Anxiety

Anxiety, my old friend. It seems I've lived with you my whole life. I do remember a time before you came to live with me. I was small, four, five, that happy age were the sun came up, Dad went to work. Mom cooked, cleaned the house. I can still smell the fresh laundry when she would bring it in from outside. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans from dad's garden. Life was nice. I knew mom wasn't always happy. Her and dad argued about things, they were loud, dad would get an odd look on his face, clench his fists, jaw, I could see a darkness, just for a moment and then it would be gone. He would go out to his beehives, his garden, he would hoe the rows, till there was a slick sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Mom would cry for a few minutes, brush her dark hair out of eyes and start supper. Send me out to the garden to call him in to eat. He would always ruffle my hair with his hand. The anger forgotten, the dark look, clenched jaw and fists were in the past. I would see those looks on rare occasions, never dreaming that a day would soon come and it would destroy the happy little girl.

A day at the fair, riding on dad's shoulders, he loved all the farm exhibits, he was my hero. Told me about the different breeds of cows, how the hay should smell, which vegetables grew the best here in mid-Missouri. He smiled, laughed, took me for a ride on the carousel. Cotton candy, candied apples, the midway lights, mom seemed uneasy that night.

The next day I told mom about the fair again, even though she had been with us. I saw a sadness in her eyes. I thought dad was gone to work. The phone rang and I heard my mom talking low to someone and glancing at me as I played with the a doll on the floor. Tears started to fall down mom's cheeks, this took me by surprise, she never cried unless she argued with dad. She hung up the phone as my oldest sister came through the front door. Dad was behind her, his face pale, sad.

A decision had been made at dad's visit to the doctor that morning. Dad says he is going to a hospital for a few weeks, probably, five or six. I don't understand, dad's healthy why would he go to hospital? I hadn't known he was going to the doctor. No one notices me standing by the door, anxiety hasn't started to creep into my life yet. The day will introduce me to my constant companion. Questions are close to the surface, no one takes time to explain what is going on. Dad walks by me, goes to his bedroom, packs a small bag and we all go to my sister's car.

The drive to the hospital was surreal, I know were the hospital in town is, but we pull out on to the highway, head east out of town. The car feels like a boat, I feel trapped. Dad sits in the back with me. He pats my hand and says it will be alright. Mom turns to him and unleashes her anger. What's going to happen to us if he can't work, how will the bills get paid? There's a brittle bite to her words, her voice harsh, close to hysteria. The darkness flits back into my dad's eyes, in that moment I see the danger that lurks but can't put a name to it. Looking back at that ride, the reason dad was going to the hospital was clear. The dark look was the evil that lurked in my dad's brain. It was the thing that would have killed us, had he stayed at home.

The drive took a little over two hours, I had never heard the words State Hospital till that ride. Dad says that his doctor told him that with treatment the dark thoughts would go away. The buildings were huge, white in the late summer sun. The administration building was modern for that time, all red brick and glass. The receptionist asks us to have a seat, said that the psychiatrist would be out to see us shortly. She says that dad's doctor had made all the arrangements. She smiles at me, she looks sad.

The doctor took us back to an office, shook dad and mom's hand, talked about treatment, making dad feel better. My tears are falling, I feel confused and lost. My sister takes my hand and walks me back to her car. Mom follows but not dad. I feel hysterical, I want to run back through the door but Annie had my hand tight and won't let go. She opens the door and puts me in the back seat. As we drive away my face is pressed to the glass, my sobs are silent, I can't seem to catch my breath. Some where on that drive home I fell asleep. When I woke up we were at the house and anxiety was with me.

From that day forward, anxiety stayed. Never far away, reminding me that I could lose what little I had left at any time. Five weeks went by, a call came from the hospital, we shouldn't come to visit for at least three more weeks. Dad wasn't better, worse, in fact. When Mom and my sister went to visit at the end of that eight weeks, I didn't get to go. It was too upsetting for me they said. I stayed with an aunt. I could hear the adults talking. "Well, of course she's quiet, she's odd, her dad's crazy. It's probably inherited." My anxiety grew stronger with each comment, each giggle about my "crazy" dad. I learned not to trust people, even my own family.

I was sure dad would come home that day. Waited anxiously on my Aunt's porch so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. In the distance I can see my sister's car. Tried seeing who was inside, I was so excited, I just knew that he would be with them. My life would go back to normal. Mom wouldn't cry, worry all the time. We could ride in their car to church, the store, all the places that we went as a family. By the time the car pulled in the driveway, I knew he wasn't in the car. My heart breaks again, Annie gets out and takes my hand. Thanks my aunt for watching me. I cried all the way home, sobbed till I thought I would be sick.

Dad didn't come home at the end of eight weeks, he didn't come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, either. Mom left Dad's car sit by the side of the house. In my mind, as long as the car was there he would come home. Summer was long, drawn out. No fair this year. Mom was angry, she had to find a job, dad was shirking his responsibility. She needed him at home, taking care of things. I know it was hard on her, it didn't leave time to deal with a sad, nervous child that wanted life to go back to normal. Why did things change so much, why did dad not come home. A thousand why's and no answers.

When I was ready to start school, mom walked with me to the school. She didn't drive. The other kids all looked so excited, I just remember feeling abandoned. I was terrified that someone would know about dad. It was a small town, half of my class had parents that knew about dad, where he was, had their own idea of why he was there. I hated school, had issues with not wanting to eat, nausea in the mornings, most nights I didn't sleep well. I was afraid to talk to the others in my class. I remember sitting in the window sill of the school basement watching them run and play, talking and laughing they seemed to have so much fun.

I finally made a friend at school. She was new, starting after Thanksgiving break. The other kids wouldn't talk to her much, she was tiny for her age. Lived alone with her Grandma, anxiety was with her also. She started out on a basement window sill just down from mine. One day I crossed the distance between them and said hi to her. We sat for some time on that window sill, talking, starting to laugh together. Our teacher noticed that we were always together. Finally sat us next to each other in class. It made school better for us both.

Months went by, dad's car left the side of the house. He's never coming home. The treatments didn't work, dad's darkness finally shifted into a blank look, the medications took the light away, too. He didn't smile or talk about the garden anymore. He was pale, lost weight. By the time I was allowed to visit, he was a shell of himself.

My experiences as a child with a parent who had mental illness were terrifying. Not because of my Dad, but because of the way people were at that time. No one wanted to face it head on. Instead it was whispered, insinuated, laughed about or just completely ignored. Since I was already reeling from losing so much, it caused the anxiety to swell and grow. It felt like I was out in the water and no one was going to help me back to shore.

I look back now and send up a prayer of thanksgiving that I survived. I still have anxiety. It's never far away. Even after fifty years, counseling and medication, it can rear it's ugly head. Make me feel just like I did on that first ride home from Dad's hospital. It played a part in so many bad choices in my life, lost jobs and arguments, lost friends, family. Life is a work in progress, I have to say that the last twenty years have been good ones. My support system is phenomenal, my family strong and supportive. I know the signals that require attention from me, that has helped immensely.

I find myself watching little ones now. The quiet ones that seem lost, a smile, a kind word can go a long way. I pray I never cause anxiety to get a stronger hold on one of them.