Hi, The Band!

*waves wildly*

It is I, Your Fearless Leader, Aunt Becky, back for another edition of Sound-Check Wednesday. One of these weeks? I'm actually going to learn to spell Wednesday. That, however, is not this week.

(says a silent thank you to the Spell-check Gods)

Here's what's going on around Band Back Together this week!

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We've had a chatty-poo and decided that publishing four posts a day was too much - we're dropping it down to three. If you have any thoughts on that, just holler in the comments!

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We're looking for someone who can donate a site design - we're planning to open a teen side of The Band, and we need a design. If you know anyone who can donate some time for this in exchange for some publicity, we'd be thrilled to have you!

Email becky.harks@gmail.com

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Tonight, we've got our weekly Twitter Party. If'n you'd like to join, we talk from 7-8CST every week. We do a new topic each week.

This week?

We're talking about something so many of us can relate to - anxiety and anxiety disorders. Here are some of our anxiety disorder resources (full list of resources here)

How To Cope With Anxiety Resources

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Agoraphobia

Anxiety Disorders

Compulsive Hoarding

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder

Panic Disorder

Phobias

Social Anxiety

Survivor's Guilt

You're all invited!

Search #withtheband and be sure to tag your tweets with that hashtag, so we can all keep up with you. We also award prizes, which is rad. One of these weeks, IMMA WIN SOME!

(that is a lie)(I never win anything)(except at life)

The Band Is Sociable!

Follow @bandback2gether

Follow @brainsofBB2G

Follow us on Google Plus

Follow us on Tumblr

Follow us on The Facebook

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This Sunday, May 20, we're hosting an Invisible Illness Carnival. Invisible Illnesses are things you can't see with your naked eye - mental illness, pain disorders, migraines, anything you can't see.

Invisible Illness Resource Page here. We'd love your submissions for Invisible Illnesses! Just add "Invisible Illness" to your post title so we're sure to get it up.

Some of the Invisible Illness posts will go up through the rest of the week, and some will be scheduled for Sunday - really, I can't wait to read them all!

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Also, KEEP WRITING! If you haven't written before, NOW is the time! Here are some writing prompts, The Band:

Our World Tour Theme for May is "I Am The Face Of..."

• What are you the "Face Of?"
• Why are you the "Face Of?"
• How do you cope with being the "Face Of?"
• Are there stigmas associated with being the "Face Of?"

Our Spotlight Series this month is "Invisible Illnesses:

Here is the resource page on Invisible Illnesses

• Do you have an invisible illness?
• How do you cope with having an invisible illness?
• What would you like to tell someone about your invisible illness?

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Our resource page team has been kicking ass and taking names (master list of resource pages found here). Here are some of the pages we've published this week:

Marriage Problems

Long Distance Relationships

Service Animals

Prescription Drug Abuse

Any time you think of another resource page we should have, shoot an email to bandbacktogether@gmail.com or leave us a comment!

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If you're at all interested in working behind the scenes with us, go ahead and shoot chibi@bandbacktogether an email - we can always use new people!

Hey, The Band.

I'm sitting here, trying to write this, shaking my head a little.

The last post I'd written for you, The Band, was called My Husband's Heart. I wrote the post in February for The Band's Spotlight On: Hearts month.

I told you about my husband Mark's heart attacks and his bypass surgery. I even mentioned that heart attacks often don't look the way you think they will.

It was a freaking Public Service Announcement for taking care of your heart!

Little did I know that less than two weeks later, my husband would end up in Cardiac Critical Care (CCU) after his heart stopped from an arrhythmia.

At the time, we were told he had Atrial Fibrillation, we've gotten a second opinion. The doctor who gave us a second opinion informed us that his cardiac arrhythmia is Ventricular Tachycardia.

The latter is worse. We've been told that Mark needs a defibrillator implanted.

We've been on pins and needles for nearly two months now. During that time, Mark has to be resuscitated and have a breathing tube inserted twice. It looked as though his heart wasn't responding to treatment so we were about to lose him. The doctors woke him up and took the breathing tube out the second time, so we could discuss his end of life wishes.

My nightmare was coming true.

Then, he rallied to come home, although we now know that he shouldn't have been discharged from the hospital before getting a defibrillator implanted.

Once we got home, we talked and cried and hugged, and worried.

How much time do we have? Will he end up back in the hospital? More than once? Will he drop dead at home in front of our kids?

The cardiologist informed us during Mark's two-week follow-up appointment that it looked like Mark was doing okay; so we didn't need to wait for the other shoe to drop.

We were relieved. For about five minutes.

Something continued nagging at the both of us - we continued to worry. Two weeks later, we saw another doctor who confirmed our suspicions - something more was going on. He said Mark is not necessarily fine and we do have something to worry about.

We're back to waiting on pins and needles - waiting for the "minor" surgery installing a defibrillator that should correct his arrhythmias.

Here's the thing: I've been trying to prepare myself mentally for my husband's death for years.

In March, when he was in the hospital was told that this might be the end, I was surprised, but not shocked. I talked with loved ones. I cried - I cried hard. I worried about my kids, wracking my brain for the right words to say to them.

I told myself, if this is it, I can handle it. We will be okay. I will hold onto my kids and they will hold onto me, others will hold us too. We will get through this.

When we brought Mark home, I was amazed and grateful. We decided to grab a hold of the time we still have together and appreciate it; not take one single moment for granted. Mark decided he wants to start making videos for the kids. We've had several deep and heavy conversations. We've cried together.

It's logical to think that I'm going to outlive my husband.

He has so much he's battling. He is a strong fighter, but one day it will be too much. And I think, when that day comes, I will be prepared and I will deal with it.

But then, I'll watch someone who is very ill die on a medical drama, and it punches me in the gut. Sitting on my living room floor, I'm struck realizing that I'm not prepared for my husband's death.

I don't really have any idea what losing him will be like. I can think, ponder, talk and rationalize while he's still alive. But once he's gone? That will be another ballgame.

I should've already known this. I watched as a friend of mine passed away from metastatic breast cancer. We all knew she was dying. But until she actually died, it didn't feel real. It was still a shock to get the phone call.

You can't head grief off - that terrifies me.

For now, Mark is still here and he's holding his own. God, I love that man. I'm trying to live in the now, not the past or the future. Just now. We can't know what's coming, just live in the now.

I am trying.

Sometimes, we at the Band know that part of owning who you are is admitting it  to the world. It's one reason why we at The Band work tirelessly to  break down stigmas and find the ties that connect us all, the ties that remind us that we are none of us alone.

Please join us in standing tall and proud as we tell the world who we are.

What are you, The Band, The Face Of?

If you've ever had a panic attack, you already know how terrifying they are. It's unfortunate that people who've never had a panic attack are so quick to tell a person in the throes of a panic attack who is sobbing in a ball behind the dryer that they're being "dramatic" or "overreacting."

This is what happens during one of my panic attacks:

It's nearly impossible to breathe.

My heart rate and blood pressure skyrocket.

Sometimes, I lose sensation in my hands and feet.

All I can see are sparkles or explosions. When I try to look around, everything is doubled.

I try to protect myself by making myself small, crawling somewhere close - like a closet, under a bed, or behind the dryer - or covering myself.

I shake and sob so hard someone once thought I was having a seizure.

Sometimes I'm able to be comforted. Sometimes not.

Mister E can "fix" me by snapping his fingers or clapping his hands in front of my face. Other people distract me with stories. A girl I hardly knew drove me to the hospital while I was screaming and sobbing - she kept me from shutting down by making me tell her the story of how I found every one of my cats.

Usually I come out of the panic attack by the time someone manages to get me to take my medication.

When you have panic disorder, however, a panic attack is the tip of the iceberg. There are the anticipatory attacks, which occur when the fear an impending panic attack can't be stopped which can sends you into a full-blown panic attack.

Then there are what I call the "after-attacks," which happen at home afterward when you begin thinking about the panic attack, that you're missing work, fearing you're being talked about, and the terror that you're going to be become addicted to the sedatives. Any one of those things is enough to throw me into another panic attack.

Panic disorder often occurs in people who also have bipolar disorder - if you manage one, you can usually manage both. I take my medication every day; I meditate and exercise to release tension before it can build into a panic attack, and I try to avoid triggering situations.

In spite of all the precautions I take, there's a switch in my brain that's randomly flipped which sends me into a panic attack. Those panic attacks often last two days - sometimes they require paramedics and hospital admissions.

My panic disorder can't be fully controlled because I cannot be sedated every minute for the rest of my life. This is why a lot of people with panic disorder self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. My family has a predisposition to alcoholism, so I take it seriously.

Panic disorder isn't all bad. Once, I used my panic disorder to keep myself from having a panic attack.

I was undergoing an MRI and happened to remember someone likening the MRI tube to a coffin. I opened my eyes, saw the ceiling five inches from my forehead and started to panic.

When I'm having a panic attack, I like enclosed spaces. I closed my eyes and could feel the walls pressing in on me, which helped me wind down. The closed tube made me panic, but it also prevented me from panicking.

There's no such thing as "textbook" mental illnesses.

Most of my family doesn't understand, nor do they care. I've been told "to suck it up, get over myself and act like an adult." I've been told, "I don't have a mental illness - if I pray, I'll be fine."

To my family, I'm an embarrassment.

Thankfully, my husband, Mister E, understands panic disorder. He steers me away from triggers, reminds me to take my medication, and keeps things as normal as possible after an attack (without pretending it didn't happen).

Most of the time, I try to forget I have panic disorder. There's always the risk I'll run into a trigger and embarrass myself in public. This fear makes me want to avoid unfamiliar situations or places. I don't let it rule my life but the unpredictable nature of panic disorder makes it harder sometimes.

I take things one step at a time and deal with obstacles as they arise.

My name is Geekerella, and I am the face of Panic Disorder.

Every day in the US, 5 children die due to child abuse.

This is her story.

It's become cliche to claim that high school, the institution-slash-time period, sucked. When I refer to high school, I'm usually referring to those years, rather than the institution. Sometimes, though, cliches are based in truth; although, not always for the same reasons.

I was only challenged academically - socially, I was safe: I was both freak and geek but gregarious enough to hold my own. I was mysteriously popular.

My home life, however, thanks to my mother and my former stepfather was hell. Especially during the winter months that I spent without my dad.

When I was twelve, I began spending summers at the beach with my dad. First I'd go off to day camp. At fourteen, I got a work permit and my first tax-paying job. I worked at a bagel shop/deli run by a tyrannical monster of a woman. The job was so heinous that it's not even worth describing.

That summer started off hopeful, a new bike, actual responsibilities and solid solo time with my dad.

I had my first grown-up date that summer. I took the bus 47 blocks south on the 4th of July to watch the Ocean City  fireworks on the beach with Don Something-or-Other. We kissed, sloppily, over fresh-squeezed lemonade and funnel cakes. I was home by 11 o'clock.

The first six weeks of the summer of 1986 were average - superficial summer romances, bike crashes, sunburns and a new-found love for "progressive" music.

I wore my dad's old Levis, hung out at the skate park on my days off, listened to the Violent Femmes and The Cure on my Walkman. I bought my first pair of Chuck Taylor hightops and my first bottle of Dep hair gel - the hair gel, oddly, earmarked The Change; when my trust of others began to erode and my rage was born.

My mother, my sister, stepfather and his girls planned a family vacation to Ocean City during the first week of August. My mother requested, reasonably, that I pack a bag and stay with them during their ten-day holiday. I'd continue to rise each morning at four AM to bike to work per my usual schedule - only the geography of my pillow would be different. Plus, I got to spend "good, quality time" with my mom and stepfather...yippee.

My family pulled up to our trailer mid-Saturday. Everyone piled out and piled in for a cold drink and a toilet break. My father was at work so I'd phoned him to tell him that they'd arrived and I'd be leaving. He told me to "have fun and call if I needed." He told me he loved me.

My mother, who hadn't seen me in two months, asked, "what the hell did you do to your hair? Why are you wearing jeans and those weird Chinese shoes in the middle of summer?" I was unprepared for my mother's reaction to something so petty. I reacted defensively which set in motion a swift chain of passive-aggressive remarks that became the first violent episode of child abuse.

As a group of eight, we first went to a local seafood restaurant before caravanning over to a mini-golf course in town. All the while, my mother was unable to stifle her snide comments about my appearance. I limited my responses to eye-rolling and the occasional, "Mooooommmm, stop it!"  

Once we were back in our rented condo, my mother grabbed a hairbrush and started violently combing the gel out of my hair. I grabbed her wrist and threw the brush to the floor. She grabbed my wrist and emitted a low growling noise which signaled to everyone, save for step-dad and my helpless Same Age stepsister (trapped on the bottom bunk), to run for their rooms and lock the door.

Same Age, the Older-Step and my precious baby sister watched as my mother and stepfather took turns calling me a whore, a slut, a worthless piece of shit; these slurs delivered between various open-and-closed fist hits and punches to every organ and soft spot.

Normally, my stepfather would sit out the beatings, periodically muttering, "Mother, that's enough - you don't really want to hurt her," as he filed his nails and smoke, not intervening but playing a part. This was the first time he was involved in the assault and it was the first time (sadly, not the last) I'd be punched with a closed fist by a man twice my size. I tried to fight back but my counter-attempts were met with surprise, how-dare-yous and more violence.

My stepfather punched me just below my sternum, knocking the wind out of me, while my mother took a back hand to the side of my head, drawing blood and instigating what would become a nasty bruise and permanent hearing loss.

The attacks went on for what seemed like hours; my baby sister wept as Older One tried, in her robotic fashion, to soothe her. Same Age was still helplessly trapped in the corner of that bottom bunk, sobbing, begging them to stop.

The brother and his wife locked themselves in their bedroom.

Magically, mercifully, my mother "came to" and abruptly stopped - briefly silent. I was bleeding from my ear, leaking snot from my nose and hyperventilating in a hiccupy-sobby way.

Even though the air conditioning was on, I was sweating. It was then that I first experienced the standing-in-snow coldness I still get from time to time. I began to shake violently. My mother rushed to my side, all maternal compassion and affection as my stepfather descended the spiral stairs and lit a cigarette, muttering that my mother should just, "send the ungrateful little bitch back to her father."

My mother ignored him, attempting to comfort me with affection and apology but it had gone too far. I pushed her away and ran for my duffel bag, stuffed it with my clothing, and announced that I was leaving. I had bus fare. I was going home.

I wasn't allowed to leave.

She quickly morphed into a confusing combination of child abuser and nurse, insisting that as I'd committed to spending the week with "my family," I'd be fulfilling that commitment. Furthermore, when we visited my grandmother the next day, I was to blame the bruising and soreness on a bike accident - feasible since it was my primary mode of transportation. I was instructed to tell a similar story to my dad.

I did.

I lied to both of them; two people whom I love so solidly that I'm still not sure why I didn't confide in them. I'd like to imagine that things would've been different if I hadn't been propelled into a constant state of fear. The beatings at home, the academic punishments, they seemed justified. I thought that's what happened to kids that did poorly in school.

This time was different, filled with evil and poison.

I then knew that I was, in no way, leading a normal life.

I've known you a long time. I've loved you just as long. They say there's something special about your First Love - maybe that's true. Because I really shouldn't love you any longer.  

We have three kids together; three beautiful, amazing, wonderful children who make me whole. They remind me of my love for you - I can't hate you when I love them so much. 

We've been best friends for as long as I can remember. You know everything about me. - I can't (and wouldn't) hide anything from you. You know my strengths and my weaknesses. You know how to pick me up when I fall...

...you also know how to knock me down.  

I've stood by your side, been your ally through a lot - more than most people have. I was there when you got divorced for the first and third time (the second divorce was from me). 

I stood by your side while you were deployed to Iraq. When you returned, I tried to get you help for post-traumatic stress disorder. I didn't push - I simply let you know I was there for you.

I stood next to you when you got in trouble for sexting someone you shouldn't have. I listened. I didn't judge. I let you know I'd always be there. 

But, I can't count on you - for anything. At sixteen, after our friend died, I was devastated. I turned to you for support. You just sat there - didn't do anything to help me.  

When, at fourteen, I was molested by an uncle, and rather than stand beside me, you allowed your family to make inappropriate comments to me. When we found out we were pregnant with our daughter you, again, allowed your family berate me. Not once did you stand up for me. Not ONCE.

You still don't.

I know we aren't together - that's fine. But I'll always have your back. Always.

I don't understand why you don't try to see my side of things. Why you never offer me sympathy or support. I wish I understood.

I simply cannot hate you, I cannot wish you harm. I cannot stay mad at you. You keep hurting me. Over and over. And I keep standing back up and allowing you do it all over again.