My Own Worst Enemy

A lot of things have gone wrong this year and most of those things have been outside my control. They may have been inside my body, but they have been outside of my control. Recently, I realized that even my feelings are spiraling out of control, and it’s extremely disconcerting.

I never considered myself a control freak, but as more and more snowballs, I’m realizing that maybe I am.

I had thought that if I had controlling or stressful tendencies, they would have come out during the most stressful times in my life, like in law school, or while planning a wedding. But no, when it came to law school, I was perfectly fine with studying as hard as I could, and doing as well as I could. For my wedding, I thought maybe I’d be a bridezilla, but instead I filled out a spreadsheet with my flowers of choice, told my two bridesmaids to pick a color and style of dress they liked, and then I showed up in Cabo for the first time, 4 days before my nuptials.

So why, all of a sudden, do I want to control everything including my thoughts, and I’m mad at myself for wanting to be in control, mad at myself for not just accepting that some things aren’t in anyone’s control, and then I continue to spiral out of control (which brings me back to my very first point)?

All of this came to a head last week when I had a grief attack at the gym. I wasn’t sure if I’d write about it because it’s extremely vulnerable and embarrassing. But I also feel like I shouldn’t be embarrassed, even if I am. This blog is already an overshare, that’s the point of a personal blog, so I figured I’d jump in headfirst and overshare again.

I’ve had two “panic attacks” since Maliyah was born, both in healthcare settings. I’m using quotes because I don’t think they fit neatly into a “panic attack” box. Panic attacks usually mean extreme physical reaction triggered by intense fear when there is no real or apparent danger. For me, it’s not really a fear, or thoughts of imminent danger, it’s more like a “grief attack” with intense physical reactions based on extreme sadness and self-loathing.

My brain is a very fun place to be.

The first time this happened was at a post-partum appointment at the OBGYN. Obviously, being at the OBGYN after baby loss would be triggering for anyone, but this happened before I was even called into the room. I was sitting in the waiting area barely able to catch my breath, with my heartrate sky-high, facing the wall trying to avoid eye contact with anyone pregnant, and my Fitbit vibrated on my wrist, congratulating me for hitting my “zone minutes” for the week. I opened my Fitbit app, looking for a distraction, and realized it had clocked a 23-minute workout. This all happened while I was sitting in a chair just trying (and failing) to breathe normally.

The next time this happened was when I had a full abdominal ultrasound because my nephrologist thought there was a chance I had one kidney, since there seemed to be no other explanation for what happened to me. Turns out I have two kidneys. It also turns out that the sound of blood flowing into a kidney on an ultrasound machine sounds eerily similar to the sound of a baby’s heartbeat in your uterus. Cue grief attack. I couldn’t breathe while I laid there on the table. The technician was instructing me when to breathe in and out, because when your lungs inflate, they move your other organs around, making the ultrasound more difficult to perform. Clearly, I was unable to breathe on her count. I couldn’t breathe at all. I tried to focus on the ceiling tiles but soon enough I was gasping for air, with water streaming out of my eyes, and I started choking on snot while I was gasping, so she made me sit up to try and catch my breath. I got ultrasound goo all over the place, and the tech asked me if I had brought any family with me that she could call in from the waiting room.

Again, while I was caught off-guard by this grief attack, it was not exactly unpredictable. Of course I would be grossly triggered by my very first ultrasound with no baby inside me. Of course the sound of blood flow that was not a heartbeat drove me to tears. In my rational mind, this makes sense. But in my irrational mind, which is my mind most of the time, I got mad. Furious, really. Frustrated. Angry. Livid.

The mantra in my head over and over again was, “Why can’t I be normal?? Why am I like this? Why can’t I do ___ like a normal person? I used to be able to do ___ without a problem, now I am a freak. I’m the same person but now I’m completely f*cked up.”

As I mentioned, my brain is a very fun place to be.

This week was different because I thought I was safe in non-healthcare settings. But Thursday I went to the gym and I proved to myself that no, I am messed up in many different kinds of settings, yippee!

Thursday at Orangetheory was a “benchmark” day called the 12-Minute Run for Distance. A few times a month, they have treadmill or rowing challenges where you measure your progress on distance, speed, incline, or power. They repeat these workouts 2-3 times/year so you can see if you have improved. As the coach said before class last week, “it’s you against you.”

The last time I had done that benchmark was in April 2022, the month before my wedding. I had been working out a lot, and I was in pretty good shape. But I’ve been working out now 5-6 times/week mostly as a mental distraction, and I thought I had set myself up to PR. I was determined to beat my previous distance.

Well, readers, I did not. I matched my distance exactly, down to the hundredth of a mile. I got off the treadmill and tried to continue the workout, but I found myself falling apart as I picked up the weights for the next part of class. I went to the bathroom to try and calm down, but it did the opposite. I started beating myself up.

My internal dialogue: “Why couldn’t I get .01 extra on the treadmill? What is wrong with me? It’s not like I have anything else going on. All I do is work out. It’s not like I’m taking care of a baby. I’m trying to come back from a post-partum break where I wasn’t allowed to work out, but I have literally nothing to show for it. I don’t have a baby. I don’t even have .01 on the treadmill. And why am I coming back from a post-partum break? How? How is it possible that I need to have a post-partum come-back when I am childless? And I’m supposed to be thinking about going through this again? Why would anyone ever do this again?”

Then the really fun thoughts start in: “Why am I not better yet? It’s been 8 months. Some people would be functional by now. And I’m in the bathroom at the gym struggling to stand. Why can’t I be normal? I used to be able to get through a f*cking class at the gym and now I’m so messed up I can’t run 12 minutes without having a panic attack?”

I finally got to a place where I thought I could go back to class, so I did. I lifted weights for 3 minutes while I continued to battle myself in my head. That’s when I realized that my heartrate monitor had been on the whole time. Everyone in class was in blue and green zones (moderate effort) and my name was the only little box on the screen in orange and red, clearly still in full panic. When I realized that the entire class saw my heartrate sky-high during the mental breakdown I had in the bathroom, I completely lost it again and left the gym. Somehow, I wiped off my equipment and got my stuff from the locker, and made it 10 yards from the studio when I stopped being able to breathe again.

I sat down on a railing and tried to breathe. I counted 4 in, 4 out, but it wasn’t helping. I was crying hard at this point but I’m not sure how long I was there. One of the best parts about NYC is that people mind their own business. But on this particular day, I guess I looked like I was in acute distress because a woman walking her dog asked me if I was ok. I nodded. I thought she would go away, but no. She asked if I had asthma, I shook my head no. She said, “should I call you an ambulance?” I vigorously shook my head no. Given that my previous panic attacks were both in medical settings, I knew the last thing I needed in that moment was interaction with healthcare professionals. The woman asked, “are you sure?” and I nodded again, so she walked away. I think the fear of having to talk to EMTs scared me into action. I went through a list of people in my mind who I could call, who wouldn’t think I was a complete basket case. I realized it was really only Chris because he had seen this happen to me before, so I called him and talked to him while I tried to get myself home.

An hour later, once I showered and through some superhuman power, braided a girl’s hair for a race, I was able to see what happened with some distance. When I took 3 steps back and I was in a better headspace, when I was able to breathe, I said to myself, “this makes sense. You are very sad. You’re not the same person, you had a baby die inside you. You gave birth to a dead child and almost died this year. What you achieved on the treadmill is a triumph. Despite everything that happened this year, you are not only alive, but you are in as good shape as you were three weeks before your wedding.”

I see that when I am not deep in it. But when I was in the bathroom at the gym, trying to tell myself those very same things, I couldn’t believe it. All I could believe was, “fail fail fail fail fail.”

Later that night, after talking sense into myself and feeling like a completely crazy person (because who starts sobbing at the gym???), I wrote to one of my loss mom friends and explained what happened. She told me that it’s so, so hard but also so, so relatable. She said that being in an extreme pit of grief feels like you are fighting a constant battle with yourself, and it’s excruciatingly exhausting. I couldn’t agree more.

I’m tired. I’m tired of being sad and I’m tired of being mad at myself for being sad. I wish I was “over it.” I wish I was “better.” It’s ironic that the Orangetheory coach had said “it’s you against you” for the benchmark, since that is ALWAYS the battle I am fighting in my head. I want to be kind to myself, I want to “give myself grace,” as all of the Instagram Inspo accounts say, but it’s easier said than done.

The ”benchmark workout” felt in my head like it was a benchmark of more than just distance on a treadmill. To me, it was a benchmark I was measuring to see if I was still the person I used to be. When I “failed,” and found out that no, I am not, and I will never again be her, it hit me like 100 tons of bricks.

Watching other people around me grieve differently and on different timelines makes it even harder. While I try not to compare, it’s impossible. Of course, I’ve read all the books about how grief’s timeline is different for everyone, but I want to be done. I want to quit. I want to trade in these feelings for other ones. I want to talk to the manager.

But that’s not how life works. And as surprised as I am every day to wake up, ready to put on my armor and go to battle with myself yet again, here we are, alive another day and ready to fight. Waking up each day as your own worst enemy is tiring and demoralizing. I hope someday to be a friend to myself. I hope that I can be kinder to myself. Gentler. Softer. Since it’s nearly December, maybe that will be my New Year’s Resolution. I am going to try my very best to be kind, because at least that is something I can control.