I have never been much of a coward. I grew up in the mountains of eastern Kentucky. I spent most of my time exploring the hills and testing my parents’ patience. You were taught where bad things might be and to be extra careful around log piles and rock ledges. Rattlesnakes and copperheads were simply a nuisance and something you ran to Daddy to take care of so you could continue playing. There were coal mining roads all around. My cousin and I would ride our bikes up them as far as we could and when it got too rocky and steep we would push. Then we would turn and point ourselves down the mountain and see how far we could make it before we would have to pedal again. For the record, bones were broken. We healed fast, as children do, and carried on. We would cool off by splashing in the creek and minding the larger rocks that may be concealing a water moccasin underneath.

As an older child, I lived for scary movies. My favorite stuffed animal was an oversized bulldog affectionately named Cujo. There was no lack of old abandoned houses for us to explore. We would ride our bikes down the barely existent dirt roads and investigate ruins of partially standing fireplaces. Every place came with a ghost story. The story would change depending on who was telling it, but it seemed scarier and more believable each time you heard it. At night, I would lie in bed and think about the stories, but the ghosts were miles away, and nothing for me to be afraid of tucked away in my cozy bed.

I miss not being afraid. I know a lot of it comes with being an adult. But, it seems I am so scared of everything now. One of my biggest general fears is not living life to its fullest. Before multiple sclerosis, I rarely spent time at home. I was happy to wake up before the sun and head out on an adventure. My Saturdays were spent meandering through the woods for hours. I would come home, eat, shower, and repeat the next day. The only thing that changed was if I was in the woods on foot or on a bike. I understand this sounds mundane to a lot of people. But, it was enough for me. I had goals. I was constantly training for something bigger and better. I was always pushing myself to do something harder. I had plans and things to look forward to.

What scares me is living a life where I work five days a week, then use the entire weekend to recover so I can work for another five days. This on repeat for the rest of my life is my biggest nightmare. I know it is a nightmare because I have been living it for most of the last year. I have also watched my physical and mental health drastically decline because of it. The tragedy is not knowing how to stop it. You have to work to live and you have to rest to be able to work. I can hear my therapist in my head now, “How does that make you feel?”. I would have one word for him, angry.

There it is again. Anger. Not the first time it has come up. In fact, it is becoming a hot topic of conversation. Only, before now, I did not see it for what it really was, a manifestation of my anxiety; another hot topic that has been discussed frequently starting just months after my diagnosis.

I have generalized anxiety disorder (GAD). This means my anxiety is severe enough to interfere with daily activities. Symptoms of my anxiety include excessive worry and emotional distress. During an actual anxiety attack, I have heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and trouble focusing my thoughts. Most often my face will become flushed and I will lose control of my emotions and cry. It is not necessarily tears of sadness, but a mess of uncontrolled feelings. For most individuals, anxiety happens when there is a perceived inability to deal with overstimulation from something in the environment or a threat. My threat is multiple sclerosis.

When anxiety turns to anger, it is because an individual who expresses anger will have an underlying fear about something in their life. When individuals are scared or worried about something, they often choose anger, unconsciously, as a way to feel as though they are in control of their anxiety. 

discoverymood.com

I am scared of the disease and what it has in store for me. I was perfectly fine and healthy one day, and the next day I was having trouble walking because my knee was buckling. Then I was not able to lift my toes and started having foot drop. Next, I was not able to lift my leg because my hip was too weak. Shortly after, my arm would begin contracting when I was fatigued. Next, I would not be strong enough to hold a weight in my hand. Soon enough I would not be strong enough to grip a pen to write. These things happened to me within a year. Most days I am scared to step out of bed in the morning for fear of what is going to happen to me next. I am scared of the medicines that are supposed to slow these disabilities down, but I am also too scared not to take them. I am even more scared that no medicine exists to stop it. I am scared of how scared I am.

When my nerve-damaged fingers fumble and knock a few spice jars to the floor, I pick each of them up one by one and throw them as hard as I can against the wall. I instantly feel better when I see a plastic lid split and fly off in different directions. Stupid spice jars. I throw things a lot these days. When I try to open the washing machine and my fingers do not grip the lid and it falls back shut with a thump, I get angry and open and slam it shut as hard as I can as many times as I need to feel better. Stupid washing machine. I want to break it. Same with the refrigerator door. The handle is always just slipping through my fingers and making me look dumb as I stumble back when I lose my grip.

As I work through these issues, it is eye-opening to see how frightened I have become of MS. The rage, anger, and anxiety all stem from being scared. I know the spice jars are not stupid. I know I am not stupid for dropping things or tripping over my own feet. It is not my fault. MS is to blame and it scares me that it can do those things to me. This is going to take some hard work.

cover photo: https://www.houstonmethodist.org/blog/articles/2020/dec/what-anxiety-feels-like-and-why-it-happens/