panic

manic

Hello Family,

So, so many emotions. So many points in the day when we could ask what Hashem wants from us.

Without further ado,

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Day to Day

Again, printing errors are being corrected in the essential volume: Torah Ohr, in this day’s entry. Again, we recall the challenges of publishing despite all odds. The beauty is that it has brought new light into the world which we are benefitting from 200 years later.

The Batsheva Women’s Learning Center opened a chapter here in Kingston, PA. I joined a class that explores one theme from each week’s Torah Ohr essay: Heavy with mystical references but satisfyingly illuminating.

I hope to continue sending out little sketches of how the weekly Torah Ohr essay spoke to me— on Sunday or Monday.

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The Holy Missives

(1947)

I went to one of those above-mentioned classes and then chanced upon this wonderful letter.

It’s fascinating how specific the Rebbe is in expressing and giving actual support to a new girls’ school. Not satisfied with shoddy books or sporadic attendance,

the Rebbe orchestrates a curriculum and learning materials for this fledgling academy.

The Rebbe knew where to direct the request for these critical resources, and did so.

And also the Rebbe created an activist where there might have been a bystander biding time.

Yes, you don’t think of yourself as the official representative, the qualified director, the whatever you want to call it. You are now the person!

Recruit more students! Let me know how it goes.

The Chapter

Thank you for your continued support and encouragement.

It gets a little darker, so trigger warning: Mood disorder

The panic returned. I massaged my legs with as much pressure as I could muster. I was really worried. What was happening to me? My mother suggested new meditations, which I declined. She reminded me to breathe alternating nostrils, which helped. She asked why I didn’t try contacting my therapist. It was a good idea. I messaged her, and she made time to talk.

“Susan,” I said, “I had a panic attack. My doctor gave me Xanax. I am so, so, so scared. Will I be ok?”

She was startled to hear all this from me. What with Pesach and having a baby, we missed quite a few of our weekly sessions.

“I think you will be fine.” I held onto her words for dear life. I didn't see how I would get through the next 24 hours alive.

“Do whatever you need to do to make yourself comfortable and minimize triggers. If you want food in the room, do that.”

I told her I was frightened of the thought of only being allowed to take the Xanax twice in one day; I needed more of it. She said– “Then do that. Call your doctor if you need to higher the dose.”

“Thank you, Susan,” I said. We made up to speak on Monday at 9:15 a.m. Her words helped me. From then on we had permission to ask my mother-in-law to allow us to keep food in the room. After all, my therapist concurred. I also tried reaching my doctor about taking more Xanax than initially prescribed, and the office didn’t allow the increase. 

I asked my husband to replenish our supply of raw almonds and bring a few magazines to read. He came into the room like an angel carrying pink roses and a stack of magazines, mostly in Hebrew. I would be ok. But very soon the panic took over my brain again. It felt like my brain seizing up, my leg muscles tightening. I was dying.

We continued listening to the meditation tracks, and I cried some, bringing up old and new traumas, both minor and major. I was swinging from laughing with my mother to crying like a baby. I wanted to catch her up on all the things that happened in the last few months, weeks, and days. There were so many developments. The ground felt like it was shifting under my feet. I was alternating between tears of laughter and of despair. 

I was nursing my baby and trying to rest. I couldn't read even one line from the magazines and the thought of my children overwhelmed me. 

I ate more red meat and almonds. Then we noshed on the salmon my brother had brought over late Friday afternoon, after my mother got dressed in her paisley yellow dress for Shabbos.

I rested and my husband came in and closed the door behind him. He was fidgeting. He finally placed the baby gently on the bed and started: “I also had panic attacks. When I was in high school, my friend described how he fainted, after that, I felt like I was fainting. We had to call Hatzala. I couldn't even walk home alone from school from then on'; I had to have someone walk me. We went to doctors and specialists. Finally, the school counselor helped me. I came to realize that it was all in my mind.”

I appreciated my husband’s vulnerable revelation and his show of solidarity.

I came down for the Shabbos meal. Lighting the candles with my children, I felt grateful. They needed me. This was life. It allowed me to briefly slip into my normal role, where I felt competent and at home. We had a pleasant Shabbos meal. My father-in-law, who was not well, did not come down for the meal. It was just Zushe, the kids, me, my mother, and my mother-in-law. 

The kids left. I changed out of my new Shabbos outfit. It was a J. Crew sweatshirt and silky slip skirt, both navy and covered with tiny off-red hearts I bought in my birthday frenzy. But really, it fit on my huge postpartum body and was just what I needed. When my younger son saw me, he started kissing each little heart. Such a sweetie. 

In the stillness of the early hours of the morning, I awoke with intense anxiety and took a Xanax. I felt I had no recourse. I was panicking and needed immediate relief. I felt the rumble of an approaching hunger-tidal wave. To preempt the hunger and possible fainting, I polished off chicken my little brother-in-law had grilled for Shabbos— right there in the room. It was like some kind of macabre ritual or an unfunny skit: I’d consume a high-protein meal in a few seconds, and my mother would dutifully go downstairs and arrange another one: Steak, salmon, or grilled chicken with hummus.

By 9 a.m., I needed my friend Xanax again. I did not know how I would face the day. I did not sleep especially well. My mind began to spin at the thought of the responsibilities I had left at home. Something was certainly up with the brain fog from COVID. My husband was also showing symptoms. Between large hits of lactation hormones every three hours and the panic attacks, I was teetering. 

When the overwhelming thoughts subsided, I would start chatting with my mother about family history, our goals, our victories and failures. Though it was entertaining, almost anything she or I said pushed me back to the edge. The real world was too much for me to handle. The mere reminder felt like I was looking over an abyss of a cliff. By the time night came, my head was spinning. I just lay there absorbing all the thoughts, processing our rollicking conversation, stopping up the funnel of the normal processing that we do before we fall asleep. I did not fall asleep though the hours passed.

I tossed and turned and hoped that this nightmare would end. Tomorrow I would go easy all day and then sleep well, recovering the deficit I was now riding into, I surmised, still skirting anxiety about it. 

The next day was more of the same. We had a heart-to-heart conversation covering everything from money, charity, divorce, contraception, and more. When I awoke that morning, my mind was reeling; I did not know if I had already gone crazy. But I went downstairs wading, weaving through thick mental fog. There was one thing keeping me strong, embracing me. My mother-in-law's new couch, covered in a lime-green drop cloth with pink and green pillows. The green pillows were covered in velvet with a pompom fringe of the same color. I could understand the pink and the greens, this wasn’t confusing to me. I focused on the pretty colors while my mind was swirling and closing in. I sat there and breathed as deeply as I could to calm myself and ride out the vicious wave. 

We alternated between bottle and breastfeeding, always trying to recapture that balance– I needed the Xanax, which was suspected to make the baby drowsy; let’s bottle feed we’d conclude. Then I’d get engorged, and I’d recall that breastfeeding restored my equilibrium and self-esteem. Since the closeness was healthy for both of us, we tried once again to breastfeed.

My children visited again, and again I momentarily forgot the panic. When they left, it returned. We navigated outside to the back patio to sit under the glorious pink tree. The sun finally appeared. I felt like a thawing ice cube. My mother-in-law had those zero-gravity lounge chairs and I put my feet up. When the panic rode into me full force, I breathed with alternating nostrils; I thought positive thoughts about how G-d was holding me; I asked my mother to massage my legs, particularly behind the knees and shins. The seizing passed. We got through. But I couldn't read a page of a magazine, only look at the pictures; my mind was swaying; I easily forgot things. The morning felt like a haze. Something weird was happening. Was this brain fog? The panic? Or the Xanax? 

At around 4 pm, after time outside, I felt like a fog had lifted. Both the heavy confusion and the tremendous anxiety that came along. My brain had clenched, and my body too. This pattern continued over the next weeks and months. I would have the most difficult, debilitating morning, and then sometime before the evening, the clouds parted and the sun shone through. I’d wonder what I was so worked up about. I had myself back, taking all day to get there.

That night, after a steak, we went to bed. But I couldn't sleep. I turned over the funny and entertaining conversation we had in my head. We also talked about intergenerational trauma, and we analyzed the history of each of my grandparents and great-grandparents. A lot to think about in one day. Too much. I had my reservations about digging up and releasing trauma when I was already so fragile, was it time to go to the purported source of the problem? I agreed that my grandmother who helped care for me as a baby, who had survived the Nazis, had a formative effect on me. I have only good memories of her and I feel close to her and validated by her sensitivity. Her survival depended on her hiding in a pigsty. This might very well be true, but I had already spent months thinking about that. I was desperate for respite. For quiet. For stability. For plain, plain talk. When my mother-in-law walked into the room, I relished her simple sentences. Like, “Do you need a clean towel?” “I am going to the store.” “How are you feeling?” These were articulations I could relate to. She was constantly cleaning which made me feel steadier immediately, making me feel safe when nothing else did.

When I still didn’t sleep Saturday night, I knew I was wading into hot water. I assumed that soon I’d be back in my bed, tuning everything out and sleeping. I might even sleep a lot, regaining all those lost hours. 

On Sunday morning, we made a plan of action to get through the day. The kids needed to be entertained… I desperately wanted to go home, but didn’t know if I’d be able to… Sitting on that green couch, caring for the baby, we spoke on the phone, all three of us– my husband, mother, and I– and made a plan. Huddled over the phone on speaker, trying to clear my vision of reality, we formulated a tight plan. We would let Mendel come in and see me for a few minutes, and then my mother would take him to school. Zushe would bring the other kids for a short visit afterward. Then my mother would take them out, possibly for ice cream. Zushe would keep his Sunday appointment with our therapist, which I was sure he could use at this point. We spoke about dinner. Zushe asked me to remind him how to make hot dogs. My first reaction was vociferous. This was a particular problem that I trust he could work out on his own. “Call your mother or your brother,” I chided. As the day progressed, he again asked me how to cook the hot dogs for the children’s dinner, so I spoke patiently into the phone: “Take a pot of water, place hotdogs inside,” etc.

I wanted to go home, but I was seriously ill. We didn’t know with what. I sat fragile on the patio once more. I tried to reach both my husband and mother to please call my doctor and ask if we could discontinue taking the daily Lovenox injection. My mother had mentioned that she thought the shots were too much for me emotionally, and perhaps I didn’t need it. My husband was beyond overwhelmed with the children but had been anxious about me consistently having the Lovenox administered to prevent possible blood clots, for my own health. My mother had urgent business to attend to. I decided to be a big girl and call the doctor on my own. I dialed and when he answered his cell phone, bless him, I said, “Dr. Meena! I am your patient! Do I have to continue taking the Lovenox shots?” He asked a few questions and affirmed that I no longer needed the injections to my belly. They had been causing stress. Though not taking them without the doctor’s consent would be a trigger as well. My belly was blotched with the bruises from the shot, it also bore the scars of shingles that I had painfully endured just a few weeks before giving birth, and my abdomen also told the story of my pregnancy with wide and pervasive stretch marks. I still looked six or seven months pregnant. And here I was given permission to be healthy on my own. “Tell me one thing,” the doctor exulted, “how's the baby?” I mumbled something that couldn’t possibly encapsulate everything we were going through. But he said, “Good, enjoy her!” and I felt so much better. After excitedly updating my mother of the developments as she had returned, my panic returned in a tsunami. 

I would make it home. We started packing our things. I wanted fresh air, so I asked my mother if we could walk home rather than taking a cab. I walked triumphantly out of my mother-in-law’s house. We were on our way to healing. But just half a block down, I began to feel like I was blacking out. I turned to my mother who was carrying very heavy packages and asked that we change course and call an Uber. She shifted the weight of the packed bags in her hands and said, “We can do this.” But I needed it. I sat on the floor, and with the last shreds of energy I called a cab to take us home. To prevent from blacking out and then dealing with yet another ambulance, I held on fiercely to what my husband explained to me on Shabbos. “Tell your brain that you are not dying. Tell your brain…” I didn’t know which brain of mine would “tell my brain”. Are there two “me”s? Anyway, I grasped at this advice as a blockade from the panic attacking me. I didn’t black out. I sat on the ground holding the vase of roses there on President St. near seedy Troy Ave. My mother felt so uncomfortable waiting for a cab. She wanted to call my brother to come to give us a lift. I handed her the phone so she could track the Uber’s path on the app, which was grounding.

We got into the car, asking the driver if it was ok that we didn’t have masks. It took everything out of me not to black out in the car on the few blocks home. We held the roses and our Shabbos stuff. I repeated to myself over and over and over, holding on to the words for dear life: “Susan said I’ll be just fine. Zushe said I'm not sick. Susan said I'll be just fine. Zushe said I am not sick...”

As I walked through my front door, I felt like a marathon runner crossing the finish line. I whispered to my husband: I don't think I would have made it home without your advice. I wanted him to know that he helped. I was facing a house full of children, and I couldn't do it. I needed my wide bed. As my mother walked me into my bedroom, I collapsed into my bed, and I said to her, “This,” outlining the window near my bed with my finger, “This is a major trigger.” I was in a quandary. There was no place I felt safe. I wanted to rest in my own bed with my own pillow and blanket, but there I overheard the deceitful, the unruly, and the pedestrian. I wanted to look out of my window and see something relaxing but what I saw was pavement, trash, and more pavement and trash. 

As I closed the door to my bedroom, I sincerely hoped that the next 48 hours would make up for the previous 48 hours. No sleep, too much stimulation, and entertaining conversation when my brain needed a rest. I told Zushe before I got home that there was no way we would be discussing future decisions regarding our daughter’s school even though they weighed heavily on our minds because the mere thought completely derailed my panic. I couldn't think about her, about my son’s needs, about my hopes to start a children’s clothing line. I couldn't—and shouldn’t have been thinking about anything. I wanted to hear simple words and have a lot of quiet. My husband was worried about me, trying his best, dealing with debilitating brain fog himself while holding up the fort with our children and home. 

When the panic alarms started ringing in my head, I needed silence. I couldn't answer even concerned and caring questions. I needed to let it pass. I couldn’t reassure my husband, I just massaged my legs and tried to relax. Unfortunately, the panic did not abate and it kept me from sleeping that night, as tired as I was. And when the house was quiet and my husband was getting some rest, the panic turned into a full-fledged waking nightmare. I desperately wanted to sleep. Instead, after two or so hours of sleep, I was pacing the house. Pacing the house reminded me of a family member who was troubled with mental health challenges, who paced the house all day and night. That family member was challenged, yet I didn't know what the cause or diagnosis was. I know it was hard on my parents. Sometimes they didn't sleep, worrying about that family member. In the morning they would anxiously parse how many hours she had slept. Their fear was palpable and I was infected with it. 

The strange thing was that about two years prior, our child developed anxiety over not falling asleep. She picked up, we are not sure how, that if a person doesn't fall asleep for two days they have to go to the hospital, which she’d repeat through tears. Twisting and turning in her bed, she’d beg us to reassure her that we thought she would fall asleep though it was taking time.

I didn't need more hospital. I needed to relax. Instead, I dreaded being hospitalized for my condition. I imagined being rushed into the psych ward, tranquilized, and then be so damaged that I would never return to my children.

That night the darkness almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to sleep. I couldn't sleep. I felt that I was on the edge of something very scary. Whereas those nights prior I had clung to the knowledge that worrying about not sleeping would work against me, having told myself, “It's okay to process and rehash in my mind our very stimulating conversations of the day, it’s fun; I am sure I will sleep soon,” at this point, though, I was panicking over not sleeping. I paced the house. I felt that I was on the verge of losing my mind.

I held on tight. Yet, when I used the bathroom, I'll spare the details but there was something abnormal. I Googled it and then Googled it some more– a practice I usually stayed far away from. I knew, though, from experience that what happens in the bathroom is a valid and important indicator of one’s health. I was dogged with numerous after-effects of COVID– the leg tension, the shriveling skin, and I felt this might be another one. What I Googledand dug up, matching images to reality, regarding the bathroom issue was alarming. “Toxoplasmosis. Can lead to death.” One way it can be contracted is through eating undercooked meat. How many medium-rare steaks had I consumed in the past week? I had killed myself. Toxoplasmosis was normal and benign for the regular population, but life-threatening for people with weakened immune systems. That’s me, I instantly assumed. I saw red. Death was whispering in my ear again. I picked up my phone and dialed my wonderful doctor. It was just past midnight. He picked up sounding groggy.

“Toxoplasmosis? Yes, that's highly treatable. You just take a tablet. Yes, it's highly treatable. Yes, you just take a tablet. You can call the office in the morning. Good night.”

I shivered and climbed back into bed. I still thought I was going to die. I was hanging on to rational thought by a thread. The doctor said I wouldn't die until at least the morning, implied by his words that I could call the office “in the morning”. I won't die, I told myself. I don't have to call for an ambulance at this particular moment. 

I have always relied on my body. I loved sports in middle school. I gave birth to a bunch of kids and when I pushed, it worked. I saw first-hand the powerful effects of improving gut health. I usually maintained healthy sleep, relaxation, exercise, and diet. Knowing that the coronavirus could smack your system nonsensically, and feeling the havoc that it wreaked– feeling wracked with strange and worrying symptoms, I assumed that I fit into the category of those “with weak immune systems”. In the state I was in, I had black and white thinking. What was next? It was pure panic. 

At some point, before I fell asleep, I woke up my husband and told him I was dying. I told him that I loved our family and he should tell that to the children. I gave some more last instructions and said it was great knowing you and being your wife. I encouraged him to remarry and rebuild his life anew. I also thought a lot about my last will. I decided on the following: “Be happy because I am happy.” I relayed that to my husband, too. 

In the morning, I sat up in bed and Googled my symptoms. I had always felt minor ups and downs in my mood. There were days when I’d feel great, successful, and think about myself a lot. To help myself, I'd make a mental note: “Ooh, a down will follow this.” Yikes! And inevitably, the next week I’d feel hopeless, guilty, and unwanted. I was never diagnosed with anything like bipolar. I knew this was affecting my life and I did want to help myself. 

But on Monday morning, while my kids were getting ready for school, I was not doing well. 

Here’s my Google search, breakfast menu:

Searched for is xanax dangerous if you didnt sleep

8:19 AM •  • Details

Searched for do you have to space out the two doses of xanax

8:09 AM •  • Details

Searched for does .25 xanax give you a high

And then I searched something, I don't recall what, and came up with this article or something similar at 8:20 a.m. on May 3. It was 15 minutes before our long-awaited appointment with my therapist, Susan. 

How I Recognize My Early Warning Signs of Mania | NAMI: National Alliance on Mental Illness

The words jumped out to me and receded strangely in my sleep-deprived mind. I saw the words irritable and insomnia. I knew this was me.  I saw the words “journaling helps to stay connected to reality”. At that moment, I took out my journal. No violins were playing, but this was the moment for which I had been waiting for ten years. The permission to write. For some reason, the well had run dry as soon as I got married. Up until my wedding, I journaled regularly, every night, to process most of my life events. When I got married, I couldn't write anymore. I had journals that spanned 6 or more years because I only wrote once or twice a year. I wanted to blog but felt my thoughts were not important enough. 

At 8:28 I googled this:

Searched for is xanax dangerous when you're manic.

8:28 AM

But I began to write what I could not say to my husband. I wrote him a letter. 

When the kids were off to school, he came into the room. I said, “Zushe, you know how on Friday night, you had something important to tell me. It seemed hard for you to say it, but you were brave. I have something like that to share. I read the letter to him. When I got to the end the therapist called. So I said with a smirk, “Susan, I have something to share”, and I read it again, aloud:

Right now I'm hypomanic and that’s ok. I'll tell Zushe the truth, and if he has a panic attack, he can take Xanax. But maybe he won’t have a panic attack because he has such good tools to manage it. 

Things Zushe doesn't have a fear of: 

Not falling asleep

Being bi-polar

The Holocaust

Those are things that I have a fear of but I am not embarrassed of them.

Maybe I was embarrassed of it until now (of being bipolar) but being embarrassed won't cure me. 

I am proud of Hashem for inventing the internet so I can read about hypomania. It says journaling helps.

Right now I am very scared of becoming manic– as in getting into full mania like on Tuesday. [I didn’t think I could handle that] That’s ok. 

I hear my parents reading this page and being proud of me. But I wish I can keep it private for me. 

I want to get better

I want to feel better

I have bipolar disorder.

I knew it, but now I have it. We will be better together.

My symptoms include:

Insomnia

Racing thoughts

I think I’m amazing

I wanted to say something else 

Oh yeah! I feel waaaay too connected to everyone

Hypersensitive to stimuli

I am scared of going to the hospital, but I might have to go again. 

Why didn't my Mommy tell me…?

[…]

I guess she worked really really hard to hold it in. Thanks.

Or probably she wished I was fine …

Anyway, I hear a sound that reminds me that I will be ok (it sounds like a swing [from next door], I'm not crazy)

Anyway, I had a panic attack the other day

And now I am having panic attacks, plus a manic episode.

What should I do?

I will go to the hospital and they can put me to sleep

I will massage and breathe now by[e]. 

Oh yeah by the way it says on Google:
“What can you do for people having a manic episode? 

Stay with them so they feel less alone.”

Yes.

If it needs to be, we will get through the next 2-4 days like we got through the past 2-4 days until the Xanax leaves my system. 

I think Zushe will still love me if he knows the truth that I am mildly bipolar.

So that makes me happy

But I was too scared for him to find out so I kept it a secret even from myself.

Like I didn't know, but I had a feeling and I knew it was taboo.

I think we can see Dr. Siller. I think Susan will be able to have another appointment with us soon, like in a few days.

If I have to go to the hospital to be tranquilized my kids will be disappointed but

My husband might be very scared

Maybe Zushe won’t want me to be his wife anymore if he knows I have a mental illness.

But (by the way, COVID made it worse)

I am proud of being so lucid through this mind****

But maybe I will still have a full manic episode go to the hospital forever and disappoint my children

I will go rest

Zushe said I will be ok

He said I will sleep and rest today.

Thank you Zushe

Last thing: Bubby said she wants to watch the Oprah and Meghan interview but couldn't figure out how to. If she watches it she will understand all of this [perinatal mood disorder] better. 

Last request: Please don't google bipolar until I am actually diagnosed or you talk to a doctor.

Susan listened quietly to the whole thing, and then she let out, “Oh my, oh my, Chaya. That's a lot.” 

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Okay, friends, there is more. If the end here was too abrupt, let me know, and I can send another very long chunk as needed.

If you feel like this was too much, please consider excusing yourself from the next few chapters.

SHABBAT SHALOM <3