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I have taken a friends advice literally. I recently had a long talk with my mother about what I was like as a child, what
I felt I endured, and tried to clarify many of the distorted memories, hurts, resentments, and occurrences of my youth. I
wished to know what she herself had been going through during those years, her thoughts, feelings, and actions. I learned
a few things that were surprising to me, even though I cannot remember any time that I have not been suffering from the effects
of whatever chemical imbalances I was born with, and cope with, to this day. When I was about three months old, my mother
noticed something interesting. When she would push me in my baby carriage just past the end of our sidewalk, I would start
fussing. This would continue all around the block until the moment we arrived back at our own sidewalk again. She also noted
that as a toddler, I would not tolerate our Sunday drives in the country very well. I had to sit on her lap and go to sleep.
What she didn't realize at the time, was that she was noticing one of the varied signs of agoraphobia, in her three-month-old
baby! My first years in school were distressing. There was something wrong with John. I complained of chest-pain, but doctors
could find nothing wrong. Teachers were confused by my over sensitivity to the most trivial of things. On the days that my
mother could not pick me up from school with the car, and I had to walk home, I was afraid of getting lost. Older kids would
walk with me to my door. After that, it was arranged that my older sister would meet me in a designated place on the school
yard at the end of the day, and we would walk home together. I worried furiously all day if she would be there. Little did
all these people know, at the time, that they were witnessing the signs of panic disorder in a 5 year old! Generalized anxiety,
OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder), and depression had set by this point. I felt insecure, nervous, and in anguish much of
the time. My father was not quite able to fully understand what was wrong, and didn't quite give my mother the emotional support
she needed with such a child on her hands. He was a passive individual, and was hard to communicate with. This added to my
mothers frustrations. Since her temperament was more like mine -- seemly always ready for a fight, she took out her frustrations
on me. On the one hand, at least we could talk; on the other, it made me even more insecure -- adding a few childhood traumas
to the mix. Nothing was done in those days for this type of nervous disorder, because it was not something that was diagnosed
so easily. In fact, scientific thought did not recognize the concept of the underlying neuro- chemical imbalances for many
years to come. It was thought to be due to bad parenting, or treated as a discipline problem. When I became severely anorexic,
and was reduced quite literally to skin- and-bones at the age of seven, the school called in a psychologist who immediately
facilitated psychiatric care. The psychiatrist recognized this over-sensitivity and was immediately faced with a dilemma that
he expressed to my parents: If I hospitalize him, it will kill him -- if I don't, he is going to die is the best recollection
I can gather. But my psychiatrist decided against hospitalization, negotiated a diet I could use, including lots of those
chauky-tasting vitamins, and treated me with weekly psychotherapy for about 6 months. This man was a miracle worker! His achievement
has been heralded by all the doctors I have seen to this day. At the time, it was explained to me that I was simply high-
strung, and that was the way I was. I cannot help wonder though if the doctor was telling all he knew... When my father had
a very prolonged, serious illness, Mom's worries grew. How could she support two children on her own if she had to? So, she
decided to go back to college for a master's degree in social work. The day she started her first class was the day I had
my first, boni fida panic-attack at school! The rest is a blur. I did what I needed to do to cope with everyday life. It wasn't
all bad, just some of it. I concentrated on intellicual pursuits, and ritualistic behavior. I would oftentimes spending hours
after school talking to teachers about various things. I was a social misfit, having been labeled some pretty nasty stuff
by my peers, who had knowledge of my past psychiatric problems. In short, I was shunned, not that I particularly respected
the kids my age, although I wished they would have included me in a few baseball games without having to have been threatened
by the school principal first. I was the last to be picked, and to this day, I could run like the devil around the bases,
but couldn't hit a ball if my life depended upon it! I am reminded of a stint I had to do at a day-camp, run by the YMCA.
This activity was recommended by my doctor. I was up at bat -- the outfielders probably were playing in alittle, and the pitcher
tossed one at me. I swung the bat with all my might, and (somehow) connected squarely with the softball. It went flying over
the heads of some pretty surprised outfielders, and I was stunned! I froze, wondering what I had just done. This was anxiety-provoking,
and I could feel the adrenaline rushing throughout my body. Someone yelled frantically for me to run. My first instinct was
that he was warning me of a bee homing in at me, so I ran! To this day, in which direction I ran remains a mystery... To continue,
in short, another bout of panic, anorexia, etc found me back at my original psychiatrist's office, and a few months more of
therapy. I was eleven or twelve. Again, miracles. I don't know what he did, or how. I was pretty much OK through my teen-years,
just anxious, depressed, and somewhat blocked by the OCD, but, on average, not bad years. I graduated high school early and
went on to college. With college in progress, and a history of mental disease, I avoided the Vietnam-era draft, which certainly
would have killed me, if not physically then mentally for such a sensitive person as myself. I was still socially maladapted,
but I didn't care. I made the best of my life, had a couple of really significant relationships (and one that was not, but
exciting nonetheless while it lasted) and the symptoms of my disease were minimal, relatively speaking.
The Turning Point
I was 24, my grandfather died. He lived about 50 miles away, and my parents were already there. I planed to drive out for
the funeral, and drive back the same day. I was ready to go, and there was an interruption, a change of plan. (My uncle and
aunt needed to be picked up at the airport first. Then my car wouldn't start, so I had to use Dad's sportscar. Then other
stuff happened, and in a very short time I was frazzled and most probably primed for a major panic-attack. In fact, it was
my first major panic attack by comparison. All sorts of triggers had been activated in recent weeks also, but I was not aware
of them as I set out on my trek. My uncle, aunt, and I were in the car in route on the highway, when yet another trigger must
have occurred. This is hard to explain, but I lost control of the car momentarily, but due to its superb handling capabilities,
I was able to get it back onto the road. The natural rush of adrenaline seemed to calm me paradoxically, as now I was feeling
the way I should, and for good reason -- I had almost killed 3 people! Well, maybe it wasn't all that dramatic, but had a
cop been behind me... At the funeral, I jumped into to my old coping pattern of keeping my mind occupied with intellicual
endeavors, to keep it off of the anxiety/panic within. I had a good time talking with the funeral director, who taught me
some of the lesser- known details of mortuary science. I drove home without incident, alone. But, within days of the trip,
combined with other triggers and was suffering a good deal of overload, I re-experienced my childhood anxieties, the anorexia
returned, and I was panicking constantly. Here is a good example of how triggers work. By attempting to control the triggers,
engaging in intellicual pursuits instead of letting my brain roam free etc., I was able to get through the day of the funeral.
In later years, when my aunt was at my home for a visit, I found that I could not travel to the places I had previously. It
is possible that the presence of my aunt, in and of itself, had become a new trigger by some form of generalization. My mother
by then was a practicing social worker, so she had access to a psychiatrist, whom I went to on an emergency basis. I had never
wished to take psychotropic drugs of any kind before, so it surprised me that I asked for whatever would help. He gave me
a variety of sample medications to try and scheduled me for long-term psychotherapy. I must digress here to exemplify the
extreme sensitivity of my biology. One of the samples was a 10mg valium tablet. Since I was extremely frightened and anxious
that a drug might do me more harm, I smashed it into tiny pieces, licked my finger to pick up a smidgen, and put it into my
mouth. Within a few minutes, I was sitting in the bathtub, trying to relax, when ALL my muscles just let go at the same time.
Water went splashing all over, and the anxiety was gone! This was indeed an interesting experience. Naturally, the tolerance
level grew steadily over the years, which is one of the problems with this class of drugs. (Many years later, using a different
doctor, we experimented with alternate medications that are useful for PD, but I was allergic to them. They put me on the
ceiling, instead of helping plant my feet on solid ground.) In the meantime, I was still going to college, although the campus
seemed to be getting farther and farther away, and I didn't take full course- loads anymore. Having had become a professional
student, only breaking away for a couple years in the middle of studing psychology as a major to get some work experience,
I discovered that computers fascinated me and I returned to school with a direction. Therefore, I took ten years to get through
school, with bachelors degrees in both psychology and computer science. (I am today, as I was then, fully convinced that these
two disciplines go well together, and might account for why I tend to think of human beings as biological machines, with minds
that are programmed via learning, and other analogies.) Regardless, after I finished school I got my first real job. Until
that point, I earned something doing private consulting with electronics. The job was fun. I started out with the company
as a consultant to see how I would adjust to the 8-5 nonsense, the people, and projects. Confidence in myself was not at it's
best, and dwindling. But, I liked it alot for the first three years, coped as best I could with the anxieties, and basically
did OK. The last year was stressful for all of us. Employees were fleeing in droves, and I was not any too comfortable myself.
I didn't know if it was my biology, the environment, or both. But, one day I just lost it, and resigned on the spot. As it
so happened, my doctor at the time needed someone in his clinic who knew something about computers, so I went to work for
him immediately. But I found I couldn't function. I don't know exactly why to this day, for I had little time to explore it
before his untimely death. I was unemployed, and glad to be, to be truthful. Five years later, it was suggested that I apply
for disability, and was awarded it with only the nominal amount of fuss. My biology won, not that I wish to go slave for a
paycheck anymore. But, I cannot help but wonder still what would have happened had I stayed long enough to get though the
temporary problems at my work. I'm sure I would have been let go, as were so many in my department due to downsizing, but
I might have reached closure with it. I remain to this day with a feeling of unfinished business. Now, I function on a limited
basis. Without the medication however, I would not be able to function at all. I most probably would not have lived. I still
cope by using my hobbies as distractions, engaging in ritualistic behaviors, and trying to control, avoid, or at least be
aware of the triggers.
Summary
I am intrigued by a line in a WWII submarine movie, ironically entitled The Enemy Below where the American captain saves the
life of the German captain, and (I am equating the medication with the benevolent American here) the German captain says I
should have died many times, but I continue to survive somehow. This time it was your fault..
If you should ever
wish to speak with me you can drop me an
email
Contact me!!!
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