• Becky

Some days I just don't have the energy...

As I sit here tonight, full on anxiety attack, brain fog in overdrive, wearing my cervical traction collar for neck pain...which I kid you not, took me 5 minutes to remember what it was called, I’m trying to convince myself I do not need to go to the emergency room. Today is a perfect example of how easily my mind can enter into panic and convince me that something is not right. The question of the night for me is, who will win this time? I’ve already put on my pajamas and washed off my mascara, so I’m hoping it’s not my anxiety. Once the lashes come off this woman does not leave the house!



Here’s how this train wreck of a thought process all started. I had a rough time sleeping last night. I woke up a few times feeling like I was short of breath. Now, it could have been the fan blasting in my face, or the 40 extra pounds around my midsection that was to blame. Who knows. I woke up groggy, not out of the norm, and went about my morning routine which looks like this, rush, coffee, forget everything, and rush some more. By the time I arrived at work I was feeling a little light headed, which for me is also not out of the norm. That’s the joy of Chiari for you. It’s a guessing game as to what crappy symptoms you’ll have and when. As the day progressed, I continued to overthink everything. One thing I do really well. If there were trophies given for being a compulsive worrier, I’d be the #1 champ! When my mom used to tell me I was a winner, she wasn’t joking. I was able to accomplish everything I needed to at work and a little extra, even driving wasn’t too horrible despite how crappy I felt. All day I was telling myself, “you are okay!” I said this maybe 2 dozen times and not once did I listen. The end of the work day came and I made it home where I was able to check my blood pressure, perfect score, again, “winner!” My pulse was only slightly elevated. Probably not another blood clot….breathe! “You are okay!”




So, here I am, sitting on the floor of my room. Adorned in my finest comfy lounge pants, the cervical traction collar is beginning to feel like a torture device, and I am blogging. My kids tease me about this hobby, but I reminded myself that the intention for this blog was to help me in times of distress, like now, and to hopefully help others as well. This is me taking a minute, grounding myself, and being as real as anyone has ever seen me. Anxiety will not win this time.


Does this collar make me look fat?

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