A Personal Tale of Anxiety

Hi, my name is Anna, and I like to make people laugh. I'm upbeat and lighthearted and bringing joy to others through humor is very satisfying to me. Call me for a good time (not in the writing on the bathroom wall kind of way, in the belly laugh and jokes kind of way)!

This is a truthful introduction.

Hi, my name is Anna, and I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks, to the point that it sometimes feels debilitating.

This is also a truthful introduction, and it goes on.

There's a healthy level of anxiety, it makes us get things done and think about consequences to our actions. I typically sit one or two notches above that healthy level. Not to where it interferes with my life, but is mildly uncomfortable.

There are times, though, that the anxiety ratchets way up. Sometimes this is a panic attack which is an explosion of agony, a catastrophic amount of internal pain that feels like it is actually  killing you. Sometimes it is the anxiety sitting right around an 8. The problem with this type of anxiety/panic hybrid for me is that I feel like it's the worst of both worlds. Panic attacks, for me, burn bright and hot but flash out fairly quickly. This perpetual level 8 is a long, hard boil that feels like it will have no end.

You are a prisoner in your own mind and body. Your skin is sweaty and chilled at the same time; pieces of it feeling like they are crawling in different directions. You want to pace, you want to curl up in a ball, you want to do anything to stop the building pain. Of course, your chest is tight and your heart beat is doing something weird (mine actually slows down if it's not a full blown panic attack). You can't totally swallow, there's no room for food. Sleep alludes you and you slowly lose your grip on logic. Every thing in your life looks different - why hasn't this person called? what are those people talking about? why do I feel this way, am I sick? The paranoia mounts to a point where your whole world is washed out in places but piercingly bright in others. Everything feels 32 degrees off, and you are fighting as hard as you can to hang on to the ground. You want to cry but there are no tears; everything feels explosive, yet stuck at the same time. It's like you are the big bang, but got frozen three seconds in.

And you have no idea when it will end. It's the moment before the panic attack, but you never get to the full boil, which is great because you don't end up stuck in a laundry basket, but agony because there is no release.

You try everything. Deep breathing, holding ice cubes, stretching, going for a walk, reading something funny, reading the Bible. You ask for help, you tell others. Nothing helps.

Sometimes you are a therapist and in your own therapy and logically you should be able to beat this. You have the tools, you know the techniques, and you have the insight in to your childhood about why you struggle with anxiety. None of it matters. The anxiety grips every one of your cells, you are a prisoner. You are trapped in the catastrophizing of your mind, chewing up and spitting out everything that is good, and in your body because it hurts so bad physically.

Why am I writing this? To be cathartic. To remind myself that it ends. I will get back to my happy 3 or 4. To help those who don't struggle with this to begin to understand. Largely because people don't talk about it. To let others know they aren't alone. It's national suicide prevention month. Many people don't "get" suicide. I don't totally "get" it on a personal level. However, I do  know how it feels to feel like you are no longer a passenger on your own ship, let alone the captain. I know how it feels to stay silent, because your problems feel too big and too unrelatable. I know desperation, the voice screaming in your head, "fix this! Fix this however you can!" I know silence is never the answer.

So, my words to you are, you're not alone. If you struggle with anxiety or depression or OCD or a personality disorder or any number of mental illness. You are not alone. And you are not broken. I have all the tools and training and support I "should" need to not struggle with anxiety. It doesn't matter, mental illness is not always in our control. I know you don't want sympathy or advice, but I do know that I understand on some level. You are not alone. You are worth fighting for. Your flavor of crazy is not too much for me.  

Hi, my name is Anna, and I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks, to the point that it sometimes feels debilitating. But that's not the entirety or the end of my story, and it doesn't have to be yours either.

The Woes of Resting Nice Face

There has been a lot of media attention raising awareness of a condition called RBF (that means Resting Bitch Face, mom and dad [sorry for swearing mom and dad {my parents are half my readership, I own it}]) recently. This just basically means that your face looks angry all the time, regardless of feelings. The struggle is real, or so I hear. I have no idea because I suffer from a very different affliction - RNF, Resting Nice Face. I have a round face, pronounced apple cheeks, endearing dimples, and huge anime eyes:

What can I say, I'm adorable, mostly because I have a raging case of RNF. Let me illustrate. When people look at me they see:

via (and, yes, I know, it's a stuffed animal)

When really I feel like so:

via

There are many disconcerting impacts of RNF. Like, people don't take you seriously: "Oh sweetie, that's cute but let's let the big kids brainstorm." You get called sweetie a lot. People think you are naive, "ear muffs? I'm 28 years-old and you want me to cover my ears? I'll tell you where to put your ear muffs." Sometimes you even get pulled in, "wait a minute. Why am I covering my ears?"

However, it is the, as I call it, Trifecta of Awful, that is the worst part of RNF.

Part 1 - The Assumption: Everyone thinks you're nice. For my RBF brethren/sisteren, the opposite is true. They often have the conversation of:

Other Person: "OMG I thought you hated me, you seemed so mean!"

RBF Person: "No, that's just my face. I'm actually 97% pixie dust."

I, on the other hand, always hear:

Other Person: "OMG I think you are so nice, you seem so wonderful!"

Here's the catch. You can't say, "No, that's just my face. I'm actually 97% angst, judgement, and disdain." So, you just nod and smile (because you are always smiling) and die a little inside.

Part 2 - The Talking: Since everyone thinks you're nice, they think you want to talk about all the things, hear all the secrets, and braid each others' hair all the time. The things I've heard.

What I say: "oh yeah, great, awesome, wonderful, fantastic." What I'm thinking: "who are you? No, seriously, who are you? Is this real life? You do know we've never met, right?"

Part 3 - The Touching: Since they believe you are nice and they've already told you their life story, you are obviously BFFFFFFFFFFFFs, so of course you need to hug it out.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

How I feel (and I swear the face I make):

via

What people obviously see:

via

There is little I hate more than being touched. If you ever need to torture me for information, just bear hug me and I'll sing like a canary in about 10 seconds. There is also nothing RNF communicates more than, "Hi! I love you! You should come hug me, pat me, squeeze my arm, or rub my head so that I know how much you love me too!" 

That is never what I mean. Ever. 

What is your resting face? Is it accurate? Does it get you in trouble?

International Travel Explained by Mean Girls

I just got back from a life-changing, wonderful trip to Ireland and Scotland, so I'm tired and pinning. Tired because the return travel part of international travel is pretty much the worst. Fun fact, we went through security eight times on this trip. And by fun, I mean I can probably sue someone now for x-ray poisoning. Pinning because I love being in foreign countries, and coming back to reality is a rude awakening. I want to be frolicking in the Scottish Highlands, drinking drams of whisky in pubs, and petting dodgy livestock on the side of the road, NOT reading books about assessments and studying for comps. All though, let's be honest, I've read one chapter today and spent three hours looking for jobs in Scotland and reading about visas to live in the UK. Which is, discouraging, to say the least. Let me love you United Kingdom!

I have spent my whole life traveling, and I love it. However, no matter how many trips you've been on, there's always things to learn. This go round I have decided to sum up my life lessons in Mean Girls' quotes, because I'm jet legged and procrastinating.

1. "Don't let the haters stop you from doing your thang." 

via

Fundamental to any trip is that you do what you want, the end. We traveled with another couple, Princess Consuela and her husband, Not Crap Bag (on the chance you don't watch Friends, I decided against calling him Crap Bag since people would misconstrue that). PC just wanted to see native wild animals. Now, the puffins did allude us, aholes, but we had a chance to pet Highland cows. And she did it with gusto. It was one of the highlights of her trip, and if she had been trying to be cool or something ridiculous like that, she would have missed out. Instead, it was adorable.

PC and Hilda (yes, I know, using a pseudonym is dumb when you put the person's picture on your blog, but they're so fun. Stop hating, I'm going to do my thang)

PC and Augustus. Perfection.

Travelling is not the time to be too cool for school, you'll regret it. 

2. "Is butter a carb?" 

via

Any foreign country you go to, no matter how much in common it has with your home country, is going to have food that you do not have in any shape at home. For example, Scotland makes sausage out of oats and cow blood. Fun fact, this blood is taken from a cow while it's still alive, they're tapped like kegs. And who hasn't heard of haggis? Lamb intestines, chopped up and stuffed in to the stomach. I'll admit, it sounds horrifying, but we tried it. And I thought it wasn't bad!

Granted, my face here is not a resounding endorsement, but that's just my face. 

Also just my face. 

You don't go to a foreign country to continue your normal life. It is for adventure and disruption of the tedious norm, eating cray cray food is  part of that. 

3. "She doesn't even go here."

via

You're a tourist. You will not fool anyone to the contrary, so stop trying. Embrace it.

If you want to pretend to be Nessie at Loch Ness, awesome. 

Fake duels at Tom Riddle's grave, fantastic.

Have fun, sometimes at the cost of your dignity. I dare you. 

4. "I can't help it that I'm so popular."

via

This goes along with the last point, and possibly contrary to the first one. I don't really care, it's my list. Often times you will read blogs or reviews that poo poo famous sites; "it's so over done," "you are so typical if you do this," "you only experience the country if you hike to the top of this mountain and brew your own coffee." Getting off the beaten path, that's great and leads to fun experiences. That said, famous places are famous for a reason. They are often the things that leave the deepest impression. Go to them if you want, don't avoid them just because everyone does it.

Cliffs of Moher, millions of visitors a year. Best part of our trip to Ireland.

Titanic Belfast. Fairly cheesy, but I can say I stood where the Titanic was built, which is mind boggling. 

Get off the beaten path, but don't be afraid to go to landmarks. They didn't become landmarks by being boring.

5. "You can't sit with us!" 

via

On our final flight yesterday, 3 of 3, we were sitting in the first row of economy with a birds eye view of first class. Also, right by the economy bathrooms. Three times people from first class came back to economy to use our bathroom. 

"You have everything, free booze, comfy seats, weirdly obliging flight attendants, and your own dang bathrooms. There's 20 of you, and hundreds of us. Leave our bathroom alone. You con't come back here. YOU CAN'T SIT WITH US!"

This was my thought process every time. I was tired and possibly delusional, because the return trip is always hard and tiring. You've used all your energy adventuring and are not looking forward to returning to reality. The return trip stinks. Always. Accept it, this to shall pass. 

If you're lucky, you'll have a friend who documents everything. 

The Grittiness of Marriage

(disclaimer: this is not a serious post. Well. Depending on your feelings about bananas, it's very serious. I will be writing seriously about marriage at some point, so don't be deterred if you feel catfished by my title, come back next time!)

Texting conversation between my husband and me while I was at internship last week:

Me: "I need you to find my banana suit."

John: "Time frame?"

Me: "Twenty-five minutes."

John: "That's a fast time frame."

Me: "Yeah."

John: "Are we going out tonight?" (it was a Wednesday at 9pm)

Me: "Yes. To a banana themed club."

John: "What am I going to wear?"

Me: "Banana Hammock."

John: " :( I don't have one."

Me: "Well, you have to stay home then."

John: "We could stop at the store."

Me: "Hah. But seriously. I need my banana suit."

What can I say, we just work.

Now, some of you may be asking, "Anna, why did you need banana suit on a random Wednesday night?" And, let's be honest, many of you aren't asking that because it's me and you're just saying, "sure."

I had gotten a text saying someone was very blue and needed cheering up. This was my solution (I share this knowing full well how horrifying I look, yet, you can't help but laugh):

Public Indecency

I study at a Starbucks that has an abnormal amount of odd shenanigans go down on a regular bases. I was there this past Sunday, staring blankly at my computer, trying to start a paper, when the oddest of them all happened.

I looked up when the door opened and came eye to eye with the scariest woman I've ever seen in my life. This is saying a lot as I regularly attend Comic Con. There was something about the combination of her intense hawk like features, day-glo make-up, and witch like (complete with corset and multi layer black skirt) attire that made me look away rapidly. However, I couldn't keep my eyes away, it was like a train wreck. Or a voodoo curse. I covertly watched this fascinating woman and her husband interact, which involved a lot of yelling on her part and a lot of ignoring and phone playing on his.

Suddenly, the door flew open and I was corrected because now the scariest woman in the world had just walked in. Like Yzma scary.

via

ACK. I mean. It's like I got a picture (which I tried to do for reals, but then decided it wasn't worth risking my life). 

Judging from the similar, shaking-in-my-boots inducing facial features and almost identical cobwebby attire the mother of the first woman had just joined us. 

She. Was. Terrifying. 

If I though there was yelling before, I was incorrect. The daughter is obviously early on in her shrill, bossy training.

At this point, the two women were conversing (or declaring war it was hard to tell) and the son-in-law/husband came back over with Frappuccinos for everyone. Smart man. Sugar, chocolate, that's always a solid approach to peace keeping. Or so we both woefully, wrongfully thought.

Via

Not-Yzma: "What's this, Kronk?" (Fine, she didn't say Kronk, but I practically felt it)

Son-in-law: "A Frappuccino. I thought you'd like it, it's good."

Not-Yzma: "I wanted coffee."

Son-in-law: "Oh, I think it is coffee, it's just really sweet."

Not-Yzma: "You think it's coffee?" Takes a sip. "Pah! This is not coffee, I wanted coffee."

And then. And then.... and then, I kid you not, she threw the Frappuccino on the ground. The whole thing. KA-PLOW. With the vigor of a 1,000 angry hornets. 

I think all of the air was sucked out of the room when we all gasped (obviously I hadn't been the only one watching). 

And, I cannot tell a lie, her scary doppelganger just kept filling her nails, nor did Yzma or Kronk realize all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. This is obviously a common coping skill.  

At this point I realize I'm not even a little bit covering up the fact that I'm watching the spectacle, eyes wide, mouth hanging open and all, so I scramble to busy myself on my computer before I get caught in the cross fire of crazy.

The son-in-law is hurrying to get something to clean up the mess when the other daughter (or so I can guess from the eyes filled with mild insanity) shows up and drops her four children off and leaves.

A few minutes later and total chaos is reigning. The first woman is loudly watching a music video on her phone, the mother is yelling at the oldest child, the son-in-law is trying to help clean, the two youngest are running around like pin balls, and the fourth child is hiding under my table.

I leaned down and said, "I don't blame you. Stay as long as you'd like."

What's the weirdest thing that's happened to you in a public place? 

That Time I Cried for 1,004 Miles - a Tale of Reverse Culture Shock

When I was twenty years-old, I went to India for the summer. The day I came back was a day that still serves as a shining example of my international traveling prowess, a testament to the fact that I have spent my whole life roaming around the world. And by that I mean, it was a catastrophe, but a catastrophe that can be used as a funny story, as well as a good illustration.

It had been three months since I left bright eyed and bushy tailed. You would not think three months would be long enough to enact reverse culture shock, but it was.

"What's reverse culture shock?" Glad you asked! (Caveat: this answer is just my opinion).

We all know what culture shock is. You are in a new country, you feel bad about being unintentionally insulting with your shoes, you are pretty certain you just ate dog, and are positive you are about to die in a fiery traffic accident. It's equal parts exciting and overwhelming. And, oh, that magical feeling when you have your first moment of getting it right or feeling competent. The taxi took you to the right place! The food delivered is what you ordered! Glorious.

But, then you go "home." The place you have never had to work hard at interacting with and doing life is natural. It does not cross your mind that reentry will be hard. You are just excited to eat Taco Bell and stand in the shampoo aisle at Target. But... it's hard. Really hard. You feel uncomfortable and you miss your new "home." You feel overwhelmed with how life is done. Why are there so many shampoo options? Why does community operate so differently? Why is this hard?

It sucks. Home isn't suppose to be hard. What the crap.

Side note, I am not talking about super long term work here. I was raised in Eastern Asia and was told my whole life that the United States was my home. I went home for the first time when I was four, and didn't quite get it. But I am also not Japanese, so I never quite fit there either. My favorite illustration is (which I can't take credit for) that my "home" country (my parents' country of origin) is red, the country I was raised in is blue, so I'm purple. Purple does not completely match blue or red, so there is no one place that I feel totally comfortable. Reverse culture shock is EXTREMELY relevant to my story and other third culture kids (and adults), but it is more expected. Many people can relate to crying in the cereal aisle of Walmart because there's too many options and staring at a cashier because you have no idea how to count out 72 cents of change. It is NOT as expected if you are gone for 3 months, 6 months, 1 year, which is where this story comes in.

SO! To set the scene. My flight leaving India left at midnight and was 15 hours long. I do not sleep on planes, so when I land in Chicago, I am TIRED. When I started my trip I was excited to go home. When I get off the plane I feel drained and confused.

I start tearing up pretty much right away. SO MUCH SKIN. India is very conservative, especially the part I was in, and I felt brazen just showing my hair. I can see butt cheeks! Why is everyone so nekkid?? ACK.

Mental pep talk. It's fine. I know shorts are fine. It's all goooooood. You got this. Skin is just skin. 

I then get in line to go through customs. While I was in India, I learned to stash toilet paper in my purse whenever we found it, because that is not a given. My purse had four large side pockets, and all four were searched by the customs official. All four were full of pink toilet paper. I stood there while he slowly pulled out approximately seventeen roles of toilet paper.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

Ziiippppp. Pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull pull.

About twenty minutes later I look at him over the mountain of toilet paper, still on the verge of tears, and start stuffing it back into my purse. There's really nothing I can say to explain why I have so much TP.

I wander off to the food court, with a trail of pink toilet paper, and go straight to McDonalds. I have been dreaming of a cheeseburger for three months. Burger, burger, burger, burger. All I want is a burger. If I eat a burger, it will be okay. BURGER BURGER BURGER.

"Sorry miss, it's 6:30 in the morning. We aren't serving cheeseburgers."

I. Lose. It. I start crying. No. I start weeping and wailing and gnashing my teeth. I'm snorting and shaking and dripping everywhere. Everyone is staring. I start pulling my pink toilet paper out of my purse to try and sop up all the fluids. I sit on the floor. I don't think the Chicago airport food court has ever known silence like that which surrounded me.

I take my armful of TP and go to my gate, sobbing the whole way. I get on the plane, swollen eyes, still crying. I weep the WHOLE plane ride. I'm sitting by two very uncomfortable preteens, poor kids.
I still have tears streaming down my face when my parents pick me up, go home, and cry myself to sleep.

Reverse culture shock. It's a bitch.

The plus side is it alleviates. You tell your story, until people are ready to put you back on a plane. You get to Taco Bell. Or get a McDonald's cheeseburger. You feel more like the old you. But, the beautiful thing is, the new you and the old you becoming one. You are still who you were, but you are changed for the better. Traveling is so enriching, especially when you can go for more than a few weeks. But, oh, beware of how deeply you'll be impacted. For the good, for the bad, for all the toilet paper.

Have you experienced reverse culture shock? What was it like for you?

I'm Aggressive with my Love. And my Dance Moves.

There's a trendy song on the radio right now (I love me some trendy radio) that has the lyrics, "shut up and dance." As someone who thinks that a five second dance party is the solution to most pressing problems, these lyrics move me.

Abba also moves me, to the point that a cruise boat full of people once felt moved to cheer for me, but that's another story for another day. Combine Abba and a five second dance party, and I might be out of a job.

My serious dance skills aside, I've recently been convicted of something important, and yes, it all ties together with dancing in my kooky brain. 

I was having my end of semester review at one of my internship sites and my supervisor told me that I had one major area of growth. GAH. My anxiety riddled brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that my one growth area must be ALL THE THINGS (come back Allie Brosh, we miss you!). In an amazing showing of anxiety dexterity, by the time he finished his sentence I already had figured out my plan B plan because obviously I was getting kicked out. 

I'll quit my job and live in my nest, because obviously I'm not fit for civilized society, and if I never go out then I'll never spend money so it's fine that I'm inherently a bum and can't do anything right and maybe people will come up with some good story about whatever happened to me, like, "I bet she ran away to join the circus and she's the bearded woman," I guess plan C can be to join the circus and become the bearded woman, I can buy a fake beard, no one will know, but hopefully that nest plan works out because I never want to show my face again THE SHAME THE SHAME ::mental gasp::

Spoiler. I didn't get kicked out. My area of growth was giving myself credit and acknowledging that I am a good counselor. Eeeeeesh. 

Some context. I was the type of kid who often did things my own way (which most of the time was the against the rules way), and I was frequently in trouble. BUT, my parents rarely had to worry about punishment for me, because I am my own worst critic. Who needs to give a lecture when your child already covered all the bases?

Example A: I was in trouble, rightfully so I can only assume, and was sent to my room. My mom and grandmother were talking in the kitchen and my mom smelled something funky. She asked my grandmother, "does something smelled spoiled?" And I yelled from my room, in a miserable voice, "IT'S ME!"

You're welcome Mom and Dad, for doing your job for you. And sorry I was such a little ahole. 

So, obviously, giving myself credit is for sure, a growth area.

I've used this blog before to talk about my intense dislike of shame. I realized as I was talking to my supervisor that there is more to this battle I feel compelled to fight than just speaking against shame. And that is promoting pride and general hullabalooing about the good things.

I need to shut up and dance.

It's not enough to just stop the negative talk, to speak against the bullies, to fight the good fight, I need to own who I am, feel inspired by how I am made, and engage in general celebratory rump shaking. 

I am a good counselor. Heck, one day, I might be great counselor. SHA POW. 

As many of you know, I've had a tough couple years. This semester things got real bad physically for me which waterfalled in to all the areas. I had to dig deep just to get out of bed in the morning, because I felt so crappy. I felt like a complete fraud in the counseling room, because I wasn't even sure if my shoes matched. My supervisor has told me, things have significantly improved since then, that he was worried I was going to quit because he could tell how bad things were for me. 

But I didn't. And, I still was an effective counselor. The moral of the story is that even when I am forced to operate on autopilot, I can do good therapy. I am fearfully and wonderfully made, and part of that make up is empathetic listening, genuine caring, and appropriate insight, I was made to be a counselor. Too dramatic?

Sure, it's hard to write. My negative self talk wants to add all the buts (seriously, shoes are hard), but that doesn't change the facts. I have talents and skills and God is using me. KA BAM.

So my challenge to you. What is amazing about you? What can you say with no buts? What about yourself makes you want to crow like Peter Pan? What makes you make generic comic book noises?

It may not be your career, it might a hobby, a talent, a skill. There is something spectacular about you and you should yell it from the roof tops! And by roof tops, in this particular situation, I mean leave it in the comments. What better place to start practicing loving who you are and how you were made but the anonymity of the internets? YOU'RE WELCOME.