The Anxiety Timeline

My anxiety has taken on different personalities over time. I never know which wacky panic attack I will have. They seem to run in long cycles. For example - if my anxiety/fear is crossing the street - I will struggle with that for at least 6 months. I have not had a "classic" panic attack in about 15 years. What is a classic panic attack you may ask - well, I would say that would be a racing heart, numbness of your legs and/or hands, shortness of breath and dizziness. I will still experience some of these symptoms - but usually as a reaction to my main panic symptom (whatever it currently is). The anxiety I have been suffering from over the past 5 years has been downright paralyzing. It has halted my life and I have talked about some of these more recent experiences in other entries (like my challenges with the subway or when I battled Serotonin Syndrome). When I talk about my symptoms with friends and family...I am usually extremely embarrassed and if I am not crying...I am making it into a comedy routine, because it is all too wacky to be real. It is hard to let my guard down and just let people hear how I am feeling - let them into the window of my brain and experience what it is like to be me right now. Even my doctors tend to mock me about my most recent panic - it is just so odd. I know it is silly - but to my brain...it is a fight or flight situation and I can't stop it if I am in a tailspin. All rational thinking goes out the window...yet at the same time I am completely aware that it is happening. We will get to my current anxiety state, but first I feel it is important to go back to the history of my panic...I guess back further then I have ever considered to be panic. Shit! As I sit here writing this with my aging cat on my lap I realize that my anxiety attacks started as a child...shortly after my Mother died. Welcome to the journey of my anxiety history...

Hmmm - what is the earliest panic attack I can remember? They are all kind of blurring together on the "early years timeline". I did have a lot of anxiety surrounding sleep - as young as 5 or 6 years old. Even before my Mother died (but she was sick - so my little world was being rocked to the core). I remember needing someone to sit with me while falling asleep. I just needed to know I was safe. After my Mother died much of that security was gone, so I created an army of protectors. I had over 75 stuffed animals and I slept with ALL of them. I suffered from the classic "monster under the bed" syndrome. My monster was an alligator. I would take a running jump into my red gingham bed. Once safely under the covers (the quilt my mother made for me when she was dying) I would meticulously encircle myself with my plush army (head to toe and side to side). Snoopy under my arm. I was afraid to lay on my side...if I turned my back to the windows then someone would get in and kill me, if I turned my back to the wall...a monster would reach through and kill me too. The hall light had to be left on and my door had to be at least half way open. I would lie awake at night wondering if my mother was out there somewhere. Wondering if it was all a lie and if she just chose to leave. The decision to not allow me at her funeral proved to be a mistake...I never completely believed she was dead.

I went through a short period of sleep walking. It was a haze...but I remember some of it. One night I had a dream about lions attacking me...the faces and fangs just kept coming at me like a looping film and I was banging on my brother's door confused and afraid. My brother put a latch on his door so I could not get in his room. I was terrified and no one helped or hugged me. The lion was an important symbol of courage in our house...when my mother was battling cancer she was given a plush lion to help her keep the faith - those lions turned on me after she was gone.

I developed a paralyzing fear of thunder storms. As I got older, it got worse. I don't remember how old I was when it started, but I do remember freaking out at 13 years old while in our summer home on Cape Cod. My room was an open loft in our small uninsulated cottage. There was nowhere to hide from the storms and I would completely panic. My Dad and my Stepmother eventually stopped trying to comfort me and locked me out too. "Go to BED!". The panic during storms was with me into my 20's. I would hide in the closet with my cigarettes and a candle to wait out the booms and rumbles. I feel safe from thunder storms in NYC...not sure how I would react in the country - but I think I am MUCH better then I was.

When I was 20 years old I moved to Boston for a year. I was not in college. I moved in with a friend from my hometown who was in college and a bunch of random roommates. After a few months of sharing an apartment with 4 other girls they decided to move downtown and I decided to stay near the Chestnut Hill Mall where I was working. I got my own apartment...boy, was that a mistake. My ridiculous fear of sleep came back with a vengeance. I kept the lights on and always thought someone was outside my window. This felt like panic. My heart would race and I slowly feel into a serious depression. To numb myself from the pain I would eat excessive amounts of food and put on at least 40 pounds. I had to call my Dad for money to help me buy clothes since nothing fit. Eventually my Dad came to get me. I don't remember much about that time - only that one day my Dad was there and the next a moving truck took all my stuff back to New Jersey. Somewhere during the madness...I got myself into college - so in the fall of 1991 I finally went to school and that is when the mental illness kicked in.

I attended a women's seaside junior college in Massachusetts. No distractions of guys or being 18. I was 21 years old and finally mature enough to focus on school. I already knew what life was like without college and I wanted more than just a job at the mall or being alone. I was an advertising major and I kicked ass at it. I was a role model in my dorm. I'm not sure...but I think I was in a good place emotionally for the first semester - the second semester was another story. My roommate did not return to school after the winter break...and I was alone again. I was pulling a 4.0 and on the tennis team. I started to develop a fear of large venues - I always needed to not only know where the exit was...but where the bathroom was in case I needed to throw up. My heart would race. Eventually the fear of being sick followed me everywhere and I could not sleep in my room at night...rather the bathroom floor! I was afraid to leave the bathroom!!! (Note I had not thrown up since I was 18 and maybe 5 times in my life). I would usually fall asleep against the cold lime green tiled floor and would wake-up in the middle of the night and finally get in my bed. I would sit in class having heart palpitations. I eventually went to the nurse's office and told her about the palpitations. She showed me a way to stop my heart from fluttering - which was to bare down as if you were trying to take a shit! (Sorry to be so blunt). It actually worked. I never told her about the fear of throwing up. My anxiety started to shift towards psychosis in the spring. My graphic design professor was pregnant and I couldn't stand to be in her class because I would obsessively visualize her internal organs, the fetus and pulsating blood...I almost passed out in her class. I was her favorite student...and I was losing my mind! I started to have problems driving my car. My hands and feet felt numb and disconnected from my body. I finally told one of my best friends from boarding school about some (not all) of my "issues"...she was having anxiety as well and decided to come visit me. Holy crap...this is one of the more hilarious stories from my life...and also one of the most embarrassing and sad. What is terrible is that I have never told a professional and I really should have been hospitalized during this time...if I had...maybe all of this would have been fixed 17 years ago.

My best friend at the time was Jessica (she is still in my life today). We had been best friends since we were in boarding school together for one year back in 1984. She was a rebellious debutant from Connecticut who was kicked out of 6 high schools for behavior issues. We somehow managed to stay in touch as she bounced from New England prep school to prep school. Jessica is one year younger then me, a stunning platinum blond, who is brilliant, creative, incredibly talented, and unfortunately insane. She stops traffic with her looks and wins every argument. She is a whirlwind and for about 10 years of my life we were terribly co-dependant. Jessica often caused riffs with the other people in my life and my parents even banned her from my house. (Of course I would sneak her in when they were away).

When Jessica came to visit me up at school she had recently been told that her family had lost most of their money and they were moving to North Carolina to be with her grandparents...without her. During this time she was in her hippy phase. She would rarely shower and wear long dresses. A week before her visit with me she had been out in LA with her verbally abusive boyfriend and was caught in the middle of the LA riots. She came to me hyper and in a bipolar tailspin. She believed she was dying from either AIDS or cancer and had gone to an emergency room in LA seeking help. Between me sleeping in the bathroom and Jessica staying up all night rambling to my dorm mates - we were a terrible pair. She was driving me crazy and I was just trying to finish the school year. She just wouldn't leave!

The last straw for us came on one of my last nights of school. I was attending the athletic awards ceremony where I was receiving an athletic scholar award. Jessica sent one of my friends to come get me and interrupted my evening - I wouldn't leave...I wanted my award and this was my moment. Jessica showed up just as I was leaving with my lame piece of paper in hand...they spelled both my first and last name wrong...such a buzz kill. I was furious with Jessica for ruining my night...but I was afraid of her mood swings so I NEVER confronted her. She said she was having a panic attack and needed to get off campus. That she was too sick to drive and could we please just go somewhere. We headed to the white trash mall near campus. We wandered around with little money and nothing to do. We finally bought a huge bag of Twizzlers, some soda and headed back to school in defeat. We quickly started to binge on the Twizzlers in my car, our only relief from our inner pain. We often binged together. Half way through the bag Jessica asked if I thought the Twizzlers seemed wet. I told her that I thought there was just some condensation on them. She started to freak out...literally! She was convinced that we had been poisoned. She said she did not feel well and that we had to get to the hospital immediately. I refused to take her. But as the minutes went by I started to feel funky. The funny thing about me is that I always know when I am losing it...I never JUST lose it. I told her that we were both just having a panic attack. She pressed on, begging me to stop at the nearest payphone so she could call poison control. Finally I appeased her and pulled over. I watched her as she called the 800 number from a payphone in front of a 7/11. Shaking my head in the car. My hands were numb. She was working herself into a tizzy. She jumped back in the car and she said that poison control told her to take the Twizzlers and herself to the nearest hospital...she was now hysterical...I had to listen. I drove as fast as possible...then out of a comedy....we were stuck at a train crossing. A TRAIN CROSSING! We were going to die from Twizzlers as a freight train blocked our path to the hospital. I tried to joke about it...I think we may have managed at least one giggle. We were both sticking our heads out of my Honda Accord windows trying to get fresh air...being that we were dying and all. I was laughing and crying. Finally the train passed and the white barricades went up. We pulled into the parking lot and I chickened out. "Jessica, this is ridiculous, we are not dying from Twizzlers, we are having a panic attack, I'm not going in there!". She hopped out of the car - Twizzlers in had and ran through the emergency room doors - her vintage Ralph Lauren southwestern wrap blowing in the wind behind her. It was all VERY dramatic. Jessica's life was ALWAYS dramatic! I waited in the car for about 5 minutes. I did not know it then...and we never talk about it now...but Jessica suffers from borderline personality disorder (BPD) - all I knew was that she must be making a scene in there, and maybe I should go in and save her. Even before I got to the check-in window I could hear Jessica screaming at the doctors that if they didn't test her Twizzlers she would sue them. Yep, she was making a scene. Sue a hospital for not testing her moist Twizzlers? Oy vey! I could see security milling around...and it was getting serious. I leaned over the check-in window. I told the nurse that I was with the young lady in the wrap. I whispered to her that Jessica was in LA a week earlier, unfortunately during the riots and had taken herself to the emergency room then as well. Clearly...she was unravelling. The nurse looked at me and said "You don't look good honey, I think we should check YOUR pulse". Of course I didn't look good! I had not slept in 4 months other then the bathroom floor, my professor had a creepy fetus growing in her belly that I could see, I needed to "bare down" a few times a day to stop my heart from fluttering and my best friend was having a fucking meltdown.

I don't know how we left the hospital, but we did. I just remember telling Jessica that she had to leave the next morning. I told her she did not have AIDS, or cancer or Cyanide poisoning. It took her about 8 hours to drive home because she had to keep pulling over to the side of the road (the trip is usually 3 hours). Within a week Jessica was checked into a psychiatric hospital. I finished the year with my 4.0 and never told my parents or anyone else about my mental breakdown. The first time I told a doctor was last year...because he was smart enough to ask. I too had a difficult time driving home - it was the longest trip of my life. When I visited Jessica in the hospital she was still in a paranoid state.

My parents were moving from New Jersey to NYC and they suggested that I transfer schools and live with them in the city. They were very proud of the work I had done at school and wanted to see me challenge myself academically. Perhaps they knew that I needed to be at home and found a different way to word it. I spent the summer of 1992 at fat camp again as a counselor. I was VERY stressed out. I was on medication - Prozac and Xanax. I was having panic attacks all the time and trying to hide them from a bunk full of 16 year old girls. I have no idea how I did it. I was often agitated - and eventually my campers confronted me about being mean all the time...I was always the nice one. Once they called me out on my shit I changed my attitude. I recently had dinner with my campers who are now in the their 30's! I told them about my challenges with mental illness and they were all shocked...they couldn't believe that I was able to hide it from them...most of them really looked up to me and we were very close.

The fall of 1992 I went to an art school in NYC and was fine except for when I had to drive. When driving I would "disconnect" from my body...everything would go numb and I couldn't feel my hands. I remember driving out to New Jersey for an event with my cousins and on the way home I had such a serious panic attack that I needed to turn around and stay at their house. I never went into detail - they just let me in when I showed up at their door crying...I crawled into my cousin's bed and took a nap - I waited out my mental storm.

I was able to live with this kind of panic for about 10 years. It was off and on - but manageable until 5 years ago. I have blogged about my experience with the start of my meltdown 5 years ago. Read my last entry about my brother...I talk about how disconnected I became...all the time (depersonalization). The combo of my thyroid medication and Prozac sent me over the edge and I went on medical leave. I was disconnected for about a year - seeing life through a fish bowl...unable to snap back. It's like being on a ton of cold meds all the time or stoned.

Once I started to snap back from the disconnected feeling - my panic of walking the streets and open spaces started to really kick in. My fear of open spaces started with a walk to see my psychiatrist through the uptown part of Union Square. I needed to be near buildings or at least a railing - if not...I didn't feel safe and everything would start to spin. Eventually this need to be near something to lean on made it impossible to cross the street! I once stood frozen in the middle of 3rd Avenue...my feet just stopped moving. I suffered from this anxiety of the streets and open spaces for nearly 2 years! This panic just recently lifted. While I am still "aware" that I am crossing the street or walking through an open space...I am still able to do it. Recently there was construction in Union Square so I was able to walk through a fenced in area that made me feel safe. They removed the fencing and just last night I walked through the park...I wish I could report that all went well...but it did not. My heart started to race - but I was able to keep my feet moving...by the time I met up with my friend for dinner I was having a panic attack. It wasn't massive...but it was brewing. We sat in the restaurant for about 15 minutes staring at the menu - and finally I started to have a meltdown. I needed to leave and on the street I let my guard down and told her I was not doing well. She has heard about my problems, but never seen them...I just cried in her arms (literally)...completely defeated. We went to a coffee shop and she bought me a ginger tea. We talked until I calmed down. I dumped all of my recent major family stress on her - since I do not have a therapist - I clearly needed to put it somewhere. This was my second panic attack in a week. I am also currently suffering from PMDD - please reference my entry from 10/4/08 to learn more. PMDD exacerbates all of my anxiety.

Here is a VERY honest description of what I am currently battling. I will be using words that maybe (and SHOULD be) offensive. My current major anxiety symptom is a fear of losing control (I guess all of them are about losing control!). This fear manifests in the form of what I can only describe as "inner" turret's. This panic is the one that when I share it with others - either causes people to laugh because it makes them SO uncomfortable or for my doctors to at some point mock me. I think that no one emotionally knows what to do with this information and I just hate talking about it. When in a public setting where I cannot speak...like a Broadway show, movie or conference room presentation I get the sensation that I am going to blurt out something completely inappropriate. This started about 4 months ago when at the off-Broadway show "Saved". Again...this was exaggerated by PMDD. The lights went down in the tiny west side theater and suddenly I thought I was going to blurt out "Fuck" or "Nigger". My mind focused on the MOST offensive words - words that even offend me. I covered my mouth with my left hand while squeezing my right thigh with the other. I was 3 seats in and I couldn't get out. I tried to focus on my breathing...I tried counting...I tried focusing on the colors on stage...nothing would release me from what was like an OCD hell! My heart was racing and I couldn't breath. The play was awful and just kept going and going. "Fuck", "Nigger"...racing through my head..."STOP"! My hand was aching from covering my mouth...I had to switch hands. The room was spinning. Finally after a painfully long first act - the lights went up. I turned to my boss's assistant next to me and I told her I had a migraine and needed to leave. I couldn't get out of that theater fast enough. I broke down crying the moment I walked in my door.

Attending movies and shows is a requirement of my job. What a wonderful requirement...wonderful for anyone but me. I have to hide this anxiety and all I can do is cover my mouth and sweat. I have since attended stand-up comedy and a major award show...all the while suffering. I thought that maybe I was getting better - I still felt like I was going to "blurt", but my mind has stopped focusing on such terrible words - it is just a general feeling of losing control. My heart does not race as much...well..until 10 days ago...UGH! I went to a Broadway show with the same assistant - "13 the Musical". We were in the 3rd row...luckily I was on the isle this time. I know most of the kids in the show. The lights went down...and my panic came back! I waited about 15 minutes before getting up. I went to the bathroom and took Klonopin. I stayed at the back of the theater for the rest of the show...only returning to my seat for the finale. When we left the theater I finally told my collegue about my anxiety. I certainly did not tell her the details - but I sobbed. I could not hide it from her any longer - I needed her to understand. She is the one that arranges most of my nights out...I needed her to know that everytime I cover an event it is a success for me...it is a big deal. That I spend weeks worrying about the next one. She had many questions, but was also VERY supportive. I begged her not to tell our boss and explained that it was a big deal for me to be sharing with her...I just pray that she has the maturity to not gossip about it. I found the words to tell her that I am still strong and a competant bussiness woman and that this will pass...but that I need her support during this time. I needed her to know I was still a good person. If I was not facing Disability Discrimation at work - I would tell everyone.

I hope to one day share my story with everyone...and show my face with pride. For now I can only share annoynomously and pray that I get better.

My Brother / Our Story…

My Brother is a painful topic for me. I can’t talk about where we presently are without talking about the past and what got us to today. This is our story and there is much to resolve….I’m not sure how to do that….but I’m gonna give it one last try….one last….

My older Brother Jason was adopted because our parents not only had difficulty conceiving, but because they suffered several miscarriages. I know more about my older Brother’s adoption then he ever cared to know, simply because I asked…Jason never did. From the hundreds of baby photos of him you could see that Jason was wanted from the moment he arrived. He was adopted from birth. The photos reveal a curly blonde haired boy with stunning blue eyes. My parents tried several fertility treatments in the 60’s – one which included some sort of radiation therapy…or so I have been told. About a year into their happy life as a family of three my parents learned that they were pregnant…again…perhaps this pregnancy would go full term and they would joyfully have 2 children. Their wishes came true and they had another boy - Jeffrey. Jason and Jeffrey were only 2 years apart and would grow to be best friends. The photo album grew. These two best buds watched the first snow fall together in their footsie PJs, tippy-toed up on the sofa in front of the picture window, they took baths together and shared a bedroom. Four years later my Mom became pregnant again, with me…their third child. During the early stages of her pregnancy with me she did have a few scares with spotting. But nothing could ever prepare a parent for what they were about to face with one of their beautiful boys. While they were pregnant with me they learned that Jeffrey had a brainstem tumor. He was about 4 years old at the time. My Mother asked her ob/gyn if she should abort her pregnancy with me due to all of the stress and the spotting – plus fear that I would be sick too. Obviously, that did not happen. I was born into a very sad household. How do you welcome one child into the world while one is dying? There are only a handful of baby photos of me. It was not a joyful time in our home. When I was about a year old and the boys were 5 and 7 years, my Father’s sister was checked into a mental institution for one of her bipolar meltdowns (gee, I wonder where I get it from) – she was a single mother and my parents bravely stepped in to welcome a 3rd boy into the house (the same age as Jeffrey – 5 years old)….even with Jeffrey dying. I may have only been a baby…but I swear I remember this time. I loved having three older boys around. From family photos that I have kept…because they were too sad for anyone to keep on hand – you could still see the youthful joy in Jason’s face. He was the oldest and loved his 2 best friends – his brother Jeffrey and his cousin Daniel. The 3 musketeers – they all slept in one room (right next to mine). They dressed the same. Eventually Daniel’s Mother got better and Jeffrey got sicker. Daniel went back to California to be with his Mom and Jeffrey went into the hospital. Jason was left alone with a baby and a housekeeper. Mom and Dad were at the hospital most of the time. We did have relatives to pitch in on our care. Jeffrey died when he was 6 years old. A parent never recovers from losing a child…and Jason at only 8 years old lost his roommate, best friend and brother.

Was it the radiation therapy or the stress that made my Mom sick? We’ll never know. At only 37 years old my Mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer. I was 4 and my Brother was 10 years old. The photos from that time (and there aren’t many) reveal a family that was forcing a smile. When Jeffrey died my Mom and Dad got a summer home on Cape Cod – mostly to give them peace. I love Cape Cod – but it also stirs up painful memories of my Mom being sick and our fight for happiness. In my fourth birthday photo…my Mother, Brother and I are gathered around my beautiful homemade cake (my Mom loved to bake…even when sick). I was in my favorite lavender dress and I looked sad. My eyes were red with tears, my Brother looks awkward and angry and my Mother looks exhausted. That would be our last summer with our Mom on Cape Cod. The house was filled with her artwork from that summer for the next 20 years. She did everything she could to keep beauty around us – even after she was gone. The following summer she was too sick to return and in the fall of 1976 she died at 39 years old. I was 6 years old and Jason was 12.

I remember looking through pictures that were tucked into a drawer in our dining room when I was about 8 years old. I found a picture of Jeffrey, but did not know who he was. He had the same eyes as me…I was confused…I did not remember. All I knew was that I had one brother –who was 6 years older then me, and seemed to hate my guts.

From the moment my Mother died…my Brother shut down. First he was adopted, then he lost his best friend, then his mother died. He told a therapist that everything he loves, dies. He never spoke to a therapist again - he just shut down. I have spent my entire life trying to love him and be loved back. I have always been awkward around him, I looked up to him, and I also feared him. Jason quickly turned into “trouble” by the time he was 13 years old. He was hanging out with a shady neighbor. He lit a garage on fire with firecrackers when he was 14 and was having big parties at the house when he was just 15 and our Dad was busy dating. He would leave me at home alone when he was supposed to be babysitting me. He would hit me…but the yelling and ignoring me was even worse. He had a way of just looking at me that would make me cry. I longed for his love…I still do.

In the albums of every major family event you can see me crying in the photos. The back-story to those tears ALWAYS leads to my Brother. It was not always something he said, sometimes it was what he didn’t say. I am extremely sensitive, he is extremely insensitive. His Bar Mitzvah was less then a year after our Mother passed. He managed to smile in the photos, but it was a lot for me, I was still just 6 years old, wearing a blue dress that our housekeeper picked out for me…I wanted my Mom. My Brother called me a baby…and I cried. "Click". At our Dad’s wedding to our Stepmother I was 11 years and awkwardly wearing a white crape dress that my future stepmother picked out for me. At that time I was often forced to wear whatever she bought for her daughter who was 9 months older then me…whether I liked it or not. Us kids were about to walk down the isle, my Brother called me a baby, I started to cry. "Click". At my own Bat Mitzvah…I was chubby and wearing a brown and black checked wool coat-dress that my Stepmother made me wear (yuck!), my Brother called me a fucking baby (he was getting older and meaner), I started to cry. "Click". When I was 2 weeks shy of my sweet 16 I got a day pass from fat camp to attend my Cousin’s wedding. It was rare that I got to see my Mother’s side of the family. My Mother’s sister pulled me aside in the ladies room and apologized for not being there for me…but she bluntly admitted that she couldn’t stand to look at my face because I reminded her too much of my Mother. I ran out of the bathroom in tears…up the hotel elevator to my Brother’s room – where his girlfriend Michelle, who I was very close with, was hanging out. She hugged me and tried to calm me down…within a few minutes my Brother was in the room yelling at me to pull it together, "Stop acting like a fucking baby!". Soon after my Stepmother was in the room too and told me to get down to the wedding. I was hysterical. "Click". From every major family event there are bound photo albums on a shelf and within them lies pictures of me crying…from those “clicked” moments.

Jason married that sweet girlfriend, Michelle, when he was 24 years old. She became my best friend. He didn’t really acknowledge me…but he didn’t yell at me anymore either. 6 years later I got cancer (Hodgkin's Disease). He never acknowledged that I was sick. I mean he seriously never said a word to me about it. His wife took care of me. Michelle alternated taking care of me with my Cousin from Connecticut (the same one who’s wedding I just mentioned). Michelle was wonderful. She was Jason’s representative. She would always say, “We are here for you” or “We understand”…it took a bit of the sting away.

When Jason was 33 years old he and Michelle had a healthy baby boy. I have never loved a child so much. I think Jason never thought he could ever feel love like that again…but his heart melted at the sight and touch of Matty. Jason was gentle and warm towards his son. He even told Michelle that when Matty would stare at a corner from his crib, he must be looking at the angel of his Grandmother (our Mother). He never talked about our Mom, so that was shocking. During this time I worked with Jason and Michelle at their special events company in New Jersey. I did everything from sales, to production management, to floral design, to event photography for their portfolio. Being in the office together and even sometimes alone in the van on our way to an events forced us to start talking. Never about anything heavy…but we were talking. I was very close with Jason's son and I was a big presence in their lives. Matty and I were best buds. I would baby-sit and sing to him for hours.

5 years ago was when my battle with my thyroid and mental illness began. It all came to a head when the combo of Synthroid and Prozac caused me to not only have sever anxiety, but crossed over to insanity. I could not function at my full time job. Faces started to look weird to me. I felt paranoid. My resting heart rate was about 105 and I could not walk down the street. I was to fly to Boston to shoot a big wedding. Not for the bride and groom, but for Jason and Michelle's portfolio. This was the big daddy of all weddings. Michelle was putting some of her own money into this event to get great photos and exposure. I was pacing in my apartment. My mental state was deteriorating…and I was expected to get on a plane the next morning. My bags were packed. Pacing. I knew I was too sick to go. I had to call Michelle and tell her…but telling Michelle was admitting that I was truly sick. Finally I did it. I called her. “Michelle, I’m so sorry, I am too sick to cover the wedding. Something is very wrong with me. I don’t know what to do…it’s worse then just a panic attack, I’m so sorry…something is wrong…” Michelle’s response was that of an over-tired and stressed out Wedding Planner, “I don’t care what is wrong with you, get on that plane before I have a fucking PANIC ATTACK!” (She said panic attack in a mocking tone). I was sobbing, “I know you want good pictures for your portfolio, but we know the bride, maybe you can pay her photographer extra money to take stills for you, or I’ll call around for a photographer…I just can’t get on a plane”. There was nothing I could say or do to help or get through to her. It was either get on the plane or that was it. She explained that she only trusted me to take these photos and beyond that compliment the rest of the conversation was mean spirited and selfish.

I did not get on the plane…as a matter of fact within a few days I was in the hospital with dehydration and began my official journey with mental illness. I have still not fully recovered. My parents tried several times to get Michelle and I to speak. She finally called to apologize about 4 months later. For me, it was too late. The one person I trusted and who knew my work ethic not only doubted me – but couldn’t even bring herself to admit she was wrong. I have sadly never been able to forgive her. She represented the gateway to my Brother and all of my trust and frustration was tied up in that friendship. I guess my way of taking my anger out on Jason has been through Michelle. (I see that now…this moment).


Jason and Michelle got divorced 3 years ago this month. By Christmas of 2005 my Brother was a mess. He was drinking heavily and borderline stalking Michelle. That is the only time Michelle and I spoke – was when she called me to “please help with Jason”. She needed me to be there for him. He was broke, behind on his rent and she was threatening to call the police if he didn’t stop calling the guy she was dating. Me, be there for Jason? I mean…I would try…but would he take my hand? I started calling him…no answer…his phone was “temporarily disconnected”. I tried the office…no answer. Finally a very direct email that if he did not return my call or respond to the email by 3:30 that day –that I was coming out to New Jersey to find him. Finally…I found him on AOL instant messenger. I said it again – “Pick-up the phone or I am coming out there”. He wrote me back. “I’m fine”. I responded, “I need to see it for myself, Dad is worried – please let me help”. I don’t recall the exact sequence from there, but I do recall being in his apartment for the first time. I noticed that Matty did not have a bed to sleep on - only a matt on the floor. I remember lots of vodka bottles and that my brother had picked up smoking cigarettes. He had always smoked a lot of pot…but now he was stoned all the time. That holiday season for the first time ever Jason joined me in Connecticut at my cousin’s house with Matty. I had been celebrating Chanukah and Christmas with my Cousin and her 3 kids for the past 15 years. For the past 15 years my cousin had invited Jason and his family up and he never came…not only did he never come…but he never even bothered to reply. This was like a dream come true. For the 2 hour trip there my Brother really spoke to me for the first time in his life. He was not only chatty…he was actually funny. I liked the person next to me. Matty was asleep in the back of the car and Jason rambled on about the girls he was dating and the anti-depressant he was on. (Perhaps he was a bit manic from the meds). We were able to share back and forth about topics we could relate to each other on. I felt high from the conversation and could not wait for my Cousin to see the new Jason. One that would let us into his life. I could also not wait for Matty to experience a real family Christmas. My Cousin even got him his own stocking to hang over the fireplace. The holiday was as magical as it sounds. The kids made cookies for Santa and we played games. When they went to sleep we wrapped gifts until 4:00am. My Brother was drunk most of the time…but we put that on the backburner…we were just so grateful to have him there. Christmas morning was early with 4 kids ready to go. The look on Matty’s face will forever be burned in my mind as one of life’s beautiful moments. He was so happy to be with his cousins. The trip back home was just as wonderful. We chatted the whole way – we picked up on our conversation from the way there. I was able to share about my mental health and I felt heard.

When we returned to my apartment Jason waited downstairs while Matty slept in the car. I went to get the air mattress that I had just bought myself. I needed for Matty to have a bed when he was at his Dad’s house. I also gave my brother $280 in cash. I could not afford it…but I told him otherwise. I even bought the gifts that he gave to our little cousin’s and told him to pay me later. You could not put a price tag on me finally having a brother.

Jason and I continued to speak at least once a week over the phone or via email for almost a year. If I called him – he would answer right away, even if it wasn’t a good time to speak. He sometimes even called me just to check in or to share a story. The weight of 30 years of pain was lifted. I finally had a brother.

In April of 2007 I became sick again. That’s what this blog is mostly about. Battling anxiety and depression…or shall I say…being bipolar. My Brother had a hard time with this. I went on medical leave from my very cool job and was talking about checking into a hospital to get off of an anti-depressant that was making me worse. He was almost begging me “Please don’t go into a hospital, that’s stupid”. May 24th of 2007 I checked into Columbia Presp Hospital and my Brother stopped talking to me. I was there for 12 nights. He never called. I sent him a long email explaining my illness when I got out and he simply replied that he was busy and would call me soon. He never did. If I called – it went right into voicemail. When Matty went off to camp I called for the address so I could send a care package…I got an email response with the address…nothing further. I finally decided it wasn’t fair to Matty and I needed to see him. By then it was winter again and it had been almost a year since I had seen Matty – they live only 20 minutes from NYC. (My heart literally hurts as I type this part of the story). I was having nightmares about Matty being all grown up and not letting me hug him anymore. I was losing time with this precious child who was 10 years old. I sent my brother an email that I knew he could not back away from:

Jason,

It is almost a year since I have seen Matty. Please look at your calendar and pick a date. I will meet you in the city.

Thanks.

He replied within a few hours with a date. I was still very sick and being out in public was hard for me…but I would do anything to see Matty. We met in Union Square on a cold day. We went to Max Brenner’s Chocolate. Matty and I talked for almost an hour straight while my Brother just nodded and look out at the crowd. I gave my nephew gifts, drawings I had done for him and told him stories. His face was beaming…and I am pretty sure mine was too. For dessert I ordered a chocolate fondue – I didn’t care that it was over-priced…I wanted to stretch the time together and watch this sweet boy roast marshmallows. Finally Jason spoke up, “Matty, why don’t you tell your Aunt about your hero letter?” - My nephew looked embarrassed…then a smile came across his angelic face. “I wrote about you in school…we had to talk about our hero and you’re my hero”. (I’m not gonna cry…I want Jason to see me for the strong woman I am now…not gonna cry…he can’t tell me I’m a baby anymore). Matty continued, “Every kid in my class had to do this project and bring their hero to school, but Dad said you were not able to come”. What? It was true that it would have been VERY hard for me to not only travel out to his school, but to speak in front of a class. But I would have fought like hell to try…had I have been given the option. As we parted ways in Union Square Matty hugged me goodbye and I promised I would see him again soon. We played a game where I kept waving from the street corner until he could no longer see me…I waved to him for almost 4 minutes as he made his way through the crowd in the park…turning back every few seconds to see if I was still waving. When they were finally out of site…I cried.

The below 4th grade project was sent to me a few weeks later…not by my Brother as he promised, but by my Stepmother.

My Hero – By Matty Z (10 years old):
(You don’t need Superpowers to be a superhero)

This is a story about my Aunt who is very generous. Whenever I see her she takes me somewhere special. Like the time in 2006 for my birthday she took me to the biggest art store in NY. The store is called Pearl Paint and she bought me tons of art supplies. I got 100 markers, a big sketch book and 3 special markers. Oh yeah, she also happens to work for the coolest kid’s channel.

My Aunt is also very thoughtful. She once took me to this big event in LA. It was amazing. I got to meet Jack Black and Ice Cube the guy from Are we Done Yet? She got me a VIP gift bag with a Fire Fly cell phone and a nice sweat shirt. My Dad and I got to go to the party afterward which was amazing.

My Aunt is always thinking of Me. She received a free game from work and gave it to me. It was a great game. I recommend it. I like to play it on my PSP video system.

Even though she lives in NYC I don’t get a chance to see her often. She works very hard with actors in kid’s television. It’s a really cool job and she works with a lot of famous people. Her office is a fun place to work and I always like to go visit her there. Thanks Aunt (blank), you are the top of my list! You really are the best Aunt I could have.

The above effected me on so many levels. It gave me great joy and at the same time made me very angry. How could he be kept from me like this? He obviously misses me and his Mom and Dad both helped him write this paper. Am I only his hero because I have a cool job? Or am I his hero because I love him unconditionally and show it through generosity and special moments? I wish his parents helped him with that message and I am not ever too busy working to see him! Ever. The other kids in my life know this - my little cousin from Connecticut wrote about me in school that same winter…I’m the cool Aunt that makes them feel special. He wrote about all of our holidays together and about how I am always there.

I have seen Matty only twice since last winter. Both times were family gatherings. He turned 11 years old on October 2nd. I sent him a video game – like I do every year. I emailed my Brother asking him where I can call Matty on his birthday and he replied to try Matty’s cell. I left a voicemail and have never heard back. I bravely left Jason a voicemail 2 weeks ago to call me. I was calm and warm…I simply said “Please call me when you have a moment”. My Stepsister told me there was a birthday party for Matty the Sunday after his birthday…I was not invited.

So now what? Do I finally forgive Michelle to have Matty back in my life? Do I confront my Brother one last time…balls to the wall…finally speak out loud and strong? What is my goal? To see Matty or is it to get the brother back that I only had for a year? It would be so much easier if I didn’t have him in my life for that one year. I would not feel the loss. You maybe asking yourself why Jason really stopped calling me…was it something more then me being in the hospital? The ONLY thing I can think of is a phone conversation with my Father where I told him that Jason does not call me back and my Father most likely said something to my Brother. That’s it. It doesn't take much for my Brother to check out when life gets too hard. From being afraid to love…because everyone he loves, dies.
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The above was written in Mid October – it took me a few weeks to post...it sat in my documents as it was very painful and I know the writing is not great (trust me…I know!). But the writing process gave me some clarity…..

Update:
I sent an email to both Michelle and Jason (yes…Michelle – his ex-wife). He was either going to respond…or I was going to reconnect with his ex-wife…my old friend. The choice was his…

Jason & Michelle-

Hope you are both doing well. I have been trying to get in touch with Matty since his birthday – via emails and voicemails to Jason and voicemails to Matty’s cell. I have not seen Matty since the family Memorial Day gathering in New Jersey. Matty is very important to me and I am pretty certain I am important to him too. Can you please help me stay connected with your awesome son? It is still hard for me to travel – but I will do whatever I must to see him. All of my weekends are free coming up other than 11/15.

I know things have been strained with each of us individually – for various painful reasons. I am not looking to fight or point fingers – only to move forward for the sake of Matty. We are all good people with lots of hurts. Matty is very loved – by many.

Please let me know how you would like to proceed as his parents. Please also let me know that you have received this email.

Thanks.

Michelle responded within minutes. She started with how much she loves and misses me. We picked a date to get together in the city. I finally saw Matty last Sunday 11/2/08. We had brunch with his Mom and her boyfriend. There were some old patterns from his Mom…like they were 40 minutes late for our reservation…and I didn’t know her boyfriend was coming…but I stayed calm and focused on Matty. It was painful for me to sit across from Michelle - but I now see that my anger towards her is not her fault…rather a default of my anger towards my Brother. We will see each other again soon. My Brother never replied to the email…it was sent 2 weeks ago.