Ativan and Whiskey

I don't normally order beverages on the plane as it's usually a time devoted to my thesis, and you can't fit both a laptop and a drink on the small trays that fold out from the seats. Today I am breathing, because I can feel myself holding my breath intermittently, followed by the need to hyperventilate to replenish the oxygen. So I order a tomato juice and think about how when all this thesis madness is done, I'd like to go back to being the type of person who sips beverages on the plane.

When you take an anxiety class, they teach you how to breathe. As I stood in line on the jet-way, I practiced my breathing. In to the count of 4, hold for 7, out for 8. We were told not to do it more than 4 times as it can make you dizzy. I decide I'm going to do it more than 4 times, just for fun. Just to see what happens. But as I start number 4 I'm already light-headed. So I finish number 4 and turn my attention to the "no food" sign on the jet-way controls. I wondered what malfunction prompted that sign, and I picture a spilled milkshake that causes the jet-way to retract prematurely.

With Santa Anas over the service territory last week, we all worked overtime over the weekend and the first half of the week. After a few 12-14 hour shifts, I had completely pushed my thesis aside, and felt zero guilt. At 2 am on Wednesday, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the wind speed and humidity in our backcountry, felt satisfied that we were okay, and lay my phone back on the nightstand. I closed my eyes to try to get in a little more sleep before my 3 am alarm.

Thesis.

My eyes opened and I stared into the darkness as I realized tomorrow is the day I defend my thesis and I haven't even practiced my presentation. And I'm up. I shower and head off to work. I scan my badge at the entrance to the parking lot, and as the security arm lowers behind me, I glance at my watch. 3:45 am. Geez. It's still the middle of the night.

My nerves escalate throughout the day, and I decide it's okay to take my medication to keep them under control. I know my doctor would agree. I picture not passing my defense, and I'm holding my breath again. During our afternoon Skype meeting, I watch my leg tap rapidly on the screens in front of us and I wonder if anyone else notices. As I excuse myself to catch my flight, the director smiles and gives me a fist bump, my manager gives me the thumbs up, and I wonder how they'll react if I come back with news that I failed my defense.

I take another anti-anxiety pill as I wait at the airport, and anyone watching would think I'm afraid to fly. Somehow, crashing is the least of my worries. I work on my presentation as I wait for my flight.

I have a plan, and put it into action the next day. I take an Ativan two hours before my presentation- to make up for my lack of preparation. I don't remember the logic behind that idea, but it works. It's mostly a blur now, but I managed to make it through a 45 minute presentation with some difficult questions from the audience in the 15 minutes that followed.

Then I retreated to a conference room with my thesis committee to get the real scoop on the status of my thesis. Two committee members would sign me off right then. My advisor would like me to put off graduating for another semester so I can add more content. Again, I forget to breathe. Read Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. In an instant, I am panicked. I see myself trying to maintain the workload I've been carrying for the past year and despite the Ativan, my heart pounds in my chest and my stomach turns in knots and part of me says to relax: "Don't drink the poison". The other part of me says to fight. To squash the idea before it has a chance to bloom. I keep my expression blank as I've been trained to never show weakness. The 4th committee member agrees that it's not a big deal to defer graduation for another semester. My advisor chimes in "Is it the 300 dollars? If so, I'll pay the $300."

I do not tell him how I've forgotten how to breathe. I do not tell him how this has landed me back in the psychiatry department, and how this is the second time in my life I have needed to be medicated in order to make it through the day and the only other time was due to a traumatic experience. I cannot do this for another 6 months.

I calmly tell him it's not the $300. It's having this thing hanging over my head constantly. Knowing that when I leave work, I have to go home and start work again... on my thesis. It's spending all my time off working. It's affecting my health and well being, and I need to graduate.

He tries keywords, but I catch them for what they are: sharp hooks. And I'm not biting. "Thesis-lite" but I know it's bullshit. He can't believe I put in all that work and it only came out to 55 pages- he expected more. But I know better. I know it's sufficient. "And you really don't have very many references", but I am unfazed and stand my ground. My reference section is over two pages long.

He tries telling me how important this work is. How tons of people are going to be downloading my work and he wants it to be as complete as possible. I maintain eye contact and blink, saying nothing. Normally, this would work on me. I'm driven by guilt. But I've got a year's worth of painful anxiety sitting on my chest, and Ativan and Zoloft pumping through my bloodstream. I will not budge. I reiterate that I need to be done. The two committee members I respect the most are behind me. They think I've done a great job and just need to add a couple more things that I can get done before the November 2nd due date. My advisor finally agrees that if I can get those additions in by the due date, he'll approve my thesis.

We go up to the lab for shots of whiskey. Later at dinner he tells me he's being an asshole because of how important this work is. It's just that so many people are looking forward to reading this. The Ativan and whiskey has gifted me with enough apathy to let him drone on without much of an emotional stir from me.

The next day, Mike and I drive to Paso Robles so I can have a much needed break from everything. I leave my laptop at his place, but see I've got 4 emails from my thesis committee. I leave them for the end of the weekend. Bits of anxiety pop up like a whack-a-mole game, and I hit them each time. One week to get my thesis to my advisor's approval (whack), the formatting that I know grad studies will take issue with (whack), what if he doesn't approve it (whack), how can you take time off like this without working on your thesis (whack). I keep pushing them down all weekend.

As I board my flight back to San Diego, it's all back. The churning in my stomach, the gasping for air. I've been swallowing mouthfuls of salt-water to keep my airway clear and here I go again. One more week. Hammer down for one more week. Exactly what I've been saying for a year now. I'm no longer fooled by the light at the end of the tunnel. One day I'll find myself out in the daylight and wonder how I got there. One day I'll breathe without having to check it off my to-do list. One day I won't need reminding. And I'll be the person who drinks tomato juice on the plane and stares out the window at the clouds. Who comes home from work and stops working. Who breathes without needing to be told how.