Today I felt better than I have in a while.

I went for a run.

Don’t do that at 3:30PM in August in Los Angeles. It was hot. I felt strong but it was too hot.

Still, I liked the red on my face. I came home and jumped on my husband’s balancing board with some light weights. I listened to “Sara” by Fleetwood Mac. I looked at my reflection in the window of my home. I was wearing a tank top that says Okoboji, a lake I grew up on in the Summer.


As I lifted the weights over my head feeling good, I instantly countered that, with you entitled woman you.

Other’s are suffering from anxiety but they can’t exercise. They have to work.

Fuck that.

Just let yourself feel good.

I had taken my beta-blocker and my xanax and I was feeling calm. And lately even the xanax hasn’t been helping enough so I was feeling great.

My somewhat recent diagnosis of a rapid heartbeat has recently shriveled me up into a shell of myself.

I’m scared. Really scared sometimes.

Scared I’ll die at any second.

I won’t, unless, you know I do(like if a lion escapes the LA Zoo and I attacks me while I’m there, you get my point) but it won’t be from my SVT. It’s just a scary thing but the scary thing has triggered something inside me and suddenly my coping mechanisms have collapsed this Summer.

I’m like a child.

I can’t be left too far away from my husband because I’m afraid I’ll have an anxiety attack or an SVT attack.

I’m mad at myself that perhaps somewhere I didn’t listen to my intuition and my heart is twisted in knots and I’m making myself sick.

I’m ashamed to go on anti-anxiety meds yet I’m ashamed of they way I live now.

I want to raise my kids fearless.

I was a fearless child.

Until I turned 10. Something switched. Sometimes you shut down after a bit of too much. I think that was the case of me.

This summer I honestly can say for the first time I felt mental anguish. Trapped.

I couldn’t escape my head from my fear.

After feeling so good I quickly picked up my iPhone and saw that Robin Williams had died.   They are saying it’s looking like suicide.

I know he struggled.


I know someone like him who struggles. I mean really someone who reminds me a lot like him.

Someone who makes me laugh harder then most.

I’m not depressed and I’m not suicidal.

I’m anxious as hell and tomorrow I’m meeting with a psychiatrist to determined what type of anti-anxiety pills might help me.

I’m thankful for all of the awesome, strong moms, I know who have shared with me their own need for help with their anxiety.

Making me feel less guilty about my struggles.

I don’t know.

Just making me feeling like sharing.

Again, this is not to say I’m suicidal at all, I love life and am pretty damn perky.

I’m just struggling with some anxiety and my mind is fighting itself.

I have seen inside, just a glimpse, of the torture it must be for those of us who suffer from it.

It’s hard not to blame them, when they can cause tremendous pain and perhaps that’s my lesson from this summer. The arc in my story is changing. I need to have more empathy for those that do suffer from mental illness, even if I have fallen at the mercy of it once or twice.