My X Factor

Watching the new Fox show “The X Factor” categorized people for me into a very narrow perspective. Of course there are spectrums and variations, but when it comes to self-confidence and anxiety, they can be categorized into five types of people:

1.        The person who has accomplishments, abilities and talents and who knows it and has the self-confidence and ego resulting from it.

2.        The person who is untalented and unaccomplished, but who sincerely believes that they are talented and accomplished.

3.        The person who believes that they are talented simply because others delude the individual and convince them that they have a gift that they really don’t have.

4.        The person who has accomplishments, abilities and talents, knows it, is told it by others, everyone believes in them, but despite it all, they do not believe nor can they accept that they are who they are, have done what they’ve done, and can believe in their achievements.

I watched as a girl took the stage and said that she had done so because she was encouraged by her mother. She expressed her lack of self-confidence and anxiety, and believed she would fail. But when she opened her mouth to sing, her voice soared. That girl was extremely talented. And the judges were blown away and told her how great she was. But the girl just did not believe it. for some reason, she could not accept that she was actually as talented as they said she was. They believed in her, but she did not believe in herself. And all of the belief and confidence imbued by others can never effect what is really needed – for the person to believe in themselves.

The girl fell into the fourth category I described. And so do I. My wife believes in me, that I am the best husband and life partner. My children believe in me, that I am the best father. My siblings believe in me, that I am the best brother. My employer believes in me, that I am the best employee. My employees believe in me, that I am the best boss and supervisor. My neurologist, who is also a family friend – believes in me, that I am the most capable and together one of my entire family. And my accomplishments show it: the home I’ve created, the marriage I’ve built, the business I’ve established, grew and now successfully run, and my physique that I’ve worked to maintain.

The facts show it and everyone else sees it and believes it. But there’s one more person who still needs to believe – and not just know – it. That person is me. And once I do learn to accept everything I am and have accomplished, I will learn to enjoy it. But for now, my subconscious believes falsely that the emotion of happiness about my life and joy and appreciation about what I’ve accomplished need to be suppressed. But it is slowly learning and being reconditioned to access those emotions and to feel self-sufficient and accomplished and to walk tall and sincerely internalize who I am, what I’ve done, how I feel about it, and how much more I can do and become. The train is in motion and all of the facts are lined up. Even my conscious brain is on board. Now all that’s left is for my subconscious to join the ride. And I know it will, because whatever it is doing now is simply a result of conditioning ad is not hardwired. And the brain takes very fast to reconditioning. Longer than we hope, but faster than we expect.

All aboard the ME express!

My worry is not my problem....my problem is my worries

Luckily, also, I am attacking this from a position of advantage: I have youth, a stable job, a loving, supportive wife and beautiful children, a great home, a nice community, and great job. It is easier when the reality I have been hiding from is a good one – nay, a great one, thank God. The emotions I have been suppressing are those of love, joy, happiness, accomplishment and fulfillment. My lack of ego and self-confidence told me that I don’t deserve to feel the sense of fulfillment that comes with all that I’ve achieved in my personal and business life, my false beliefs about  worry told me that I should worry about losing it all instead of enjoying the present, and my subconscious has been doing what it was conditioned to do: to suppress the feelings of joy and gratitude and sense of self-accomplishment and self-fulfillment that I deserve to feel after everything I’ve worked so hard for and achieved.

Fortunately, I am not confronting any real reason for anxiety. I am confronting anxiety itself. The triggers are simply things that the anxiety attaches itself to. It is easier to confront anxiety itself when there are no true underlying reasons for the anxiety, nor any other conditions such as agoraphobia, addiction or dependence. It is simply anxiety itself that my subconscious feels is healthy and will learn that it is not.

But my subconscious can and will be retrained and reconditioned. It will learn that worry is not a helpful or useful tool. It will learn that emotions are healthy and that accessing and expressing them are okay. It will learn that I am worthy of enjoying and giving myself credit for the life I’ve worked so hard to create. It will no longer hide behind the veil of anxiety. A new, self-confident, happy and emotionally healthy me will emerge. In fact, it has already begun to emerge and I’ve already seen glimpses of the new me. But each new step comes with setbacks, and it is important to not be discouraged. Remember: The brain was not born or created with the faulty belief system it has now. It was conditioned that way. And a brain’s conditioning can be changed. And I have all of the tools for that change.

Let the journey to allowing me to be happy as the person I am and to enjoy the life I’ve created continue. I know that I will be upset by how long it takes and how difficult the journey will be, but I also know that I will be pleasantly surprised by how long it doesn’t take.

Oh, and here’s the first pat on the back: now, and when it’s all said and done, you know who did all the work to get to where I am and to where I will be? That’s right, it was me. That’s because all of the support and tools in the world cannot do the work for me. Only I can do it on my own. Each worry confronted, each infusion of self-confidence, each emotion accessed and expressed, is another step, regardless of how small, toward reconditioning the subconscious to see and appreciate the reality of life. It was not a pill or a therapist who did it for me. It was me. And I owe myself the credit for embarking on the journey and for remaining committed. And it will only be me who will have a happier, more confident and more fulfilled life when the mission is accomplished.

The advantage of learned vs hard-wired behaviors

Physiological responses, such as the immune response, are things the brain is born with and cannot be changed, but can only be suppressed. However, when it comes to learned behaviors and beliefs, it is an entirely different story. The brain is not born with pre-existing beliefs about life. It is like a blank whiteboard or computer chip that slowly absorbs the information it is provided with, and incorporates that information into its response system to life experiences. Using the beliefs instilled throughout a child’s upbringing as well as other external, beliefs and behaviors learned throughout a person’s growth and development, the brain then begins to automatically react to events based on the way it was taught to.

And the key word is taught. The same versatile brain that adapted using the originally instilled information does not lose its versatility and ability to relearn information later in life and to be retrained to respond differently to life’s ups and downs. Since it was learned and not inborn, information can be relearned and the brain retrained. The saying that you can’t teach an old horse new tricks holds some truth but is not contradictory to the brain’s ability to be retrained. You see, there are times that the brain is so trained in one way of thinking that it loses the ability to see itself objectively. The learned behavior becomes so ingrained and intertwined with the brain’s way of thinking that the person can no longer see or ever understand that the behavior is unhealthy or unhelpful. When a therapist attempts to reach the individual with the behavior or cognition that is so conditioned into the brain, the individual is defensive because it is having trouble recognizing that what the therapist is saying is true. It believes what it believes so deeply, that anything to the contrary is seen as untrue.

However, there is one important factor that all people who respond to therapy or cognitive-behavioral therapy have in common: The ability to see themselves and their brain’s learned behavior’s objectively. They consciously recognize that their subconscious is reacting to events in an unhealthy way and they are unhappy with the reaction.

However, there are three additional factors necessary to actually change the way the brain is conditioned. The first is that they want to change the unhealthy behavior; the second is that they have the correct tools necessary to change that behavior. The third, and possibly the most crucial and challenging factor, is that the person themselves need to actually to the work and exercises necessary to implement the change and retrain their own brain. No self-help book, therapist or medication will ever effect the actual change necessary to essentially reprogram a brain that has been conditioned over many formative years. It is only the individuals themselves who need to actively look at things differently, understand reality, accept that their belief systems were wrong, and constantly drill the correct information into the brain until the subconscious catches on to the new belief system and takes over by using the new belief system to automatically react to events based on the newly-instilled perspectives of reality. This process can be frightening because it involves first and foremost exposure to the triggers. Those episodes of exposure will trigger the unhealthy reaction, thereby allowing the person to have the opportunity to then address the unhealthy reaction, confront the inaccurate belief system, and replace it with a healthy and realistic perspective. Since the human being is conditioned to engage in avoidance when it comes to unpleasant circumstances, it is natural that the person will try to avoid exposure. Additionally, the exposure will, at first, result in the unpleasant and unhealthy reaction and can lead to discouragement. But it’s important to understand that what took decades to instill can take time to modify. Fortunately, however, the brain is so versatile and adaptable that what took years of passive conditioning can be modified in only months of active retraining and reconditioning. But because we are a society that expects instant results, six months can feel like forever, and each new episode after a brief hiatus can lead the person to feel as if the therapy isn’t working. In fact, the longer the hiatus between episodes, the more discouraging the next episode will seem, because the person got the false hope that they were cured and that their anxiety or other learned behavior was now a thing of the past. For that reason, commitment and consistency are of utmost importance, and desperation or false expectations can lead to unrealistic hopes and discouragement.

They key thing to remember is: It won’t take as short as you hope it will, but it won’t take as long as you are afraid it might. Change – or real, permanent change – does not happen overnight, so it is important to take time – both the time needed for change to take place, and the effects of the passage of time – into consideration.

Now, if I were afraid of dogs due to some cognitive conditioning during my formative years, say, as a result of having been bitten by a dog as a young child – then I guess it wouldn’t be that bad if I simply avoided dogs for the rest of my life. Avoiding dogs would enable me to avoid the trigger, and thus the unpleasant automated reaction. But luckily for me, my anxiety is not limited to a specific circumstance of situation that I can simply choose to avoid. I say luckily, although it would seem to be the exact opposite, because it is my nature to always want to improve my outlook, perspectives, and my life in general, wherever possible. That being so, I am forced to confront the source of my anxiety head on, because there is nowhere to run from it. By being forced to confront it, having the correct tools to confront it, and having the will, patience, commitment and ability to see myself objectively, all of which are required in order to effect the necessary change, I know that I will ultimately recondition my brain to see things as they are – rationally and realistically – and I will also develop the empowerment, self-sufficiency, individuality and ego that I did not receive while growing up. I will also learn the important life skill of being able to get in touch with my emotions and express my feelings without fear. At times the emotion will be fear or anger and at times it will be joy, love or happiness. But, for better or for worse, life is a mix of good and bad, joy and tragedy, and the healthiest way to navigate life is to know how you feel about each event and to access and express that emotion instead of suppressing it. Accessing and expressing the emotion of love will result in reciprocal love, and accessing fear and anger will help resolve their triggers as opposed to keeping it all inside the head.

Emotions are a healthy and necessary part of life, and accepting reality means accepting that they will not always be pleasant, and being willing to access them at all times, for better or for worse. It is this change that will lead to a healthy being with healthy, although sometimes unpleasant, feelings and reactions to life. It is also what will lead to self-fulfillment, joy, happiness and independence.

At the end of the day, when the lights go out and the music stops, all that’s left is me and my thoughts, and I am determined to learn to be happy with me, because the one thing that is constant in my life, irrespective of any external goings-on, is me.

My road to recovery, Day 1

(At this point, it finally became clear to me that the sense of doom, gloom, and dread I was experiencing was generalized anxiety, and that the underlying factor in anxiety disorders is worry and the resulting suppression of emotions and problem solving. With that in mind, I was finally able to start to tackle the cause of my emotional disturbances. As the ancient adage goes, "identifying the disease is half the cure". This was written in the midst of a whopper of an anxiety attack. Not knowing what to do, I just started to write, beginning with how I felt at the time. And so it begins:)

I’m feeling anxious. Very anxious. Psychology describes anxiety as a wall behind which people hide to avoid having to deal with emotions. Emotions, like life, are messy at times, and anxiety keeps you in your head, in an endless loop of worry, what-ifs, imaginary worst-case scenarios, and unrealistic, improbable fears. Sometimes, the anxiety attaches itself to a realistic feeling or occurrence, in an effort to give it life, thus making it even harder to break the feedback loop because when trying to dismiss the worry, the realistic foundation of the worry reinforces it. The fact, though, is that the reality and the worry have nothing in common other than the starting point. For example, a small mark on the skin can begin an endless worry loop about skin cancer. When trying to dismiss the unlikely and improbable worry about cancer as an unrealistic worry, the mark on the skin reinforces the worry, by giving it a basis in reality. But the fact is that the mark is nothing more than a mark until a doctor looks at it and, as in most cases, dismisses it as not being of any concern. The worry that follows, although triggered by a real situation is in itself not a reality. The worry is further reinforced by the false belief that worry helps the person avoid, be more prepared for, or better able to cope with a negative outcome. The reality, however, is that worry is always an imaginary what-if, a prediction of the worst-case scenario, regardless of how unlikely it is to happen, and is always disproportionate to the eventual outcome. The way to conquer anxiety and worry is to realize that worry is harmless, but unhelpful and not realistic.

It is also stoppable and controllable. One way to stop anxiety and worry is to address the worry as unrealistic and to focus on staying in the present. Another way is to tap into the emotion that is being suppressed by the worry and anxiety. By breaking through the barrier of anxiety and accessing the very emotions that it is trying to protect you from, you break down the defenses and deem them no longer necessary or helpful.

My problem with anxiety and worry originates from all three conditions that predispose an individual to chronic anxiety. The first is genetic. Anxiety runs in my genes; my father and some or all of my siblings are anxiety-ridden as well. The second predisposing factor is that I was raised with the belief that worry is a helpful tool for being prepared to cope with life’s uncertainties. The third factor is that I was never provided a healthy, independent ego and self-esteem by my parents. My mother essentially abandoned me at birth by dumping me in a crib right away, and my father made me feel dependent throughout my entire life and past marriage by constantly doing things to take care of me, not realizing that those acts of kindness were actually reinforcing a dependence and not allowing self-sufficiency and independence to develop. The fourth factor is that the traumatic events that occurred during my upbringing forced me to suppress my emotions, because whenever something occurred, my siblings were unable to cope and somebody had to stay level-headed. And if not me, then who? And the only way I could bring myself to stay level-headed and take care of the issues at hand, I had to suppress my emotions. I had to be strong for m siblings and tell everyone that it’s all going to be okay. When my family witnessed the vicious fights my parents had on a daily basis, when my mother eventually died unexpectedly after we alienated her, blaming her for the fighting, and when my father was diagnosed with a massive brain tumor, it was I who had to suck it up, take the reigns, and keep it together for everyone else so that everyone could feel safe and secure, and have the impression that everything was going to be alright because I was there and had everything under control.

This need to be level-headed and emotionless at all times did not allow me the opportunity to express my own feelings – fear and hopelessness when my parents fought, guilt and sadness when my mother died, and fear of losing my father when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Each life experience forced me to push my feelings and emotions deeper and deeper. Then came my brother’s overdose and near-death where it fell upon my shoulders to stay calm and get him the help he needed. Then when my sister overdosed I had to do the same, all the while not taking the time to get in touch with how I felt.

I believed that the past was the past, and that bygones were bygones. But little did I know, that they were not. The brain, and especially the subconscious, is very versatile and adaptable. It learns from what it is taught beginning at birth, stores the information, and wires itself accordingly. With time, the brain begins to go on autopilot, using the beliefs it was instilled with – but now it’s on its own.

This can be a great thing, but unfortunately, the brain is a neutral organ. When taught to suppress emotions, it does not differentiate between negative emotions and positive emotions. It just suppresses all emotions. And that’s now a good thing. The same can be said for pretty much all bodily functions where the brain has a hard time differentiating between what is good for the person and what is not. It learns a survival technique and it pulls it out whenever it feels it is necessary, but in many cases the survival tool is not really necessary, and employing it actually causes harm to the person.

One such example is arthritis. The brain mistakenly senses that there is a threat to the joints, and it reacts by employing the immune system to attack the invader, resulting in painful inflammation to the joints. Thanks, but no thanks. Another example is anaphylactic shock, where the brain believes that a simple food particle is an invading foreigner, and it responds by sealing off all bodily entryways – including the airway. Again, a huge thanks, but no thanks. Even the medication to prevent these thankless reactions do not train the brain to not see that there is, in fact, no danger and, thus, no reason for a defensive reaction. It simply suppresses the brain’s immune response overall, thus making the individual more prone to other infections resulting from a compromised immune system.

The same applies to anxiety and suppression of emotions, where the brain believes that it is helping based on the information it was fed. And, as with arthritis medication, SSRIs, the medication taken to shut down the sympathetic portion of the brain, also shuts down its ability to enjoy things, such as sexual activity.

But enough of the negativity, and now for the good news. In fact, the great news.

The medicine bag

And now, on to the medicine bag. Oh, the fucking medicine bag. I can still hear the rattling of the pills in my head. My mother carried it around with her wherever she went like it was a child’s blankie. It was filled with all of the powerful painkillers and sleep aids that she thought and hoped would make her pain and sorrow go away. Every now and again she would open the zipper that sealed the square, cloth-textured bag, shake a few of each pill into her hand, and would swallow then all in one fell swoop. As kids this is what we would witness day in and day out. We would be told to run upstairs and get Mommy’s medicine bag.

My wife is convinced that this constant image played a large part in molding my psyche. Mommy always complained that she was sick. And Mommy always had pills to take. Mommy always complained about things, and Mommy was always running to doctors. This, my wife, surmised, created the illusions that there was a benefit to constantly being sick and needy, in the form of attention and pity, and that there was always a doctor and a pill for everything.

And now my depression and anxiety have come as a result of my disillusionment. Finally, after all these years, I have come to a major realization: There is nothing and nobody except for you. And there are no pills or cures, only treatment and management of symptoms. In other words, you are on your own with God if you believe in that. Otherwise, except in the case of an extreme emergency requiring lifesaving or stabilizing medical procedures, there is pretty much nothing for anything.

Depression and anxiety? Well you can take an antidepressant, but: It will not cure your depression or help you get to the root of it and eliminate it. It will simply help you not feel the depression. But at the cost of being unable to feel too happy either. It’ll also diminish or eliminate your sex drive. And the people who know you are on it will never feel like they are talking to you. They will inevitably feel as though they are talking to the medicated you, the medically tamed and controlled you. And that thought alone can make someone depressed. Then there are the side effects of suicidal thoughts and actions, and other physical symptoms including death. To top it off, there is the high chance of becoming dependent on the drugs, tolerant of the drugs and needing stronger doses to feel the same effect, as well as the nasty withdrawal effects.

(Starting with my next post, the self-therapy begins. It's a long journey, but every journey starts with but a single step. And I'm still on that journey. Buckle up!)

My Mother, Part I

My mother was a chronically ill woman. But when people ask me what her diagnosis was, I never know what to answer, because there wasn’t any. Sure, she had elevated blood pressure and was overweight, but she did not, to my knowledge, have any chronic illness. I am confident that what she had was a mental illness which resulted from years of physical and, possibly, sexual abuse at the hands of her father. Wow, that was a loaded sentence that I never thought I would ever verbalize or write. It’s the pile of dog shit on the sidewalk that has been sitting long enough that it developed a protective skin over it that prevents the disgusting odor from escaping. And no one wants to be the shit disturber – the one who steps on the pile and breaks the seal, thus releasing the putrid stench and tracking the mess everywhere. My mother’s childhood is history. My childhood is history. I am a young adult now, and as dramatic and traumatic as the past – both hers and mine – may have been, there is no point in bringing it up if it can’t be changed anyway. So I’ve been able to effectively close my mental ears to any of the past. I like to live in the present and to look forward to the future. I’ve learned to shut out the past and live in the moment. And it’s worked very well.

That is, until now. I’ve now come to realize that you cannot erase the past by ignoring it. That the past is what shapes the present and the future. That ignoring the past is like ignoring the pile of dog turd in the middle of your living room floor and allowing it to develop protective layer. But the turd is still there in its full glory and the protective layer is extremely thin. All it takes is one small disturbance and the stench is released. And it’s worse than it would have otherwise been since it was allowed to ferment and putrefy more than it was to begin with.

Now I want to live in the present and the future. If you want to keep things status quo, then the 800-pound turd in the room can stay there, no harm done. But if you want to grow and advance, then it has to be acknowledged, addressed ad dealt with. If you want to bring new, expensive, beautiful furniture into your living room without first cleaning up the mess, then the very furniture you bring in will disturb the pile. And the pile will get tracked onto the furniture, which will no longer be beautiful and which will, in turn, track the mess around the room.

I’m ready to grow, to move on, and to improve, beautify and enhance my life and my family’s life. I’m under 30, I work at a great company, and I am financially secure. That means that the music stopped. The hustle has calmed down. And now the background noise has become the primary noise. It’s like the time I spent with a friend in Monterey, California, a place known for the seals that call the nearby bay home. By day the city is bustling with tourists and life. The seals are part of the scenery and their barks are hardly heard or noticed. But then when night sets in and the city is asleep, what was once background noise becomes a loud, annoying sound that, for the visitor who is not accustomed to it, can ruin a good night’s sleep.

I never liked background noise. I liked to shut it out with louder primary noises. When showering or brushing my teeth I need a radio on, when relaxing I need a television to be on, and when going to sleep I need a fan or air conditioner on in the background to drown out my thoughts.

But there comes a time when the music stops, the radio needs to be turned off and it is too cold for a fan or air conditioner. It’s time to pay attention to the thoughts and the background noise. It’s time to acknowledge, understand, and to try to learn and grow from the past.

So here goes.

If I had to describe my image of my mother in a single sentence, it would be this: She was always running to doctors and counselors, always carried around a bag filled with countless medications, was always popping pills, lying in bed, eating, and watching TV at all times of day and night. Her life was a blur of lying in bed with the TV on, dozing in and out of sleep, eating in bed, and stepping out to see the doctors who would prescribe the pills that would help her get through the day, and to the therapists who would validate the ways he felt about herself and my father. She was abusive. She hurt and almost killed us at times.  We were beaten mercilessly with wooden hangers, belts and steel bicycle chains. We were locked in tiny, airless closets without oxygen, food or water. She sat on us and suffocated with the full weight of her enormous body.

On one occasion, when I was kicked out of camp, she beat me so hard, so mercilessly, and for so long, I had to pinch her really hard to get her off of me before I lost consciousness or possibly died.

I was an obnoxious child. I knew too much for my own good and I would harass teachers in school and the staff in overnight camp with my big mouth. There was one teacher who was uncomfortably close with certain classmates and I made my discomfort clear, and he despised me for it and banned me from joining the class on the overnight trip to Washington, D.C. that he would take the students on each year. Only now has it occurred to me that it wasn’t so much a punishment as it was his fear of having a keenly observant student with a big mouth on an overnight trip that would leave him alone with all of the other children in another state.

In camp, the counselors would smoke and drink after the campers went to sleep. They tried to hide it from the campers and they were successful at it for the most part. But they met their match in me. I managed to find their secret stashes of beer and cigarettes, and would fish in the garbage cans for the packs and cans, and would make it clear to them that I had found it and that I knew what they were up to. They tried to explain things away, but I was too smart for them. And too smart for my own good.

Eventually they found some type of excuse to kick me out of camp. As I mentioned earlier, I was a hypochondriac as a small child and would have frequent attacks of health-related anxiety and panic. Having heard by then that cigarette smoke was hazardous to your health without knowing fully exactly how and why, I was convinced that simply smelling cigarette smoke was dangerous.

When I would lie in bed at night and smell the counselors smoking on the porch of the bunkhouse, I would begin to panic, thinking that I would die from inhaling the secondhand smoke. On one occasion, the anxiety about the cigarette smoke led to an all-out panic, which led to numbness and paralysis. Although it was the panic itself that had caused me to go into shock, I was convinced that it was my inhaling the cigarette smoke that had caused the symptoms.

I was taken to the hospital in the middle of the night where an obviously tired counselor was forced to stay with me until I was released a few hours later. True to form, I told the doctor that the counselors’ smoking cigarette near the young campers had made me sick. This infuriated the camp staff whom I was throwing under the bus, and this time on the record.

Anyhow, they now had the excuse they needed to send me home. It was a medical issue. Because of my hospital stay, they claimed, it was important that I go home for a few days – or maybe for the rest of the summer.

But what they didn’t know was that sending me home would be more hazardous to my health than the secondhand cigarette smoke. You see, my mother looked forward to the two-month overnight camp because it was an opportunity for her to get rid of all the children and the noise and to have some time for herself. It was like school on steroids.

You see, my mother counted on the hours we were in school as a mini-vacation of peace and quiet. When we came home from school it was a disruption and an annoyance. And when one of us was home sick, that was tantamount to raining on her parade. Here she thought she would have a few child-free hours of quiet, and now she would be bothered by an annoying little brat on her head, and with having to schedule a doctor’s appointment and shlep out of the house.

So the two months of camp were a real reprieve. And any disturbance of that expectation was a real bummer. That summer my parents had rented a summer home in not too far from where my camp was located. My father would spend most of the week in the city where he worked, and he would come up for the weekends and return to the city on Monday. My two youngest siblings were very young and spent most of their days in day camp or outside in the common area, so they were not much of a disturbance to her.

So when I showed up in middle of the summer, it was like a hailstorm disrupting her day at the beach. I don’t remember if it was a minute or an hour before the brutal beatings began. All I remember is a relentless, merciless beating with a wooden hanger and a leather belt. The whacks rained down on every bone in my body without exaggeration for what must have been hours. There would be an occasional short interruption, after which the brutality would resume with even more force and vigor.

I remember at some point trying to run from her room into the kitchen where my little brother and sister slept, and said “please call for help”, but they were two young and too scared to do anything or know what to do. At another point, I was locked in the tiny bathroom. I opened the small window and started screaming for help, hoping a neighbor would hear me. But no one did, and now she was even more infuriated. She took me from the bathroom, beat me some more, and threw me into the tiny closet in her bedroom.

I was bruised and wary, but worse than anything I was thirsty. My mouth felt like cotton and I thought I was going pass out. I begged from the closet for some water, but she refused. Finally, in desperation, I made a mad dash from the closet to the bedroom door, but I didn’t make it. She grabbed me, threw me on the bed, beat me passionately, and then in a burst of insane rage, she put her entire body weight on top of me, smashing and suffocating me. At the point where it felt like I was going to die, I reached up and pinched whatever part of her I could grab between my fingers. I knew that the pinch would have severe consequences, but it was literally a matter of survival at that point.

Luckily, the pinch caused her to pull back for a second, allowing me to suck in a breath. Even more infuriated, she proceeded to viciously beat me some more before throwing me back into the closet.

“I’m so thirsty, I feel like I’m gonna die,” I muttered weakly from inside the closet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I could hear her leaving the room. She returned a few seconds later and opened the closet door. She held a mug with water in her hand which I thought she was going to give to me, but she instead splashed the water in my face. Luckily, I got a drop of the water in my mouth which was enough to restart my salivary system.

After that, I stayed quietly in the closet and I don’t remember where I spent the rest of the night. The next morning, my mother woke up and was about to leave for the day. When she saw that I was riddled with sores and bruises from head to toe, she became afraid that the neighbors would see me all bruised up, and warned me that I had better not step outside for the entire day and that I had better not let anyone see me or say anything to anyone about the beatings. She then left for the day, and I stayed inside all day. And all of the next day. And the entire day after that.

And then I emerged, my bruises – the visible ones – having subsided. I was approached by a friend of my mother who lived in a neighboring summer home. “Were you here the past few days?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you around.”

I mumbled some answer but did not tell her about what had happened and why I was holed up for three days. That was my secret.

The Heart Palpitations Saga

A few times a week, I would get the sensation that my heart stopped beating for a second, followed by a series of quick beats, as if it were making up for the missed beats. Each time it would I happen I would panic briefly then forget about it and move on. But now they were happening more frequently and seemingly more intensely. And since the last health scare had passed, this one now had its turn in the spotlight. I started to focus on them more which caused me notice them more. Noticing them caused me to become more anxious about them, which in turn resulted in more palpitations. And the snowball effect took over once again. Worried, I racked my brain for a cardiologist to call. It was my understanding that cardiologists were located in the city, about thirty minutes from my home, and affiliated with big hospitals where I would have to wait half a day to see the specialist. Since my wife, perhaps rightfully, thought I was crazy for worrying and panicking about every little ache, pain, mark, bruise and bump, I did not want to make a whole day out of seeing a cardiologist, which she would surely find out about. So I delayed seeking medical advice until I could find a day to do so. In the meantime, I worried.

After the palpitations continued for some time, I decided to see my children’s pediatrician who I usually see for basic things like the flu or strep. He listened to my heart and checked my blood pressure but could not see hear anything that concerned him. When I pressed him, he suggested that I come back when I was actually having palpitations, or he could refer me to a cardiologist. Somewhat relieved by the fact that he was not concerned and because going to a cardiologist was not a practical option at the time, I left the matter alone.

The palpitations subsided somewhat, but a flare-up a few months later got me all worked up again. This time, I decided to call a local general practitioner who I felt would be better suited for examining and diagnosing an adult. When I called to make an appointment, the receptionist asked me what the appointment was for. When I told her that my concern was heart palpitations, she suggested that I see the cardiologist who worked at the practice two days a week. How convenient. I made the appointment since it was something I could do on my lunch break.

When the day of my appointment arrived, I went into a panic. What if the cardiologist finds something serious or life-threatening? What if I’m going to need medication for the rest of my life? What if I need open heart surgery?

Before going in to see the doctor, a nurse technician took my vitals and, not surprisingly, my blood pressure was through the roof as a result of my anxiety. And, of course, my high blood pressure reading only served to increase my anxiety. I could feel my heart beating like a drum. It didn’t help when the technician said “wow, that’s high” with a concerned expression on her face.

The panic increased while I was in the exam room waiting for the doctor to come. A defibrillator in the room only increased my anxiety tenfold. I began to pace the room. By the time the doctor walked in, I was a nervous wreck. Luckily, he had a very soothing tone and asked me some basic questions about myself, my lifestyle and health history. He then asked me to describe the reason for my visit and simply typed it into his computer without skipping a beat, no pun intended. The fact that he simply documented the information I provided without even twitching an eyelid or telling me to rush to the nearest emergency room calmed me somewhat.

As a true hypochondriac, I had my symptoms typed up on a sheet of paper so that I don’t forget something and then kick myself after the appointment, thinking that if the doctor knew about that too, perhaps he would be able to better diagnose or treat me. I read my list of symptoms, possible causes, triggers, preventatives, solutions, coping mechanisms and possible diagnoses. I watched the doctor’s expression, waiting to see some cues to indicate that he was very concerned, but when I was done reading my laundry list he simply said calmly, “is that all?”

“Yes,” I answered him. “Should I be worried? Does it sound serious? Is it something you’ve heard of before? Am I going to live?”

“Palpitations are normal. Some people get them and they are usually not serious, unless they are indicative of an underlying condition.”

“How will I know if they are being caused by something serious?”

“Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.

He told me to lie down on the examination table, and informed me that he would check my blood pressure, do an EKG and a sonogram of my heart to see if there was anything wrong with my heart rhythm or if there were any structural abnormalities.

My blood pressure was still high, which he said was not alarming and was normal due to my anxiety about being with a cardiologist. The EKG was perfectly normal, and also indicated that the high blood pressure reading did not appear to be an ongoing issue. He then did an ultrasound which showed a perfectly structured heart, beating normally.

He said that the excellent examination caused him to not be concerned. However, since I appeared to still be worried, he said he would give me a Holter monitor to wear for 24 hours to see if it would pick up the palpitations.

A technician hooked me up to the monitor and I was sent home with a little event diary to document the times that I felt the palpitations to allow them to look more closely at what was occurring at those times. Now all I had to figure out was what to tell my wife.

I walked into my house with the Holter hidden under my shirt and debated with myself whether to tell my wife about it or not. Perhaps I could just keep my torso covered for the next 24 hours and she’ll never be the wiser. But, I thought, if she were to want to be intimate or if she would discover it some other way, she would be even more upset that I went behind her back and hid the whole thing from her, and that would be a lot worse than anything else.

So I decided to just come clean. “I have to tell you something,” I said, “but you have to promise you won’t be upset.”

“Oh, no, what is it this time?” she said, rolling her eyes.

I smiled embarrassedly. Here I was, a young, good-looking, in-shape, put-together guy, worrying about the most ridiculous health issues that belonged to the chronically ill and the elderly. And, worse, I was hooked up to a ridiculous-looking contraption. I felt stupid and pathetic. I felt like a failure. Here was my young, beautiful wife who married a young, handsome guy who, instead of staying young and active has chosen to fret about nonsense and to panic and worry about the most obscure, inapplicable health concerns, running to doctors and undergoing tests and monitoring like a senior – all of this while taking much-needed attention and devotion away from my wife and four young children who needed every bit of me.

“You know how I’ve told you that I’ve been having palpitations?” I said sheepishly. “Well, they’ve been coming more and more lately, so I decided to finally see a doctor, and when I heard that there was a cardiologist on staff right in the neighborhood, I decided to see him. And…and…well, he did an exam and decided that he wants me to wear a Holter monitor for 24 hours to see if they could see the palpitations and what could be causing them…”

I never saw my wife’s face drop like it did when she heard that. “You have four kids and a wife at home and you – a young, healthy guy – are running to cardiologists like an old man. Anyway, what does it look like?” she asked snidely.

Embarrassedly, I lifted my shirt and showed her the wires stuck to various parts of my chest with little glue balls. I also showed her the pocket-size monitor that it all connected to. At that moment, I regretted ever going to the cardiologist in the first place, and for agreeing to wear the monitor. I was mostly ashamed because I felt like I had failed my wife and kids. They had a young, good-looking father in his twenties, and here he was living the self-imposed life of an old man.

“Well this had better be the last thing,” she said with a tone of despair in her voice, “because you’re going down the path your mother did and you know how that ended up. There’s nothing wrong with you and it’s very possible that there was nothing wrong with her either, but she became swallowed up in the world of doctors, tests, medications and procedures that she was so miserable.”

My mother. Where do I even start?