Broken Crayons, Black Toilet Seats and Band-Aids

I know what you're thinking - what in the world do broken crayons, black toilet seats and Band-Aids have to do with each other? I still wonder that myself and it seems even more strange seeing them all together in a headline. But truth be told, they are all symbols of a long history of anxiety. My anxiety. And reading this really makes me feel like a head case.

Let me take you back about 35 years. As soon as I was old enough to hold a crayon I developed a strange phobia about the broken ones. I screamed when I saw a broken crayon. I insisted my mother buy me a new box of Crayola's if one were to break. When I saw a broken crayon in the box it made my heart race and my tiny hands sweat. I felt short of breath and wanted to hide. A few years later, my mom got some advice from an expert to make 'cookie crayons', a blend of broken crayons that are baked together in a muffin pan to form one cool looking multicolored crayon. And that seemed to cure me of whatever was causing this strange phobia. However, I did catch myself recently going through my kids' crayon box and throwing away all of the broken ones.

To top off my quirky fear of broken crayons, I then developed a childhood phobia of black toilet seats. Not white ones. Not pink ones like my grandma had. No, just the black ones with the pointy seats that you find in public restrooms. My fear turned to avoidance. I wouldn't go into public bathrooms. If we were out in public I would hold it as long as I could. If my parents made me go to the public bathroom I became paralyzed with fear or would cry in hysteria. I still remember the humiliating day in kindergarten that I walked home with poop in my pants because I wouldn't use the bathroom at school. I'm not sure how or why, but sometime around age five I overcame the avoidance, but for several years still felt anxious in public restrooms.

Fast-forward 30 years. Now I am an adult with three kids of my own. I haven't had phobias since childhood, and then at age 35 I developed a phobia of Band-Aids. This psychological quirk happened after my hospitalization for postpartum anxiety and hasn't been resolved yet.

For the past two summers, I have despised public places where Band-Aids may be lurking. You can find these at parks, pools and beaches, and they always see to find me in abundance. For my 36th birthday I thought it would be fun to take my kids to the beach. I spent the afternoon paralyzed in one spot, afraid to step in the sand or grass for fear of the disgusting used bandage. It makes me cringe just writing about them. I want to vomit. I want to flee. I want to cover my feet in twelve pairs of socks and wear boots that go to my knees. And for the life of me, I don't understand why.

Last month we took a family vacation to an indoor water-park. I was so excited for this vacation and wasn't worried at all about the "B" word. On the first day when we arrived, we went to check out the pool area. I saw a bandage floating in the pool and that was it for me. I was frozen in fear. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run away. There was no way in hell I was going in that water. We were at the water-park for six days and every time we went near the pools I felt sick. I did get myself to go in the hot tub and dip my feet in the kiddie pool, but even then I wasn't having any fun and was paralyzed with fear.

I don't understand these phobias - they seem so illogical to me. But I recently went back to therapy to explore some of this crap and get rid of it once and for all. My therapist thinks I have a form of anxiety called Conversion Disorder, in which anxiety is transposed to your body or the physical world. I've also seen this show up with temporary paralysis after my second child and an array of physical symptoms after my third daughter's birth.

I suppose I am just wired this way. Somehow my brain transposes my anxiety to my physical world. I am trying to make sense of it all and learn more. So if you know of anyone or have any insight on this strange disorder, please let me know. I've figured a lot out about my PPD/A, but some things still remain a mystery.

Stacey Ackerman is the author of Supermom: A Postpartum Anxiety Survival Story and lives in Lakeville, Minn., with her husband Eirik and children Evan, Eithan and Emily.

Paying it Forward

After I got over my postpartum anxiety crisis, the first thing I wanted to do was bury it far, far in the back of my mind. I wanted to pretend that PPD never happened to me; like it was just another mother's bad dream. That would have been the easier thing to do.

However, after I recovered from PPD, I knew my life had changed forever. I had a new sense of appreciation for my health and my family. I also knew that there were so many women out there that were searching for a light of hope.

When I was sick, all I wanted to find was someone else who understood me. It is impossible to explain mental illness to those who have never experienced it. After all, how can you be sick inside when you look fine on the outside.

That's when I decided to 'Pay it Forward'. If I am able to help other mother's out there, and even rock the boat a little bit when it comes to postnatal care, then maybe what I went through was meant to be.

I am here today and I am fine. I've emerged from hell and back, and so can other PPD mom's. It takes a lot of faith, strength and perseverance to overcome such a horrific obstacle that's put in a new mom's way, but it can be done.

People ask me if my life is the same as before PPD. It's not the same, nor will it ever be. I am so much more in tuned with my emotions than ever before. I am also a lot better about prioritizing the things that matter the most in my life. And finally, I'm a much more empathetic person than I used to be.

Material things used to be really important to me. I wanted a perfect house, a nice car, great clothes. Now I'd rather sacrifice the high-paying corporate job that would allow me those luxuries if it means more time with my family and spreading the word about PPD awareness. To me, those are the true luxuries in life.

Stacey Ackerman is the Author of Supermom: A Postpartum Anxiety Survival Story. She can be reached at stacey@supermombook.org.

Anxiety and Asthma

The two A's - anxiety and asthma are kicking my ass this week. The two definitely don't mix. It's really and oil and vinegar kind of combo.

Last winter, unbeknownst to me, I suddenly developed asthma. I found myself in the place that gives me the worst panic attacks ever - the hospital.

As I sat in the emergency room bed, all I could think of was being locked up in the psych ward. I suddenly wanted to flee. I did not want to be admitted to the hospital under any circumstances. My heart was racing, and my already labored breathing got worse. I was trembling and sweating with fear. Even though it was a totally different circumstance from my ppd hell, it felt all too familiar.

Now my asthma attacks have returned, followed by its friend anxiety. I ran a 5k this summer. Now I can't even climb my stairs without feeling like I'm going to keel over. I want to kick this crap - I'm a busy working mom of three and I don't have time to be knocked on my ass.

Then comes my friend anxiety trailing behind. It is wondering why the prednisone, flovent, allergy pills and albuterol nebs every four hours are not helping. It is feeding on my fear - will I be back in the hospital again? Then I wonder if it's just my imagination. Is it post-traumatic stress disorder, or am I physically ill? When I had ppd, I couldn't tell the difference.

I ask my hubby over and over for validation. "Do I seem any better to you?" I ask. "No, you seem about the same," he replies.

Nope, it's real. It's not my messed up head this time, though my head keeps taking me to places that I don't want to go.

Tomorrow I am seeing my asthma specialist. For today, I hope to kick these A's in the ass!