Anxiety, Part One

I would like to introduce you, to my two companions, who years ago, came for a fortnight visit, but like things so much, they have never left, since. Oh sure, they have taken vacations, disappearing for months, at a time, but they always return, back to me. Talk about your proverbial bad penny, which keeps coming back, no matter, what.

 

Oops, I am sorry; I have forgotten to introduce you, to my lifelong companions, Depression and Anxiety. Come on boys, now is, not the time, to become shy and bashful. Damn it, boys. You are, making me; look silly, in front of these nice people.

 

 

Seriously, a folk, putting all joking aside, depression and anxiety aren’t a laughing matter, for many people, like me. Although, it is a normal part of everyday life, some people suffer longer than others, with these mental illnesses. For some reason, the LGBT community suffers a higher ratio of these cases, than the rest of society. And yet, this fact remains a closely held secret.

 

A misguided attempt, by some, they hope to spare these families, from the burden of mental illness. Now, public service announcements are openly aired, warning various targeted groups, about the dangers of depression and anxiety and where to go and seek help, if needed. In the following four monologues, with the first two, devoted to anxiety, I will talk, about its impact, upon myself and my struggle to maintain control, over these mental illnesses. Hoping, I can offer some enlightenment, what it feels like to have these mental illnesses.

 

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Anxiety (Part One)

Funny, how some of the simplest things, in our lives, like talking to a person, riding the local transit system, or walking out the front door of your home, we take, totally for granted, can generate, such deep-seated anxiety, within a person, like myself. I know, what you are thinking, why you should care, if I am struggling to survive, yet alone thrive, with my life. Especially, when there are, countless other people dealing with anxiety, as a regular part of their lives, except they are, not transitioning, changing from one gender to another. Hard enough challenge, at the best times, for anyone, to undergo, without adding this additional baggage, to an already stressful process.

Anxiety has, always been, a long time personal companion, of mine, dating back, to my early years. Sadly, my own abilities, to control and hide, this part of my health from others, has further weaken, the more, I pushed myself, away from the gender closet. Yet, the signs for anxiety were always there, if one knew where to look for them. Forced to live two lives, simultaneously, one, as a normal heterosexual male at work, and the other, as a Transwoman, during my limited free time, while I tried to figure out, a way to safely emerge, without any further emotional trauma, to myself. Wish, I could say, I had found the magical solution and the severe tension headaches were, a mere figment of my imagination, not the cruel reality of that time. As mentioned, in the previous monologue, about my futile attempt to "come out” at work.

Probably, the cruellest of all ironies, involve those, who are very insecure about their own gender or sexual orientation, by reacting brutally, taking out their fears and frustrations, upon others. Whom, they feel will not fight back, or report it, to the police, because of past experiences, with the authorities, regarding these other issues. Wish, I could say, this was not so, but there have been numerous times, I have kept silent, taken this type of abuse, knowing the police will never be able, to do anything about this, even if, I reported it and could describe the people, who did it.

Placing the police, in the most uncomfortable, of all situations, regarding a “they said, I said” situation, when they hear, all of the evidence. Depending on, the sensitive of the investigating officer, the case will be dismissed, as a nuance call, a total waste of time and resources that could be better used elsewhere. Yes, I have has a few interactions with various Ontario police forces, which I have been left, feeling like trash, by the officer, involved.

Whether or not, this is, a by-product of me, being “too sensitive” and/or having a "thin skin" with my reactions, to them. Like the nasty comments made, as I walked pass a person, as they crudely question my gender and/or sanity.

As I pretend, I had not heard them, but scared, they would use physical force, once they have caught me, to emphasize their position of power. In early 2007, I was chased by two teenagers, for wearing lipstick and eye shadow, as I started to experiment with makeup. Almost a year and half, before I starting my HRT programme. A Barely, have a clear mental image of these two teenagers, who chased me, into a Brampton public library, except they were a male and a female, covered in tattoos. Mockingly, they laughed at my distress, while expressing their demented sense of fun, seeing me, running away, in a full panic. Fortunately, I haven’t seen them, since.

Else, having a man emerged, out of nowhere, from a shadowy corner, of the long vacant Maple Leaf Gardens, where the Toronto Maple Leafs used to play, after a late October evening, in 2008, spent, with friends, in the “Gaybourhood”, which, has since been turned into a supermarket and part of Ryerson University. While I walked towards the College Street Station, to grab the subway, home. Following me, as I tried to avoid him, varying my stride, placing objects and/or a friend, between the two of us, finally, moved to cross over, to the other side of Carleton Street, hearing him, making very rude comments about the Gay community, in general. Yet, he expressed, an interest towards me that I never had happened to me, by a man, before. Although, I did not smell any alcohol on his breath, he could have stopped, taking his medication to treat his mental health issues, or been using illegal drugs.

First time, I have ever experienced, this type of fear, walking the streets of Toronto. And people wonder, why I seem so paranoid, at times, when I sense someone, walking behind me, my hand, tightly, gripping my apartment keys, between my fingers, as a defensive weapon.

If you were to ask me, what day or time, I had this major panic attack, the first since, leaving Carleton University, in 1994, I have no problem, telling you, but the calendar date, that is another story. Know that I could backtrack, using a computer, to find that exact Tuesday, when it happened to me, but reliving that day, is too painful. Guessing, it was August 14th, around 9am, when I boarded the southbound Yonge Line subway, at the Bloor Station, catching the tail end of the morning’s rush hour traffic, as people made, their way to work. In my case, I had a 10am appointment, to sign various waiver and social assistance forms to volunteer, as a standardized requirement for all welfare recipients, in Ontario, with a local non-profit organization, here. Letting the two previous trains go by, as they were too full for my comfort level, when I boarded that fateful one, triggering a full blown panic attack that lasted 26 hours, before it cleared. Never, before I have such a severe experience, like this. All previous attacks have lasted an hour or two, before disappearing.

Curling up, into a fetal position, as is possible, sitting in a subway car’s seat, while it, quickly filled up with passengers. None were caring, about my rapidly deteriorating state of my mental health. Too busy, wrapped up in their own private worlds. Only worried, they will be late, with the possibility of losing some of their pay, if someone had pulled the emergency stop cable, for a sick or injured passenger. Time took on, its own meaning, for me, during my ride, moving at a different pace and reality. May have been 10 minutes, give or take a minute, before I exited the car and found myself, sitting down by a curb side, trying to stop my racing heart and the need to flee anywhere deemed safe, by me.

Hugging my knees, tightly, to my chests, as my body, violently trembles, as I struggled to regain control. Barely, having enough wits, to realize, I needed a safe place to crash, until I could manage my own needs. Luckily, for me, I was able to crash at a friend’s apartment. As my body physically passed out; but I continued to treble, in my sleep, on the friend's borrowed mattress until noon, the next day, when I left.

Since that day, I have found myself, limited in the hours, which I can, safely travel without setting off another attack, on the public transit system, like the TTC. In booking, all of my appointments around the rush hour traffic periods, to avoid all crowded transit vehicles. Else, arranging alternative means, to get to them. Liking walking two hours, if need be. Curtailing the places and people, I can have interaction with, as a result. Frustrating, but not worth suffering another full blown panic attack, like I had experienced, on April 1, 2010, when I took the streetcar to a counselling appointment. When halfway there, a sudden influx of passengers, filled the streetcar to beyond capacity, my body began to lose control.

My counsellor had to pay for a cab, to take me, home, after my session, as I couldn’t function on a rational level, for several days, afterwards, as I laid, in my bed, in a fetal position. I, only moved, when my bodily functions had to be attended, even Venus and Squeak, tried to get me, to play with them, but to no avail. As the leaden body, lay on my bed, like a hunk of discarded metal. Ever so slowly, returning back to what passes as normal.

Triggering a full blown panic attack, which I never fully recovered from, as it remain in my mental background, for several months, before dissipating. During this time, my glucose readings often, skyrocketed to dangerous and very alarming levels, 2-3 times higher than normal, when testing my glucose levels. Something, I need to avoid, at all cost, for the sake of my own long term health, but also, when I go looking a surgeon to perform the SRS, they could use the diabetes, as a reason, to reject my application, as a possible surgery candidate. I have to face, this possibility, as much as, I do not want to admit this, to myself.