Generalized Anxiety Disorder. That was the diagnosis when we finally figured out what was happening to me. After the birth of my first child, I began to have great difficulty sleeping and relaxing. I was utterly exhausted but simply couldn't turn off my brain. Sometimes my heart would race or I would feel the uncontrollable urge to shake my legs or hands.
Well-meaning friends and family members suggested that I sleep during the baby's naps or they would offer to spell me for a few minutes so I could go in the other room and rest. No one seemed to understand that I lacked the ability to flip a switch and relax. After awhile, I stopped trying for fear of being roused just as I began to drift off, a fate that is arguably worse than enduring bone tiredness. I searched for advice online and even tried a few so-called natural remedies, but the scientist in me knew that I would have to believe in the placebos for them to work. Yoga felt silly. Meditation was elusive.
I tried various medicinal sleep remedies as my doctors and I puzzled through my situation. Eventually we landed on a particular class of antidepressants and related medications. Postpartum depression did seem to be complicating things. During this period of pharmaceutical experimentation, I experienced my first panic attack. At the time, I didn't recognize it for what it was, but the effects seemed to linger for days. It was truly terrifying.
All the while, I was still Mommy. I had responsibilities, a full time paycheck job, a new home business, and a deep need to be with my child and my husband. Some days were better than others. Months went by.
It did not help matters that my son was so excited about life that he seemed to fight sleep as hard as I was grabbing for it. His eyes would spring open at 4:30 am, and he would leap out of bed ready for the day. At nap time and bedtime, he fought to stay awake, calling us into his room multiple times. The slightest disturbance seemed to wake him. I remember jumping around outside in my pajamas in the pouring rain one night to remove the bulb from our motion-activated light, convinced that it was keeping him awake.
Our bedtime reading began to stretch on and on. I found that if I could read him to sleep, he would tend to stay asleep. He loved books and reading and would eagerly demand a new story just as I finished the last one. The library never seemed big enough.
I began to notice that as I read aloud, my heart rate would slow down. My muscles relaxed. There were times I became so tranquil that I wanted to curl up next to my son and sleep then and there, fearful that even standing up to walk out the door would reset my anxiety. I also found that when I read poetry and rhythmic text, the relaxing effect of reading aloud was even more pronounced. My son enjoyed poetry as well, and would ask for specific books.
So began my self medication.
As I read the words on the page...
[breathe]
I would consciously slow down...
[breathe]
Pausing at the end of each line...
[breathe]
Focusing on the words and cadence...
[breathe]
Reveling in the imagery...
[breathe]
Leaving my tension behind...
[breathe]
...as my son breathed softly beside me.
The effect was temporary, but delicious. Life continued, the anxiety would come and go. After a few years, I finally found a prescription the worked for me, fulfilling my mother-in-law's prophesy that eventually we all need medication. I also discovered that a glass of wine in the evening did wonders for helping me unwind (up until that point, I was dutifully observing the sleep rule that prohibits alcohol before bed).
My anxiety is now under control, whatever that really means, and I have discovered that I never really appreciated poetry until I found the perfect audience.
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