So, I have had anxiety since I was a teenager. I started seeing Polly after I overdosed on a drug. I'm such an overachiever. It is not worth doing unless you overdo it. Really. That is how I do everything. I teach myself to sew little girl dresses, and I make 20 of them. I decide to grow miniature roses in my old bedroom in my parents' house as a young 20-something, and I put plant lights up and should have opened a shop. I found out about this thing called a "cake pop," and I thought I had found my calling. My friends and family were certainly fans of that craze. So, the obsessive in my went undiagnosed, but the anxiety part is kind of quirky. Anyway, Polly was my therapist, and to this day, I think she did more harm than good when she opened Pandora's box. She got me to open up and discuss things totally unrelated to the drug abuse, and she probably thought that is why I did the drugs. No, I did the drugs because I liked them. Simple. Not because of rape at an early age. Not because my father loved me conditionally. Not because I didn't fit in. Not because I grew up poorer than poor in an affluent area. Just because I liked the way I felt on them. So, she got me to open up about all that stuff, I came home with my first real anxiety attack, and as a teenager, laid on our couch watching Little Mermaid and had my mom cuddle me for hours through it. Then the fear of falling asleep began, and I slept on a cot in my parents room for a while. Yeah, that's not so cool. But neither is anxiety. No elevators, no traffic jams, and certainly not being stuck in that part of the Disney ride for Winnie the Pooh where it's the real trippy part of Heffalumps and Woozles. And yes, by some sick twist of fate, this year, we took our first ever vacation, went to Disney since it is the most magical place to Geoff and I, and yes, we were stopped in that exact location- TWICE!
I don't go into banks, post offices, or gas stations. The one time I did go into a bank in recent history, I really wish I had gotten a tape of that visit. So, a couple of years ago, I inherited a large amount of money. My grandparents had both passed away, and their money was divided to split between their two daughters. My mom's sister, decided to split her half in fourths, so that each of the four grandchildren, her two children, and my brother and I, would each get a portion. (I think that is an eighth of the total, but like I said, I was not a math major.) Well, honestly, that amount of money is the reason we are not in debt or homeless at this point. I have been resourceful with it, but the generosity of it really makes me grateful every single day that I get to stay at home and raise my children during these formative years. We didn't take extravagant vacations, or eat out, or go to a movie every week. We paid off our cars, took our first and only vacation in 10 years, and recovered my son with the resources. No, I can't loan you any money.
So, I received this VERY large check, and went through the drive through to deposit it. The teller sent it back, and said that I would have to come in to deposit that. I don't know why. It still doesn't make sense to me. It's not like I had the cash in hand and tried to shove it into the little plastic canister that they stick lollipops in or anything. Anyway, so I came home. I went back two more times, and finally
had the guts to walk into the bank. I walk in with both migits, and this was a few years ago, so they were much younger. I think so much so, that girl migit was in my arms, and boy migit was holding my hand. And then decided to lay on the floor beside me. Then he took his shoes off, and I was holding a child, trying to get another to get his shoes and keep up with me in line, and looking around nervously the entire time waiting on the robber to come in. I think I looked more suspicious that most masked robbers do, but that is besides the point. It's my turn, and I don't want to explain my freakish anxiety of being there, so I put the check and deposit slip down and the teller says, "Hi, how are you today?" I swear, this is what I said, "Fine. Hurry please." I wasn't even looking at her. I had my eyes trained on the door to where all robbers walk in. I assumed that might have caused her some alarm, so it was a few seconds later that I explained my situation, and that I think she is a hero for coming into work every day. I nervously explained that the money I was depositing was inherited from my grandparents, and that my grandfather was a furrier, and while I loved him more than I can properly express with words, I do not agree with the wearing of fur for warmth, and that the money was not left for me specifically, but rather, my aunt, who oddly enough, was a teller before she retired. Whew! Luckily for me, the transaction was complete by the end of my story, but don't you think that would have been more funny to watch on video than to read in one nasty run on sentence/paragraph?
While I could treat this disorder, I can't, since the idea of what the Zanax might make me feel like gives me anxiety. I did take crazy high doses of an anti anxiety medication on the suggestion, I mean request, of an internal medicine doctor I worked for. I took so much, that by month three of this dosage I found myself skinny dipping in the apartment pool and doing things I would have ordinarily thought only people high on drugs would be capable of. I think I was. Oh, tornadoes. Those are a huge anxiety attack waiting while I live in GA. However, they do become a natural colonic for me, and am usually lighter hours after the sirens have stopped. And public restrooms where you have to lock the door. What if I can't get out? However, if you think about it, a tornado siren going off while I am in a public restroom would probably do wonders for my weight loss goals. And lest we not forget the flesh eating bacteria, clowns, migits and the Little Drummer Boy song. Oh wait, those are not mine. Those belong to someone else. Phew. That would be too much to burden. I'm fine with my concoction of ridiculouslesness. Look it up. It might not be a word.