Falling Baby Syndrome
Dropped from a Bipolar High-Rise
I call it falling baby syndrome. Those moments of panic.
Have you ever held a baby, knowing you had it safe and secure in your arms, but for some inexplicable reason, the baby gasps in a huge breath, extends its arms out to the sides, tightens its legs, and has a look of fear as though it’s falling?
That’s me during a panic attack.
I’m stuck in a panic attack.
My family left on Sunday. It’s only been three days and I cannot tell you how many times my mind has outstretched its arms, stiffened its appendages, and held its breath as if I was being dropped from a high-rise building with no one to catch me.
No one but me, that is.
When they first left, I bawled. And I do mean sobbed. Ugly cried. I felt abandoned, even though their leaving had absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with them needing to save themselves from a bad situation.
I think back to when my kids were pre-teens. My eldest son, who was always stern with me, yelled in my face, “It’s not about you. Not everything is about you. Stop making everything about you!”
That was three decades ago and I still time travel back to that moment. My middle son and his wife are getting divorced. They have three young children to care for. They couldn’t afford living in Nebraska. Their friends are all in Kentucky. My youngest child and only daughter is still in Kentucky. It makes sense for them to go back. It’s not about me.
But it is.
There is only me. At the end of the day, I go to bed alone. I wake up alone. I make every decision, good or bad, on my own without anybody contributing to my life or well-being. That’s not to say I’m selfish or that I lack compassion. I think about others all the time and try to add value when and where I can.
But they left.
They left me behind.
Everybody leaves me behind.
That’s not self-pity. That’s not a sob story. That’s not a plea for attention. It just is what it is.
Que Sera Sera.
I woke up Sunday morning out of breath. My entirety was trembling. My being was fear-infused. What do I do? What do I do? For fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to do?
So I cleaned. I threw away the grandkids’ toothbrushes and it gutted me. My apartment is too small to hold on to “extra” things, especially when those things are replaceable, so I threw away their pillows, blankets, and old sleeping bags. I went through the pantry and fridge and discarded anything they would eat that I wouldn’t. Instant oatmeal. Hot Cheetos. Pickles. Ketchup. Mayonnaise.
I scrubbed their fingerprints from the doors and light switches. I bleached the toilets and sinks. I mopped the floor. And then I stood in the middle of my small space, a river of tears falling from my weary face, all-too-aware there was nothing left to clean and nothing for me to do other than be inside my own head — the most dangerous place for me to be.
Inside my head.
I had a therapist once who said that my mind is like the ghetto. You don’t go in there after dark. And my mind was dark.
I took Lorazepam. Two pills instead of one, which is permitted in times of crisis.
I laid in my bed and cried. Then I went to the couch with my pillow and blanky and cried some more. I didn’t bother to shower. I didn’t comb my hair. And don’t tell anyone, but I didn’t brush my teeth, either. When I exhausted the tears, I sat and stared at the wall as if it were going to do magic tricks.
I gave myself Sunday. I respected the pain. I understood all too well that if I tried to cage the tears, if I held in the hurt, if I prevented myself from the release, it would all eventually rupture my soul and I wouldn’t be able to reel it back in.
But allowing myself to feel, especially on this level, was akin to trying to open a shaken soda without it overflowing. How do I let out just the right amount of pain without allowing it to devour me?
How do I allow mental health without it becoming mental illness. Because I take medication to balance my emotions, not keep me from feeling them. To keep them from railroading me. But I still need to feel.
Monday morning, I still woke up with falling baby syndrome, but I also took responsibility for myself. Rather than allowing another day lost in depression, I went for a walk in the sunshine. Rather than trying to nap and lose myself to sleep, I did a VR workout and made myself sweat, pushing those salty tears through my flesh instead of my eyes.
I meditated.
I practiced deep breathing.
I reminded myself that I have been through trauma, tragedy, and turmoil, and I’ve survived it all. Every bit of it. Not always gracefully, mind you, but I did survive it.
And I will survive this.
Maybe I’ll do better than survive it. Maybe I’ll learn to do things alone. Maybe I’ll learn how to overcome my agoraphobia and take myself on a date to Barnes and Noble for a cup of coffee and date with a book.
Maybe I’ll take a cooking class at Sur La Table.
Eventually, hopefully at the end of the year, I’ll follow my family back to Kentucky — when my lease is up and I don’t have to pay an exorbitant buy out fee. When I’ve had time to secure another job.
Bipolar disorder can’t have me. Anxiety disorder cannot rule me. PTSD will not corral me.
I am not a baby.
I am not falling.
I am okay. I am always okay, even when I’m not.
