The Antidote to Bullies is Wicked and Doctor Who

Something weird is a foot in my life – I am being bullied. This might sound odd, considering I am almost 30 years old. It’s especially strange because I am one of the lucky few who escaped school age without being bullied.

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I understand Glinda on a deep level - glitter and ruffles included. 

Thus, it has been a weird few weeks/months. I have dealt with some overt, mean-spirited comments from a person, particularly about my intelligence and impact on people. These have basically been that I am dumb and annoying, in a nut shell. Completely separate, I have been told I don’t provide value to an organization. Also separate, it’s been communicated that while I am funny and entertaining, I do not provide much beyond that.

OUCH.

Pft.

Rude.

Ouch. I want to joke my way through this, but it has hurt pretty bad. I feel a little like a kicked puppy. I was crying to my husband about it and I asked, “what have I done to make people think I am such a joke?”

And that’s exactly how I feel. I love making people laugh, but not at the cost of my worth. I am not a joke. I am competent and bright and good at what I do. The people who matter in my life know this and speak life in to me. I am lucky that I have an iron clad support system (some who have sworn vengeance through interpretative dance). I realized, however, that not everyone has that, and they completely believe the bullies and the negative comments, and think they do not matter.

And that sucks, because everyone matters. EVERYONE MATTERS. YOU MATTER.

We can be so mean. So many get their value from stepping on others. No matter how many times you’ve been stepped on, or been the stepper, you matter. Everyone is made in the image of God. Everyone has purpose, gifting, heartbreak. You have impacted lives and made a mark on this world, even if you cannot see it. YOU MATTER. We all matter.

It can be hard to believe this, especially when you are hearing differently from mean people. If I’ve learned anything in this season is that bullies know no age or stage of life. It sucks. It hurts real bad, I’m learning that firsthand. But I refuse to let that change how I view my value. Sometimes the anger burns and the tears sting. They can crawl under your skin. You have to be active to push them back out. Don’t let them win. You are not a joke. I am not a joke. YOU MATTER.

This post has been more repetitive than I  meant, but that's what I want to communicate. No one is expendable. No one is disposable. No one is pointless. No matter what the bullies think or say.

People wonder why I love Doctor Who so much. Primarily, it’s because the Doctor gets this concept – take it away Matt Smith!    

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Marriage is the Worst. And the Best.

I was watching Inside Out the other night for the first time. Oh, the feels. THE FEELS. Literally, figuratively, metaphorically, grammatically. ALL THE FEELS. If you haven't seen it, do it. Right now. If it doesn't move you, I'm 97.9% sure you are a gargoyle. You should see someone about that. I could write a whole book on the lessons and beauty of that movie. But, I'll spare you. One small piece I was struck by while watching, in the tide of emotions, was Riley's imaginary boyfriend. It caught my attention, because, yeah, that was totally a thing when I was eleven.

Heck, it's been a thing my whole life. There's never been a time I didn't love boys and the idea of marriage. Not having a family (no pretend babies in my childhood), but a husband. My first boyfriend was in kindergarten and we would blow kisses to each other from our nap towels. Alas, my first love wasn't meant to be.

In elementary school it was boys with cool hair and who were good at kickball. In middle school it was boys who were rebels and smoked cigarettes behind the school. In high school it was mature older guys who had accents and a job. You work at KFC? That'ts the dream!

And, so on. I dated, I had serious relationships, I feel in "love," and through it all I dreamed of being married. I dreamed about getting flowers everyday and being showered with compliments. I dreamed of starlight picnics and cuddling on the couch. Marriage was going to be the epitome of my life, it was THE DREAM (it did evolve at some point past the guy having a job at a chicken fast food restaurant).

And then, when I was 21, I met John. He was tall and handsome, hard-working, and very funny. We started dating, and then we got engaged, and then got married 6 years ago. There were fairy tale moments (I'll write a post sometime about our engagement story, and you will weep from the beauty of it. WEEP, I tell you) and still are. But.... there's been a lot of shit, too.

I always joke that John and I have not taken the rainbow and butterflies approach to marriage, rather the clawing tooth and nail to make it work approach.

There have been struggles from day one. I remember early in our marriage fighting about something. Whatever the topic was it ended with me saying, "fine, just go." John turned to leave. And I threw a role of paper towels. At his head.

He's hurt my feelings. I've used my words as weapons. We've ignored each other's needs. We've isolated from each other. There's been yelling and tears. The paper towels were not the last thing I threw. It has been ugly. Sometimes REAL ugly.

Eleven year-old me would be horrified.

But.

Oh, the lovely but.

It's all been worth it. Cue the cheeeeeeeese!

Every morning John gets up to let the dogs out (did I mention he's good looking, and a saint?) and when he comes back he shoves into my side of the bed, wraps around me, and steals all my stored up warmth.

He worries about my feelings when I've backed my car into his, not worrying about the unnecessary damage I've done.

He follows me around Comic Con, regardless of what insane outfit I'm wearing.

He tells me not to give up when I feel defeated, reminding me of my giftings and success. His encouragement has, at times, propelled me through grad school when I have had nothing left to give.

Why am I writing all this? Partially so everyone can know how great my husband is, because he does not toot his own horn. I encourage through writing and words, so this is a way for me to show love.

There's the obvious point that marriage probably won't look like you thought it would. And for sure not what you thought it would be as a child.

But, the main point is, no one can tell you what marriage should look like. Some people are able to work solely on butterflies and rainbows in their marriage. Some people fight fiercely, and love equally so. Some people have crap communication but show love in other ways. There's no one way to define intimacy. Priorities are different. Growth is different. Pain is different.

Marriage is hard enough figuring it out between two people - we don't need to make it harder by incorporating other people's views of what is right. Basically, you do you.

Marriage is not at all what I expected it would be. It's not what I was told it would be. There is not a rubric I'm grading it on. Marriage, for me, is the unique, wonderful relationship between me and John. It's constantly evolving, it's high and low, it's painful and healing, it reveals God to me and the ugliness of being human. It's our story, in all its complexity and simplicity.

What. What? WHAT??

This is a follow up post to this post here - Part 1. You can go back and read it, we'll wait. 

Buckle up, here we go!

Example 4 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's History.

I'm a bright girl. I received a great education, overseas and here for high school. I felt quite ready for college. I was sitting in my very first class, brand new notebook, a multitude of colored pens, the idealistic hopes and dreams that only an 18 year old possesses, when reality hit. My teacher did a quick introduction and hit the ground running. No syllabus day (the blasphemy! Syllabus day is the BEST day!), no ice breakers, just a deluge of information. 

About two minutes into the lecture I realized that everyone else is taking notes and nodding and I'm staring blankly at my teacher. I had no idea what he was saying. He was using words I'd never heard of. 

Articles of Confederation? Nope. Never heard of them. Constitution? I mean, I've heard that word. I think. George Washington? Oh! I know this one! First President! 

Needless to say my total of one year of American History before college did not prepare me for this class. My roommate use to make fun of me because my textbook for that class was highlighted. I mean the whole thing was highlighted. Every word. They wouldn't buy it back at the end of the semester. 

Example 5 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's Food. 

I was three and a half when we first visited the States. My parents, realizing what a shock I was in for, packed a whole suit case of Japanese snacks for me. Smart people, my parents.

(As a note, I do not remember this story, yet being the storyteller I am, shall tell it like I do)

Our first morning at my grandparents' house they served us doughnuts. My grandfather had been horrified to learn I had never had a doughnut and everyone was excited to see my response to my very first chocolate doughnut. 

They placed it in front of me. The excitement was palpable. I stared at the doughnut. I got up and left the table.

Confused silence.

I walked back with something in my hot little hand. Seaweed. It was seaweed. I put it on the chocolate doughnut. The seaweed. On the doughnut. The chocolate doughnut. And I ate it.  

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Yes, Shocked Doughnut, it's true. 

Example 6 - Gaps in Your Passport Country's Pop Culture.

I saw most of my movies growing up recorded from American TV on to VHS. I watched Apollo 13 approximately a billion times. And then some. I can't remember what movie I was watching later that also had the line, that many space movies have, "Houston, we have a problem." I was probably around 10 years-old, and I was stunned. Like Shocked Doughnut up there. 

What are the chances that the person at NASA in this movie is also named Houston? There's no way! Hm. There must be a different explanation. Oh! I've got it! It must be the position title, so they always know how to address the person listening. 'The Houston' job. 

Yup. I thought I had it figure out and went on my merry way. For almost a decade longer.

Fast forward, I'm 19 years-old and driving through Houston, Texas and my friend points out the direction NASA is.

"Oh, I didn't know NASA was in Houston."

"Oh."

"Houston." 

"HOUSTON."

"HOUSTON, TEXAS. OH!!!" 

 

"HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM."

Which, apparently is an alarming thing to yell while driving a car. Lesson learned. 

Also, I haven't ever seen any of the Indiana Jones movies

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Yes, Shocked Astronaut, it's true. 

A Post About Growing Up Overseas, and the Hard Road Home; a Tale of Corn Flakes, Tears, and Grandparents

Growing up overseas leads to a variety of weird experiences in your passport country.

Example 1 - the Dreaded Cereal Aisle.

Most families who live overseas have a very set plan for their first day "home." Ours was always Mexican food (bean and cheese burrito for me) and Walmart. We didn't necessarily need anything, but there's something that cries out to be around ALL THOSE OPTIONS. Oh Walmart, like a mirage in the desert. You think it's exactly what you need to embrace being back in America. And a trip to Walmart is a blindingly good example of some of the struggles I'm thinking about.

The below example is not necessarily the first trip to Walmart story, which is a family affair. It's more of the, your mom letting you run into Walmart on your own a few days later story.

You know that scene in the Matrix where Neo is getting guns to rescue Morpheus and there are aisles and aisles flying by, and then they zoom down what seems an infinite aisle? Yeah, going to Walmart and into the cereal aisle for the first time when you get back to the States is exactly like that.

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At first you are excited and want ALL THE CEREAL. And then it starts to get a little overwhelming. And then you start crying because your brain is short circuiting about cereal and you choose Corn Flakes because that's the only cereal that looks familiar. You don't even like Corn Flakes. 

Example 2 - Paying for the Cereal. 

You take your sniveling self and your sad box of cereal (you don't get anything else because if you can't pick out cereal, there's no way you are up to facing the horror of shampoo choices yet) to the check out line. At this point all of your senses are being assaulted - it's noisy, crowded, too bright, and too many smells. You start digging around for money.

American money. Sigh. There is nothing quite as tortuous as a handful of coins you don't recognize and a line of fifteen people behind you, while you try to figure out 66 cents in change. 

You: "Sorry, weird question, how would one exactly make 66 cents in change?"

Cashier: blank look. 

You: "Um, hm, sorry. Never mind. Here. These two big ones are 25 cents right? So that's 50? So I just need 16 more?" Hands over 2 quarters. Nailed it.

Cashier: "Um. Yeah."

You: Staring blankly at the rest of the coins in your hand. You know one is five and one is ten. Hands the cashier a nickle. "This must be the ten cents."

Cashier: "No. That's a nickle."

You: "Sure, sure. Sorry, what's a nickle worth?" It deteriorates from there. It almost always ends with you shoving all of the coins at the cashier and running out of the store. Why are dimes so small? Why are they worth more than their giant sibling the nickle? Who named these ridiculous coins? Why can't we just be civilized and refer to them as their worth - "ten cent coin"?

Example 3 - Eating the Cereal. 

There is always that moment when you realize your passport country isn't actually home, in the truest sense of the word. Sometimes it's while you are eating soggy Corn Flakes. Possibly soggy from all of the tears of confusion. Why is everything so hard and different here? Why don't I fit in? Why is this so much work? Why isn't Walmart the answer to all the questions? Why didn't I buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch?

This is a low point. You feel all wonky and off-kilter and full of cardboard and confusion. But then, your grandmother, who before last week you hadn't seen in three years, walks over, and takes your bowl of Corn Flakes away. She hands you half of an old fashioned cake doughnut and an IBC root beer in the bottle. Suddenly, things are much brighter.

Okay, enough sentimentality. Example 4, 5, and 6 will be my next post, and to be honest where the real humor begins. This was all just to set the stage for the horror that involves the Constitution, seaweed, and astronauts. You want to tune in for part 2, I pinky promise. 

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:

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When really I feel like so:

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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):

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What people obviously see:

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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." 

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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?" 

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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."

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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."

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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!" 

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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.