Just a thought (Series)

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about a few things. Happiness. Success. Beauty. Love. Priorities. Those five aspects of life, as I have so viewed them, serve a great purpose in my daily existence, more so recently than ever. Over the next few days, I’ll blog about each just to get some thoughts off my chest and into something a bit more tangible.

First: Beauty.

I was an ugly duckling growing up; I had the most absurd out-of-place teeth, the oddest abundance of freckles, and ginger features. Any crush I had on a boy might as well have been forgotten because, let’s be honest. Pre-pubescent boys are not smooth with declining your interest (arguably, neither are post-pubescent “men…”but that’s for another discussion). 15 months of orthodontia later, I had this new mouth, this new smile, that made me more physically appealing. Sure, I was still socially awkward and honestly, wearing too much makeup, but I was a new me. Over the course of high school, I became more lazy, and wore less makeup, until college rolled around and the only time I ever wore it was on special “pretty” days, choir concerts, or recently, to my wedding. All over Pinterest  and YouTube, there are young women coloring their faces with foundation and concealer and lipstick and goodness knows what else, and I just can’t do it anymore. I feel like I’ve reached a point where it’s no longer considered laziness for me, but more a level of comfort in the things that are genuinely me. Each freckle can be viewed as a wonderful sign of every time I’ve ever been kissed by the sun. Each scar, a sign of illness battled, or a time I’ve conquered a new challenge. The bags under my eyes demonstrate another restless night due to a lost struggle with anxiety or schoolwork. I don’t want to be thinner or bigger; I want to feel healthy and not winded when I climb a mountain of stairs. Beauty, in my 20 years of living, has evolved into an experience rather than a trait. I feel beautiful because I’ve overcome obstacles, kept healthy, and pamper when necessary (though, truthfully, that still needs work). I’m way below average height. I look like I’m twelve, and waiters at certain establishments love to remind me of this truth. But every single one of these distinctions comprise this human being. Make-up or none, rail-thin or heavier set, freckles or clear complexion, this is me and this is who I am. Beauty isn’t always defined by another person’s analytic eye. Beauty, to me, is defined by one’s ability to find comfort in the way life has shaped him or her. No matter how many disagree, we’re all unique in ways we could have never determined.  

So, I will continue to be vertically challenged, adorably young-looking, and hopelessly flawed. I will work out if only to make myself feel less lazy. Most importantly, I will love myself because I have the freedom to, even if I am all of those things of which society does not approve. I’m not settling. I’m only acknowledging. 

Breathing with the monster.

As far back as I can recall, comfortable was never an accurate word to come remotely close to how I have ever felt. From my first memories until my most current ones, even as I type this, I always feel ever so slightly on edge. In classes I would be learning the oceans or Ohio history, and, out of nowhere, the nagging became a scream; the control I had over my comfort levels vanished. So, I developed nervous ticks: leg jumping – just one at a varied speed, nail biting, face picking, pinching myself to refocus my mind on anything but my beating heart and the signs of my own mortality. It wasn’t daily, but it was weekly. Never brought on by anything I could ever notice, but it was there, and it never left. I often would let it go, chalk it up to be just a bad night, until last summer when those typical few minutes turned into over two hours. After numerous Google searches whilst holding a cold, damp washcloth to my face, I discovered that these instances were most likely signs of a panic attack. After that evening, the anxiety and the inability to locate comfort became an every waking second phenomena. I vehemently refused seeking medical help, but I was quickly running out of options; I was becoming surprisingly more agoraphobic as each minute passed, which negatively affected my work performance, my relationship with my boyfriend (who was getting ready to leave for months), my relationship with my family and friends…I was becoming a mess. I spent nights crying over my own torture and days curled up in a protective ball in my bed. No matter what I did or where I went or what I thought, the person I was continued to disappear.

The thing about anxiety is that if it gets out of control, life as one knows it will change. It starts tiny, and insignificant, maybe during a test or when a deadline is approaching. It grows depending on the nature in which one was raised, or the sensitivity of the hippocampus or amygdala. Some scientists will argue that it’s evolutionary. There are many who compare a panic attack to a fight-or-flight response on steroids. What happens to those who have panic attacks or anxiety differ; my symptoms vary from nausea, clamminess, shivers, dizziness, and an accelerated heartbeat. I’ve spoken with many others who will tell me that they feel like they’re dying.

Living with anxiety and panic is real. A lot of people, myself once included, would say that you need to toughen up, to just stop thinking about it, get a grip, and quit letting it run your life. Much, much easier said than done. I’ve since began going to therapy, weekly, but now I’m to the point where I can handle from going once every two weeks. I still worry like it’s my only job. My panic attacks are still relevant, but no longer are they persistent and gnawing. I’ve been making many changes to my daily habits, and I am still working even now. It’s been about nine months, and I would say I’m better than I once was, but I’m learning to let go out of necessity. I have a perfection-istic type of personality, and I love to be in control of every individual aspect of everything in my life. Learning to let go and trust others is a job. However, the help I’ve received from my therapist, my supportive husband, and loving family & friends has allowed me to make my baby steps.

I went for a run yesterday for the first time in almost a year. Prior to this past summer, I would try to fit in some exercise during each week. Since the summer, my body has began to associate any abundant increase in heart beat to a panic attack, which makes working out a real struggle, which is kind of ironic because studies show that exercise helps lower anxiety and depression. Anyway. This run resulted in a panic attack. I ran exactly one mile and as soon as I broke into a walk, I was crippled by my intense need to get home as quick as possible, but I couldn’t drive in that state. I’m not healed. I’m not miraculously cured. But I’m taking steps to getting my life back.

I’ve learned to just let them happen. They are never, and will never be, ideal by timing, but it’s okay. Well, not okay exactly, but it’s manageable to the point where I let it happen, and I lie to myself to convince myself it’s alright, because it will be. My anxiety is not what defines me as a person, at least, not anymore. I’m a big girl, I’m married, I have a job, I go to school full time, and I have anxiety. I am none the weaker because of my monster.

Just one more quirk to add to the pile.

Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It creates the failures. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds onto you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.

-Anais Nin

Some days you j…

Some days you just have to create your own sunshine.

-Sam Sundquist