I’ve never in my life been a germaphobe. Seriously. Never.
My house isn’t obsessively clean. It never occurred to me to have visitors wash their hands before allowing them to hold my newborns. It’s just never been something I worried about.
Which is funny, because I’ve always worried. I worried about SIDS and my milk supply and whether my babies were developmentally on track. Now I worry about academic progress, friends, and whether my kids will ever be able to afford a house. It’s just my nature and I know it. I live with this underlying hyper-vigilance that makes me constantly aware of every threat and possible circumstance. (Except germs, I guess. Until now.)
When my kids were little, I went to counseling for postpartum anxiety. I learned about it, adopted behavioral modifications, and things were fine. I’ve never let anxiety rule my life. I’ve always understood that my imagined threats were possible but not likely, so I made decisions that flew in the face of anxiety. When I was nervous about something, I did it anyway. When I was hyper-anxious about SIDS, I stopped obsessively checking on my kids.
Because that’s the behavioral treatment recommendation – to push past your fears and stop giving into them. When you stop giving yourself the illusion of control through your obsessive behavior, it lessens the fear response the next time. And, it worked. Until a few weeks ago.
I started feeling “off.” I generally don’t drink caffeine, but I quit even the occasional coffee treat. When it didn’t help, I quit sugar. Then I quit carbs. The feelings of being constantly amped up didn’t go away.
Then last week things got real around here with the Coronavirus, and everything clicked.
Several weeks ago the first US case landed right here in my county, less than ten miles away. The first case of community transmission was half a mile away, on my street, at our neighborhood high school. The “epicenter” hospital on all of the news broadcasts caring for the victims of the nursing home outbreak was the one where both my babies were born, and where my firstborn spent time in the NICU. To top it off, my husband was horribly sick just as all the craziness started to unfold and it was impossible to get tested – just to be safe.
I still didn’t think I was nervous. I was just super annoyed at what a big deal everyone was making, and also super annoyed by my husband’s man-flu. But then I started swinging by the grocery store every time I left the house to pick up another supplement “just in case it works” and feeding my kids a bowl of vitamins for breakfast. I bought a container of Lysol wipes for the car and started wiping down my steering wheel every time I hopped in. I put the hand-washing fear of God into my kids the minute they walked through the door, and I started to feel anxious every time anyone had to leave the house. Then last week my husband went to a blood drive and my brain was convinced he wasn’t going to come home.
Friends, this virus is serious but it’s not a “Bird Box” situation. I knew I was being irrational. So I still pushed through, just as I was supposed to. I left the house when I needed to even though I didn’t want to. I turned off the TV and took some time off of social media. I spent extended time in prayer and meditated on verses that focused on fear and anxiety.
But despite doing all the “right” things, the internal feelings remain. And though I can exist like this, I don’t have to. So this week, I’m planning to call my doctor and ask for anti-anxiety meds for the first time in my life. And it’s okay.
I’m not afraid to trust my unknown future to a known God. Rationally, I understand the truth. Behaviorally, I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing. But internally, I have no control over the way I feel. And if a little medication can make it easier to get through this surreal period of time, then I’m all over it.
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