The simplest things seem to cause anxiety for me. Getting up, showering and shaving right away today had me on edge. All I could think about was getting ready for work. Suiting up for another day at the office. I usually don’t shower first thing for that reason. I hate reminding myself of what I used to be capable of. I know I’m injured/ill but I’m still ashamed that I’m unable to work. I feel like less of a person not making a contribution anymore. It’s my dirty little secret that I try to avoid having to confess to others. The anxiety makes me feel weak. Simple things like going to the grocery store become monumental tasks. Today I had appointments with my OT and my psychologist. I don’t know why I chose to start my day as if I was getting ready for work. All it served to do was make those appointments a little more difficult. I met my OT at the mall to work on challenging my anxiety and my ability to focus on a simple task in a crowded place. Exposure therapy. I felt fidgety. My stomach was in a knot. Normally I would medicate those feelings but I’m trying to learn to deal with them, to sit with them and ride out the discomfort. Traditionally I was never an overly anxious person. I had my moments like anyone else, but I could cope with them and still function. It kept me safe at work. Now it’s an exhausting task challenging those limits in small doses. The mental prep work involved in doing something most people can accomplish without a second thought is incredible to me still. Having mental illnesses has opened my eyes to what people who called ambulances for mental illnesses were really struggling with. It’s not that I doubted they needed help. I just couldn’t relate anymore than I could relate to a heart attack. I have a lot of ‘now I’m on the other side of the fence’ moments. I’m the patient. I have spent a lot of time judging myself because of it. Not that I consider people with mental illnesses inferior in any way but rather because of the standards I imposed upon myself. I was the helper. I signed up for it. I was supposed to be able to cope. I was supposed to have the perseverence. I wasn’t supposed to crack, least of all over feelings. Yet I did. PTSD broke the picture of who I thought I was. Now I know this is where all the post-traumatic growth begins, but there’s still a period of coming to terms with the picture being in pieces. In the early days of all this I was having panic attacks over having to admit to what I was becoming, over the road I was sure I was headed down. I was sure I would end up a divorced burnt-out alcoholic first responder. It took a bit to see that asking for help changed that tragectory. It took having anxiety to get me to ask for that help. Ironic. I still struggle with anxiety. It leads me to isolate. It makes me fear life. It causes me to incessantly worry about things I can neither predict nor change. It sometimes defies logic. It can also be challenged and managed in ways other than avoidance and drugs. I have my toe in the water on this one, and the water is cold. But I have decided to keep my toe in the water this time, and to start gradually submerging my foot. Maybe one day I’ll get in the water, but for now this is where I’m at with my anxiety.