Web bio-long version

“Strange as it may seem, my life is based on a true story”

~Ashleigh Brilliant

Personally, I think bios like this are pretty silly. It’s like me trying to make you like me.

“Look!” The bio demands, “I’ve done this! And This! And What About This!?…Oh! And I’m sure you’ll like me because of THIS!”

Yet, in the spirit of what my publisher requires, here goes:

I grew up in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, eldest of four. Dad was a professor at a private college named after a dead trapper who “took ill” near a local sandstone hill and was unceremoniously abandoned in 1828 by his trapper buddies. The town was established at the turn of the century, Hiram Scott College, established four score years later. HSC, a private institution and a grand experiment of liberal thought attempting to set its feet on the wild and apparently conservative prairie amid the German farmers and long-term family businesses. Many confused and troubled kids from the Eastern Seaboard journeyed away from their crowded cities to land smack into the Middle of Nowhere of the Nebraskan panhandle where not even a Kmart existed. My father taught Life 101 there disguised as Biology and countless students sat at his feet, smoking and drinking (you could do that in the 60s), soaking in hope for themselves and their future among the lectures on worm digestion and plant sex. Dad was a “Dead Poet’s” type of teacher—brilliant and caustic with a mouth like a sailor and a smile like a used car saleman. I desperately wanted to be like him when I grew up.

Mom was your consummate flexible, long suffering wife. Regularly required to whip up meals for 20 with food barely enough for 6, she patiently stepped over the bedded down bodies of stray college students who couldn’t go home for break. Her husband collected them, you see: he thought no one should be left behind, so he brought them home by the dozens, homesick and hung-over, for spaghetti and bread. Her children were no better: collecting stray cats, dogs, turtles, rocks, kids…anything that needed a home ultimately came home with us. And, God love her, she “un-complainedly” fed, watered, bathed, and loved on every last one. I wish I was more like her.

Blah, blah, blah, graduated with a BS from Oklahoma Christian College, blah, blah, blah where I met and married my husband, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Panic Milestone #1: The first panic attack I remember occurred in March or April 1985 at a local restaurant in Oklahoma City. (This was a decade before the words “anxiety” and “disorder” were used together.) For a split second, the room spun and I gasped for breath…was I going to pass out, or throw up or soil my shorts…or maybe do all three at once? Could it be the flu? I had felt fine the moment before. Everything looked different, too, like I was trying to win a foreign film award by shooting things out of focus or in a surreal way. My heart was racing—or was it? Maybe it was a heart attack. Think: what are the symptoms of a heart attack? Heart feels funny. Check. Chest feels heavy. Check. Feel like I could pass out. Check. Are there other symptoms? I couldn’t remember. Tired. I suddenly felt tired. And my hands are trembly and clammy. My legs were weak. Must. Sit. Down. Why can’t I breathe…What’s wrong with me? Maybe I’m dying. What if I’m dying? Eeew, my neck feels all crawly. I want to cry…no, scream. I want to run away screaming. Someone’s talking to me…What did he say? I’ve Got. To. Act. Normal. Must. Focus. On. Speaking. Man. Lightheaded…I’m feeling so light-headed. Ohhh, my bowels hurt. Ooops! I’ve got to find a bathroom. Please, I don’t want to feel sick here! I can’t do this! I can’t stay here! I’ve got to get out! I just want to be home. What do I do?

From 1987-1989 I worked on a Master’s degree at the University of Akron. Although I didn’t know what they were called at the time I was having 5 to 10 panic attacks a day, some lasting 90 minutes each. I ate little (animal crackers, diet coke, atomic fire balls) and shook uncontrollably every night until I fell asleep. Poor Kevin would lie beside his wife and watch her defib. I never knew how horrible and helpless it was for him until I watched my sweet daughter panic just recently. Oh, God, I hated feeling it but how I REALLY hated watching her go through it! Even though I could dissect the blasted thing to its micron level for her, I couldn’t stop it run its freaking course, ravaging my daughter’s psyche. She’s had a half dozen attacks. I struggled constantly for over 20 years. It’s a wonder Kevin didn’t give up on me decades ago.

From 1990 to ’94 we lived in Joplin, Missouri. Eating at restaurants had become almost impossible if there was any waiting to be done…sometimes even McDonald’s was too slow. Grocery shopping was torture, and several times a cart full of groceries was left as I fled. During this time, Kevin was gone about six months out of the year traveling overseas…and I realized that I felt stronger and braver when he was gone. Something clicked. Hmmmm…maybe this struggle has something to do with our relationship…A description of Agoraphobia was also found, which helped me know I wasn’t going crazy alone—at least there were a few other wackos like me out there…and we had a name! And it sounded exotic! Or at least foreign!

Our daughter was born in 1994 in Houston, Texas. From the beginning Meghan was The Nurturer…patting my breast as she nursed, rubbing my cheeks when we snuggled. I desperately, desperately wanted her to not to end up like me thus I swore (yet again, but this time I! Mean! It!) to change…or die (I did mean this). Every known book on Panic was borrowed or purchased and I devoured them all.

Lots happened after that…a total meltdown…some health challenges due to burned out adrenals…I even left the airport instead of waiting for a “stand-by” flight, after getting on and off a plane…gave up being healed and decided to “make the best of my illness” by finding something “nice” about each day. Talked to doctor after doctor after doctor. Tried their meds…nothing worked. Talked to counselor after counselor after counselor. Prayed and prayed and prayed. Had people pray…went forward at church…called prayer-warriors in…There’d be some relief but the terror returned. Discovered that a sip of red wine was one of the few things that helped. My doctor concurred and we made a plan to monitor intake. I’m able to leave my house without tears for the first time in nearly 10 years.

Attended Faces of Christ retreat in Louisville, Kentucky in 2004 after moving there. Realized that it was the lies I believe about myself and God that keeps me stuck. I begin to work on identifying and countering them.

Began seeing Super Prayer Warrior Lisa-Marie. She can pray just about like I’ve never seen. The amount of release that came from sessions with her were really stunning. Forgiveness is her zone and even though I thought I had forgiven God, myself, and others…I hadn’t.

Still fighting…I’m having a small panic attack as I write this. But I’m able to lean less and less on medication and more and more on God. And I’m really hoping (and trusting) that all of the hell that I’ve experienced will be used by my Father to help free up someone else. Then, maybe all of this isn’t pathetically in vain.

Still crazy at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com