When the Going Gets Tough

Sundays consist of a lot of people-seeing and another start to a week where I have to venture out of the house. Or worse, Auggie has to.

Sundays used to start with Bryson dragging me out of bed by 7:45 to get to church at 8. (Okay, maybe 8:05. We were typically late, which drives Bryson bonkers.)

I would fiddle-fart around, trying to pick out clothes that match, as my eyes were still adjusting and the anxiety built up in me.

“What if we don’t get a seat at the end of the row? How will I get Auggie across the rows of people before the preacher starts talking? Should I take Auggie to the daycare area? What if there’s a sick kid in there?”

Then one morning this past December..

“THE FLU.”

And, that was the end of me getting up and agreeing to go to church.

***

After a very heated discussion on the morning of my rebuttal, Bryson and I decided that we don’t have to do everything together. If missing church makes him uneasy, and going to church, makes me uncomfortable, we would do our separate things on Sunday mornings.

Bryson now goes to church every Sunday morning and acts as an usher to fulfill his need for community and service. Auggie and I get up and watch church virtually over FaceBook while we eat breakfast to satisfy our tummies and my anxiety.

However, I realize this arrangement can’t last forever. At least, it shouldn’t.

I want Auggie to grow up going to church, or to the grocery store, or out to eat on a busy Saturday night without feeling the fear that I choke back numerous times a day. I want him to feel compelled to go to church, to serve, and be in community, just like his dad. I want him to do whatever his heart desires without ever having to ponder the germs, social interactions, food-borne illnesses, etc.

So, I went to counseling.

***

I’ve decided that counselors/therapist/psychologists make a living off making others cry. For it seems every time I cry during a session, I reach some breakthrough in my fight to overcome my anxiety. This last session, it was understanding where my anxiety stems from.

I feel like it’s typical for children to blame their problems on their parents’ divorce or women to pinpoint “daddy issues” as a reason for their behavior. This isn’t exactly the case for me. In fact, my therapist makes it sound like I have more “mommy issues” than “daddy issues.”

My parent’s divorce simply instilled a need for control in my 8 year-old-self, a need to comfort my grieving mother who was now relying on me as a friend, a need to take care of my younger sister, and a need to find a new normal. I began to count on myself and myself alone thinking that if I just took the control in every situation, the outcome would be favorable or at least foreseeable. No surprises.

Then my grandfather died a few months afterwards, and suddenly, I was hit with something I couldn’t control. Death.

I remember being petrified of using the same restroom in which he died or not wanting to get up until after 8 am on Sundays, as if somehow his heart attack was contagious. Nowadays, this fear seems silly, but that’s exactly what anxiety is.

Anxiety, for me, is not being able to determine a true threat from a placebo.

***

My counselor recently asked me when the last time I let someone else be in control, and I had to think really hard. I eventually came up with the example of Bryson driving the vehicles the majority of the time, but you had better believe I have a tendency to yell “BRAKES!”

She concluded that this is probably why my anxiety has peaked so much after childbirth. I am no longer only responsible for myself, something I had become fixated on since the age of 8. When Auggie came along, I also had to, rightfully, take responsibility of him and his well-being. Only having the courage to rely on myself to try to consistently control the outcomes for two people has me on the cusp of losing it. Literally and figuratively.

So, in an effort to not pass on my anxious habits to Auggie, I’ve been doing my best to fight back.

I still check the flu surveillance numbers on both Thursday for Missouri’s data and Saturday’s for the nation’s. I research tetanus each time he gets a cut. I reread the same chapter on the DTaP vaccine he may receive next week almost daily, and I wash my hands until they about bled each time I return home.

But, I also went to a group class at the gym today for the first time since pregnancy, even though the thought of the sweat and germs on the weights and equipment made my skin crawl. I’ve been leaving Auggie for more than 4 hours at a time while I go to work and actually accomplishing tasks during daylight hours rather than after he’s gone to bed. And, I’ve relaxed on the number of times I wash down a restaurant’s table with sanitation wipes before letting Auggie touch it.

So, what’s making the difference?

Talking about it.

Talking about my fears and irrationality is freeing. If I’m not hiding it from you, then I can’t hide it from myself. And, not hiding it from myself has given me the motivation I need to see my anxiety as an issue and stop this vicious cycle before it impacts who I’ve been trying to protect all along.. Auggie.

Auggie, even if my efforts fail, and you still suffer from my anxiety in some fashion, know that you never have to worry. Mama is bettering herself so that when the going gets tough, I can carry you. Whether you’re my 20 lb toddler or a 200 lb man. I’ll never leave you to fight alone.