“But you always seem so happy and confident… you seem so together”, is the typical response that I get from someone when I confide in them that I have a long history of suffering from anxiety and panic disorder. There- the cat’s out of the bag. Even though it started back in my early 20′s (only a smidge more than a few years ago), with panic attacks and shortness of breath, I didn’t feel like I was on my way to becoming the mayor of Crazytown until about ten weeks after my first baby was born. Accompanying the usual roller coaster of postpartum hormones and emotions, I was steamrolled by grief over the death of my grandma, who held onto life by a string, just so she could meet her first great-grandbaby. She passed away when my daughter was only eight weeks old, and that is about when my world was started to turn askew.

I realize now that I was suffering from postpartum depression, but at the time, I was convinced that I would never be “normal” again. I would wake in the middle of the night in frozen terror, convinced that someone was conspiring to take my baby (who slept in a bassinet right next to my bed) or break into our home. I would get out of bed three and four times a night to make sure that the doors and windows were locked, in addition to the usual every-three-hour feedings that my daughter demanded. The combination resulted in my sleeping only a couple of hours nightly, for months at a time. I was so frayed and frazzled, like a rubber band that has been pulled so tightly, you can nearly predict the moment that it is going to snap.

At the end of a postpartum follow-up appointment, my wonderful and very attentive doctor must have noticed that my eyes were more hollow than usual, my under-eye circles a little darker, and my disposition more sallow. As we were saying good-bye, she gently put her hand on my shoulder, and asked me, “are you doing alright? I mean really doing okay?” I could feel the surging crack start to splinter the delicate “Supermom” veneer that I had so successfully hidden behind, and out of that crack, my tears and emotions poured. I told her about my grandma, and my fear, and how little I was sleeping, and I sobbed huge crocodile tears when I was describing my middle-of-the-night panic episodes where I thought that people were going to hurt me or my child. I thought for sure that she was going to order a straight-jacket for me right then and there, and held my breath as I waited to see how she would respond to my admissions. I will never forget the way she so reassuringly and softly said, “none of this is your fault, you are a wonderful mother, and you will not go crazy.” I so badly wanted to believe her. She sent me home with several different resources to learn about depression and anxiety, yoga, meditation and medication. After a week or so of trying the holistic remedies, I did my research on different medications for depression and anxiety, and decided that it was a route that I had to try.

Seven years later, I have been off and on, mixed and matched, increased and decreased on all different arrays and cocktails of medications for anxiety and depression. In hindsight, I wish that I had given the yoga and meditation more effort, but I truly think that I was so depleted and desperate at the time, that I needed the most aggressive form of treatment, that would work in the shortest amount of time. Within weeks of taking my first dose of Zoloft, I began to realize that I was sleeping better (or as good as one can with an infant), I was not as sensitive and fearful, and I was starting to feel a little more like myself.

What I didn’t realize, and what has taken me years to realize, is that I was becoming “flat”. The flame that sparked my fire, that lent me my creative edge, and fueled my entrepreneurial spirit, was slowly beginning to extinguish. It’s time to take off the cast, and see what I can do to heal those past wounds. Now is the time for me to learn other methods of coping with my anxiety, and I intend to keep trying until something works. It has been six days since I weaned myself off of Buproprion, and there have been several days where I have experienced some disconcerting side effects, like dizziness, nausea and headaches. But, I am determined to find a better way to live. I am not against psychological medications, and agree that people really do have chemical imbalances which  cause them to have to rely on these medications to live their lives. But for myself, personally, there must be a better answer. I want to unlock my potential, unleash my creativity, drop-kick my fear and anxiety, and find out what’s really under all of my layers. I will keep you posted on how this process plays out and the different skills and tactics that I pick up along the way that help get me to my goal of being more healthy on the inside. Don’t expect me to walk around chanting like a Buddhist monk, while contorting myself into poses likely seen on stage at Cirque Du Soleil, but  do look forward (a.k.a. you’ve been warned), to me getting a little bit of my spark back.

I’ll tell you what- creating a business from the ground up is not for the weak at heart. My original thought in the midst of my frustration, was actually, “starting your own business is not for puss***”, but then thought of how I hate when the slang word for something so beautiful, intriguing and miraculous is used to define someone who is weak or timid, and I decided to change my wording. Anyhoo- the point is, it takes a major pair of cajones to have the strength, organization, and perseverance (or at least pretend like you do) to run your own business.

Don’t get me wrong- I am so thankful for this opportunity, and have a ton of pride and courage for being brave enough to take the leap, but it was a hell of a lot funner to pick the font on my business cards, or add all of the cute and cuddly baby pictures to my website, than it is to write a business plan, research how to start a non-profit organization, or learn about the difference between sole proprietorship and a limited liability corporation. Just saying the word “proprietorship” is enough to make me want to switch to playing on Facebook, downing a glass of wine, and plop down to watch last week’s episode of “Pregnant in Heels” for the third time. But, apparently, since cracking open a bottle of wine at noon may lead to a bit of a problem for me and said business, I have to find other ways of coping.

One very important lesson that I have learned on this journey is, that this is the “Waiting and Becoming” time of my life. I learned this very reassuring idea from Dr. Lissa Rankin, an entrepreneur and wonder-woman that I am incredibly inspired by. This is my time to plant and water seeds, then when the time is right, they will grow. You know what they say, “Patience is a virtue”- clearly not a virtue that I was blessed with! I guess it’s not very realistic of me to expect to create a business name and website, then voila!, be standing at a podium, speaking at a public appearance, while simultaneously changing the world. These things take time, lots of research, a ton of support, and a wing and a prayer to flourish into successful endeavors.

I had a conversation with a dear friend yesterday, as I was lamenting (a.k.a. bitching) about how it will be so long before I make a living at what I’m doing, and how I still have so much schooling and training, and blah, blah, blah, and she said something very profound to me- first she said, “I love you, so I’m gonna give you a slap in the face!” Now, that’s a good friend, to know when you need a little slapping around (which I tend to like now and again.. wink). Then, she told me that just because I am not getting paid actual money to do what I am doing (yet), that it doesn’t mean that I am not being compensated for my work. That was a lightbulb-over-my-head moment for me. All of the hard work, grueling details, (yucky) financial and legal stuff to research, will someday be the backbone of my own successful organization.  She then went on to tell me that I am full of talent and to stop trying so hard to fit into a mold, that I should celebrate who I am, and that what makes me different from my peers is actually what will make me so successful. Wow- thank God for good friends who are willing to let ya have it once in a while- she definitely helped me get back to cooking with gas!

So, for now, I am grasping for patience, learning how to be more organized, and building a strong foundation for something I whole-heartedly believe in. At least ’til my whistle blows at 5:00 p.m.- then I’m pouring that glass (I have very over-sized wine glasses) of wine and cheers-ing to the leap that I have taken, to my support network of amazing family and friends, and finally, to getting slapped around a little!

“You are the woman I’ve been waiting for all of my life.” He said. Awkward silence followed. “I have thought you were the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, and I have thought about doing this for a long time…..” And with those words, he leaned in and kissed me, full on the mouth. He reached around my seatbelt to encircle my waist with one hand, and slipped his hand underneath the waistband of my favorite sweatshirt with the other. As he sloppily pressed his tongue further into my mouth, my words were muffled by his lips, and silenced by my shame, as the abusive act continued.

I was 15, and he was a 36-year-old youth pastor at my church. The legal definition of sexual assault is: “Sexual assault refers to a continuum of behavior that includes rape, but also encompasses any unwanted physical contact of a sexual nature. On this continuum, everything from non-consensual kissing and fondling to forced oral, anal or vaginal sex, is an act of sexual assault.” In reference to my specific situation, the law defines what happened to me as “Sexual exploitation by a helping professional.” Sexual exploitation in this case refers to any non-consensual sexual contact perpetrated by someone in a place of authority or leadership over the victim. Example of perpetrators in this case would be teachers, church leaders, physicians, and therapists. This type of sexual assault can be particularly distressing for victims because of previous feelings of trust and respect for the perpetrator. In addition, this type of sexual assault can be difficult to disclose to others because of the status of the perpetrator as a respected and trusted person in the community. Respected and trusted, indeed.

My family and I practically lived at our church. From the age of 12, I volunteered at the church to lead youth-choir, was highly involved in the youth group, played the piano during the church offering for the main service, and my family was one of the founding members of the church. We were part of the church when it was 60 people in a warehouse in the “other side of the tracks” part of town. We grew with the church while they quickly climbed to over 2,000 members, and had become quite a pillar in our then- small community.

I realize now, nearly 20 years later, that I was well-groomed for this act to occur. I understand now, that even at 15-years-old, I had little knowledge or even life experience, to have cultivated a different outcome than that which happened to me, to my family, and even to his family.

My “New Year’s Resolution” for 2011 was seamingly simple:  to forgive. I decided that I am ready to forgive- ready to leave the proverbial  plastic bags full of emotional garbage that I’ve been carrying around all of these years behind for good. But, as I opened my email this morning, emblazoned across my homepage, was a story about a local youth pastor that had been accused of molesting two teenagers. In an unexpected flood- it came rushing over me. http://www.mercurynews.com/breaking-news/ci_17015591?nclick_check=1

Although, I know that I am a “victim”, I’ve read the handbooks, I’ve been to counseling, I’ve “acted out”, and I’ve attended many V-day and victim/”survivor” associated events. Sadly, I have never identified with either. What I can I can however identify with strongly, is being a mother, and the fear of someone hurting my child(ren). I’ve never disassociated myself sexually, never became withdrawn or disengaged intimately or even emotionally. I have rarely even discussed my abuse, other than with very close friends, and of course my very loving and supportive family. But, while I am trying to muster this whole spirit of forgiveness, it enrages me that churches and other places of public gatherings are not required by law to fingerprint and/or perform background checks on volunteers, or even employees.

I will work on forgiveness, and I will work on letting go. But, I feel a new inspiration to use my experience not as a cry for sympathy or pity, but as a call to action. Something more needs to be done to protect kids from “sexual exploitation from a helping professional”. Whether it’s committed by, most notably, a priest in a Catholic church, or a less-publicized choir leader in a neighborhood Baptist church, the impact that that type of violation has on a child and their family is immeasurable. I have nothing against God, and have nothing against the fellowship of a church family. But, I do think that a “Beloved, let us LOVE one another (1 John 4:7)” and “let go and let God” attitude should not be considered when allowing people that can do harm to our children and families, hold places within our church communities. I don’t think that my experience will change legislature, or bring about a law named after me. But even if I protect just one child from going through what I did, or cause one parent to insist that the people that work alongside their children be background-checked and fingerprinted, I will have the most overwhelming sense of accomplishment. And I may even start to forgive.