, go poo-poo. Go poo-poo outside!" Again and again and again.
Amos is very skilled at pulling at my heart strings. For when his anxiety is high, Amos will crawl into my lap. He will crawl into my lap, put a paw around my neck, and tuck his head beneath my chin. Or. Or Amos will crawl into my lap, put a paw around my neck, drape his head across my other shoulder, and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. I melt. I struggle not to cave.
If it is a time when he must face his fears, I will peel him off of me, kiss the top of his head, and turn him around to face the yard. Over and over and over again. If it is one of those times he can choose to give up, I will ask, "Would you rather go inside?" In five seconds flat, Amos, upon hearing that question, will crawl over my person, scamper up the rest of the steps, and have his nose plastered against the screen door, waiting to be let back inside.
I love when Amos puts a paw about my neck. He does this not just when he's wanting to flee his fear. He does this when I am writhing on the bathroom floor. He does this when I am weeping. He does this when I am afraid. He does this for me.
This. This life now. Who I am now is me. But who I am now is also a beloved child of God, whose Good Shepherd sent her a puppy dog to be with her in her anxiety. Even when he is napping.
Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!
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