This September I took prednisone for an allergic reaction to fenugreek leaves. Unfortunately, the doctor prescribed a rather large dose, and within 24 hours, I had taken over 120mg of prednisone, which I do not recommend for anyone. At all. It's best, in my opinion, to avoid prednisone, if at all possible. My doctor likened it to a nuclear bomb going off in your body. That nuclear bomb broke my anxiety regulator and released the anxiety goblins.
Although I have had some anxious tendencies in the past, I haven't ever experienced anxiety attacks like I have in the past two months. A couple of times at night I purposely woke up my boyfriend out of fear that something was wrong. I went to the emergency room so many times that the last time I went, the doctor didn't run any tests and suggested I talk to a psychiatric nurse instead. I felt angry and upset yet a bit embarrassed and humiliated. The doctors at the emergency room were "starting to refuse to treat me" or at least that's what I told myself. The truth is the doctor saw that I had a problem, but it wasn't the problem I thought I had. I wasn't dying. I was having an anxiety attack.
It's hard to admit that I have an anxiety problem. I don't quite fit the GAD diagnosis since I've only had symptoms for three months, but once three months turn into six, I'll fit the diagnosis. The point of my starting counseling was to hopefully stop the anxiety and prevent it from turning into a disorder. While the anxiety has gone down, it hasn't stopped being symptomatic.
The largest anxiety that I have is health anxiety, followed by relationship anxiety, then followed by general anxiety. I don't want to be one of those people. You know, the people who talk about their anxiety, almost as if their anxiety rules their lives. I don't want anxiety to rule my every move, but not talking about and pretending that it can't possibly be anxiety is causing somatic symptoms. I have tingling hands, heart palpitations, lumps in my throat, constant throbbing tension headaches, but I denied that I have anxiety. After all of the doctor visits, I can no longer deny reality. I have anxiety.
Lisa Scott over at The Worry Games suggests that we should be proud of our anxiety, but I'm not proud of it. I'm really upset that I have this type of personality that lends itself to anxiety in the first place. I was angry at my parents for passing their anxious genes to me and not teaching me good mental health practices. I was angry at my bosses for making me work so much and possibly making the anxiety worse. I was angry at myself for not seeing anxiety for what it was earlier in the process.
But now that I've made some peace with the anxiety, I've started to come down from that tense high, and now, I can breathe a bit easier. I feel I still have a long way to go, but at least I'm no longer waking my boyfriend at 3am, asking him if we should go to the emergency room because of heart palpitations. I can't say that I'm proud of it, and I still see it as a hindrance rather than a gift, but maybe one day I'll see it as my ally instead of my enemy.
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Identity: Write, Rewrite, Revise, Repeat
I've always had thoughts about identity and place in the world. Who am I? That is the question that I've constantly asked myself since I was a teenager at a residential high school. I used to think that I was no one, just a mediocre little girl, and I still think I'm just a mediocre person. The only difference now is that I've come to accept that mediocre isn't as bad as American culture claims it is. Not all of us can be great, so it's better if we just accept our fate rather than agonize over what we are not.
I've recently finished Revising Herself: The Story of Women's Identity from College to Mid-Life by Ruthelle Josselson (Oxford University Press, 2006), and while reading, I had to recollect my thoughts and prevent myself from zoning out and thinking about myself, which was very difficult. I started this book wanting to find my place, wanting to know how other women handled life after college, if life got any better, but I'm now just more confused. It would be great to be like a Pathfinder, but I'm afraid I'm somewhere between a Pathfinder, Searcher, and Drifter. I don't quite fit into any category, or at least I don't think I fit.
Josselson writes that "Growth is a process of rewriting, revising, and interweaving these narratives," and I hope to the universe that she's right (256). To be stuck with the past that I do have and to be stuck where I am now is just disheartening. I am struggling, and it's exhausting. It gets better the further I get away from high school and college, but the past still haunts me occasionally. I can't wait until I get older and rewrite my past to a hopefully happier narrative.
The most frustrating yet accurate aspect in my opinion about women's identities is that relationships help women to define their identities. I think in this case, I found myself much like a Drifter, needing to define myself by separating who I am from who others are (250). It's exasperating to hear that women's identities are made in relations to others, especially since from day 1 we've been taught that women are "relational creatures" and are defined in terms of others, sometimes lacking their own independence.
Defining oneself in relational terms is inescapable since humans are social creatures, but I would much rather define myself in terms of my work, interests, and hobbies rather than by my relationships. Yeah, I'm a daughter, sister, niece, aunt, girlfriend, friend, assistant but those are not my primary identities. That's just how I happen to relate to others in this world. Perhaps with the invent of social media, we have become more individualistic, or perhaps my anxious-avoidant attachment system is showing. If there is anything that I've learned in my 25 years, it's that people come and go, so it's much better to define yourself independently from others or else you will lose your sense of self.
As Josselson mentions, relationships are a constant balancing act, "a balance between the needs of the people involved" (249), and women define their identities by how they locate themselves within relationships. I'm a little upset that I have to define myself in terms of other people. But maybe I'm still in the young rebellious stage, in which I'm still trying to fight for independence from parents who refuse to give it to me. I had to take what I saw was rightfully mine because if it was up to my mother, I'd still be living in her house, taking a job close to home, and marrying the guy she picked out. Funnily enough, here I am defining myself as what I am not in relations to my parents. I am not the person who is going to submit to or even fulfill their expectations, but I don't want to completely cut my ties with them.
Sometimes, it's really hard not to define yourself in relation to others, especially when you have a different heritage from them. I grew up Cajun, immersed in a French-English world, but up here, they grew up in a German-Polish-British world. There are occasional differences, but for the most of it, I am able to blend in as an American. It's only occasionally when someone discusses something particular to Pennsylvania Dutch that I feel like a stranger in this land. There are a few times when I have to ask someone to explain what they mean because I have no what a pierogi is and I barely grasp the idea of rumspringa. I don't even quite understand the definition of a foodie; people who love food are just called people where I'm from. But for the most part I am able to blend or pretend to blend in Pennsylvania culture. Being a middle-class white person helps a lot. Occasionally, a "y'all" will slip out, though I try not to say it since my coworkers make fun of that word.
Who am I? That kid. You know, the quiet one who people barely remember, who they call a dork, nerd, or shy, smart kid. The assistant who authors go to for questions, but who is always behind, partly because of procrastination, like usual. The one whose heart nearly explodes out of her chest out of anxiety every time the phone rings and sighs with relief when my coworker answers it. That person reading books and who really doesn't want to make much talk at all. I am that person. The one who slips in a "y'all," and quietly kicks herself for giving away her southern heritage. The one who says "quater" and frequently unconsciously converts the "ai" sound to an "e" sound. That kid who tries to blend and be unnoticed, who has adopted modesty because at least with it, I can blend into the crowds and attract little to no attention. The one with hopes for grad school yet wants to continue with my current job track, even if it's not a very large industry. The one writing a "secret" blog, who hopes the blog goes unnoticed yet wishes someone would care. Cajun. Introvert. Reader. Writer. Thinker. Dreamer. The one drawn into many different directions, still searching, reflecting, and creating a place to be.
I've recently finished Revising Herself: The Story of Women's Identity from College to Mid-Life by Ruthelle Josselson (Oxford University Press, 2006), and while reading, I had to recollect my thoughts and prevent myself from zoning out and thinking about myself, which was very difficult. I started this book wanting to find my place, wanting to know how other women handled life after college, if life got any better, but I'm now just more confused. It would be great to be like a Pathfinder, but I'm afraid I'm somewhere between a Pathfinder, Searcher, and Drifter. I don't quite fit into any category, or at least I don't think I fit.
Josselson writes that "Growth is a process of rewriting, revising, and interweaving these narratives," and I hope to the universe that she's right (256). To be stuck with the past that I do have and to be stuck where I am now is just disheartening. I am struggling, and it's exhausting. It gets better the further I get away from high school and college, but the past still haunts me occasionally. I can't wait until I get older and rewrite my past to a hopefully happier narrative.
The most frustrating yet accurate aspect in my opinion about women's identities is that relationships help women to define their identities. I think in this case, I found myself much like a Drifter, needing to define myself by separating who I am from who others are (250). It's exasperating to hear that women's identities are made in relations to others, especially since from day 1 we've been taught that women are "relational creatures" and are defined in terms of others, sometimes lacking their own independence.
Defining oneself in relational terms is inescapable since humans are social creatures, but I would much rather define myself in terms of my work, interests, and hobbies rather than by my relationships. Yeah, I'm a daughter, sister, niece, aunt, girlfriend, friend, assistant but those are not my primary identities. That's just how I happen to relate to others in this world. Perhaps with the invent of social media, we have become more individualistic, or perhaps my anxious-avoidant attachment system is showing. If there is anything that I've learned in my 25 years, it's that people come and go, so it's much better to define yourself independently from others or else you will lose your sense of self.
As Josselson mentions, relationships are a constant balancing act, "a balance between the needs of the people involved" (249), and women define their identities by how they locate themselves within relationships. I'm a little upset that I have to define myself in terms of other people. But maybe I'm still in the young rebellious stage, in which I'm still trying to fight for independence from parents who refuse to give it to me. I had to take what I saw was rightfully mine because if it was up to my mother, I'd still be living in her house, taking a job close to home, and marrying the guy she picked out. Funnily enough, here I am defining myself as what I am not in relations to my parents. I am not the person who is going to submit to or even fulfill their expectations, but I don't want to completely cut my ties with them.
Sometimes, it's really hard not to define yourself in relation to others, especially when you have a different heritage from them. I grew up Cajun, immersed in a French-English world, but up here, they grew up in a German-Polish-British world. There are occasional differences, but for the most of it, I am able to blend in as an American. It's only occasionally when someone discusses something particular to Pennsylvania Dutch that I feel like a stranger in this land. There are a few times when I have to ask someone to explain what they mean because I have no what a pierogi is and I barely grasp the idea of rumspringa. I don't even quite understand the definition of a foodie; people who love food are just called people where I'm from. But for the most part I am able to blend or pretend to blend in Pennsylvania culture. Being a middle-class white person helps a lot. Occasionally, a "y'all" will slip out, though I try not to say it since my coworkers make fun of that word.
Who am I? That kid. You know, the quiet one who people barely remember, who they call a dork, nerd, or shy, smart kid. The assistant who authors go to for questions, but who is always behind, partly because of procrastination, like usual. The one whose heart nearly explodes out of her chest out of anxiety every time the phone rings and sighs with relief when my coworker answers it. That person reading books and who really doesn't want to make much talk at all. I am that person. The one who slips in a "y'all," and quietly kicks herself for giving away her southern heritage. The one who says "quater" and frequently unconsciously converts the "ai" sound to an "e" sound. That kid who tries to blend and be unnoticed, who has adopted modesty because at least with it, I can blend into the crowds and attract little to no attention. The one with hopes for grad school yet wants to continue with my current job track, even if it's not a very large industry. The one writing a "secret" blog, who hopes the blog goes unnoticed yet wishes someone would care. Cajun. Introvert. Reader. Writer. Thinker. Dreamer. The one drawn into many different directions, still searching, reflecting, and creating a place to be.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Mourning Easter
I've read somewhere that once you've been a part of a religious community and then decide to leave the church, you're more likely to mourn the loss of your religion. I like to think that you're not just losing your community, but your faith, belief, and rituals.
I stopped going to church in my first or second year of college. The breaking point was the day the priest decided to preach about loving the sinner, but hating the sin, and he literally said that we should not be tolerate of gay lifestyles. And I could not understand how he reconciled those two points. We had to hate the lifestyle and be intolerant of their actions, but we had to love the person? Someone's actions are a part of who they are. To me, it also seems that someone's lifestyle is a part of who they are, so rejecting their actions and lifestyle is essentially rejecting that person. I refuse to reject someone just because they like the same-sex instead of the opposite-sex. It was that day when I walked out of the church and never looked back. I don't regret it either, and I find myself much happier without church and religion. I am much happier without the cognitive dissonance between what the church tells us to value and the church's actual actions.
I recently read a piece about Mary Magdalene, which led to subsequent Wikipedia searches about the Gospel and Mary Magdalene's background. Honestly, the stories that I read about Christ's resurrection and the Gospels just seem like nonsense. Ever since I was a kid, I had an extremely hard time believing in Christ, and once I finally believed, I constantly questioned why he died for our sins when he was such a good person. Why wasn't it me, the lowly sinner, who was punished? The answer to that question now seems irrelevant since I no longer believe. Jesus just seems like some crazy guy, and maybe he was made up in the first place by people who wanted the obedience of others. I don't know. Nothing can be proven.
Easter doesn't seem to be as big a deal up North than it is down South. I always knew when Easter was coming when I lived in Louisiana because Spring Break for schools aligned with Easter. We were always either off on Good Friday and through the next week or we were off the week of Holy Week and went back to school the Monday after Easter. Here in Pennsylvania, they don't even get Good Friday off. Easter just seemed a blip on my radar, and I sometimes forgot Easter was coming up this Sunday.
I don't miss going to church for Easter, and I had a particularly large disdain for Easter Mass since the incense they used made it difficult for me to breathe. But I do miss the feast. I bought a small slice of ham, some potatoes, and green beans. I'm going to make the usual potato salad and green bean casserole, but I wonder if I even deserve it since I no longer believe. Do I have the right to celebrate with food even though I'm celebrating something that doesn't matter to me? Holidays feel empty now, and they also feel like a drag. Spending time with family used to be fun, but now I can't wait to get away. Spending time with family isn't so bad when they don't focus on religion, but avoiding religion is nearly impossible when on one side, my grandpaw was a deacon, and on the other side, my grandmaw is always volunteering with the church in one way or another.
I guess I wish that holidays had some significance to me, but now most holidays feel empty. Perhaps it's because I no longer have faith or maybe it's because I no longer share the same beliefs as my family. I'm longing for the ritual of feast (but not the rituals of church), but it's hard to feel into it, like I was when I was a kid.
I stopped going to church in my first or second year of college. The breaking point was the day the priest decided to preach about loving the sinner, but hating the sin, and he literally said that we should not be tolerate of gay lifestyles. And I could not understand how he reconciled those two points. We had to hate the lifestyle and be intolerant of their actions, but we had to love the person? Someone's actions are a part of who they are. To me, it also seems that someone's lifestyle is a part of who they are, so rejecting their actions and lifestyle is essentially rejecting that person. I refuse to reject someone just because they like the same-sex instead of the opposite-sex. It was that day when I walked out of the church and never looked back. I don't regret it either, and I find myself much happier without church and religion. I am much happier without the cognitive dissonance between what the church tells us to value and the church's actual actions.
I recently read a piece about Mary Magdalene, which led to subsequent Wikipedia searches about the Gospel and Mary Magdalene's background. Honestly, the stories that I read about Christ's resurrection and the Gospels just seem like nonsense. Ever since I was a kid, I had an extremely hard time believing in Christ, and once I finally believed, I constantly questioned why he died for our sins when he was such a good person. Why wasn't it me, the lowly sinner, who was punished? The answer to that question now seems irrelevant since I no longer believe. Jesus just seems like some crazy guy, and maybe he was made up in the first place by people who wanted the obedience of others. I don't know. Nothing can be proven.
Easter doesn't seem to be as big a deal up North than it is down South. I always knew when Easter was coming when I lived in Louisiana because Spring Break for schools aligned with Easter. We were always either off on Good Friday and through the next week or we were off the week of Holy Week and went back to school the Monday after Easter. Here in Pennsylvania, they don't even get Good Friday off. Easter just seemed a blip on my radar, and I sometimes forgot Easter was coming up this Sunday.
I don't miss going to church for Easter, and I had a particularly large disdain for Easter Mass since the incense they used made it difficult for me to breathe. But I do miss the feast. I bought a small slice of ham, some potatoes, and green beans. I'm going to make the usual potato salad and green bean casserole, but I wonder if I even deserve it since I no longer believe. Do I have the right to celebrate with food even though I'm celebrating something that doesn't matter to me? Holidays feel empty now, and they also feel like a drag. Spending time with family used to be fun, but now I can't wait to get away. Spending time with family isn't so bad when they don't focus on religion, but avoiding religion is nearly impossible when on one side, my grandpaw was a deacon, and on the other side, my grandmaw is always volunteering with the church in one way or another.
I guess I wish that holidays had some significance to me, but now most holidays feel empty. Perhaps it's because I no longer have faith or maybe it's because I no longer share the same beliefs as my family. I'm longing for the ritual of feast (but not the rituals of church), but it's hard to feel into it, like I was when I was a kid.
Monday, April 3, 2017
B - Bears
Bears are funny creatures. I like to think they're curious, hungry, and a bit sleepy all the time. Really, look at these bear cubs here, are they not the sleepiest things you've seen? In all seriousness, I don't condone owning wild animals, and I think approaching wild animals is a terrible idea.
Recently, while looking up reference pictures to see how to draw a bear, I discovered that brown bears and black bears do not behave the same. For example, if you counter a brown bear, it's better for you to play dead because brown bears are more aggressive and will attack moving things. On the other hand, if you encounter a black bear, you should wave your hands and make a lot of noise because black bears are a bit shy. I like to think of myself as a black bear, even though I drew my icon as a brown bear.
In Pennsylvania, it's actually not uncommon for bears to end up in towns. Sometime last year, a bear actually walked through downtown, to a park, and finally back into the forests. The police actually followed it as it walked through the town, and that was probably the most action the police got since State Paddy's day.
So may all of you who encounter bears, encounter a black bear.
Recently, while looking up reference pictures to see how to draw a bear, I discovered that brown bears and black bears do not behave the same. For example, if you counter a brown bear, it's better for you to play dead because brown bears are more aggressive and will attack moving things. On the other hand, if you encounter a black bear, you should wave your hands and make a lot of noise because black bears are a bit shy. I like to think of myself as a black bear, even though I drew my icon as a brown bear.
In Pennsylvania, it's actually not uncommon for bears to end up in towns. Sometime last year, a bear actually walked through downtown, to a park, and finally back into the forests. The police actually followed it as it walked through the town, and that was probably the most action the police got since State Paddy's day.
So may all of you who encounter bears, encounter a black bear.
BEARS
Dull claws with large paws
Fluffy noses for smelling
Dig and eat then sleep
Saturday, April 1, 2017
A is for Apples
An apple a day keeps the doctor away, or at least that is what they say. Lately, I haven't been buying as many apples. HOW DARE I?!
I used to buy apples all the time when I lived in Louisiana, and they were my go-to fruit. My favorite apple was the Fuji, crisp, juicy, and delicious. It was totally worth the extra ten cents for my favorite apples, but up here, in Pennsylvania, Fuji apples are $2.99, a whole dollar more than the Red Delicious apple, and $1.20 cents more than the Gala apples when they are on sale. This is a travesty!! According to USDA, Pennsylvania's apple prices are on the high side.
Sometimes I wish I could be like the people who buy food without looking at the prices, but every time I see that $2.99 price, I cringe, and those Fuji apples are thick, too. Buying just four apples costs about $4.00. I would have to keep my eyes closed extra tight as I pick up the apples and put them in my bag. Instead of being an everyday snack, apples have become an indulgence for me. How sad...I miss you dear apples, and I have written a haiku for you with our fond memories.
I used to buy apples all the time when I lived in Louisiana, and they were my go-to fruit. My favorite apple was the Fuji, crisp, juicy, and delicious. It was totally worth the extra ten cents for my favorite apples, but up here, in Pennsylvania, Fuji apples are $2.99, a whole dollar more than the Red Delicious apple, and $1.20 cents more than the Gala apples when they are on sale. This is a travesty!! According to USDA, Pennsylvania's apple prices are on the high side.Sometimes I wish I could be like the people who buy food without looking at the prices, but every time I see that $2.99 price, I cringe, and those Fuji apples are thick, too. Buying just four apples costs about $4.00. I would have to keep my eyes closed extra tight as I pick up the apples and put them in my bag. Instead of being an everyday snack, apples have become an indulgence for me. How sad...I miss you dear apples, and I have written a haiku for you with our fond memories.
APPLES
Red, Pink, Yellow, Green
Juicy and a seeded core
Crisp and delicious
Saturday, March 25, 2017
Is This What They Call Writer's Block?
I created this blog about a week ago, and at that time, I felt inspired to write. I have yet to write anything, a blog post, a diary entry, another sentence to my NaNo story. The processing of writing shouldn't seem very difficult. You essentially move your hands in specific shapes to produce letters, which combine to produce words. Easy-peasy, right?
But what seems to be lacking is the motivation or perhaps drive to write. Many of my college and high school classmates have started to write blogs, and I secretly follow them manually, rather than adding them to a blog list or RSS feed. I would prefer that they don't know that I'm following them. Funnily enough, I didn't want them to know that I have blogged many times before. I started a long time ago, back in 2012 or so, and I have archived blogs and made them private, out of fear that word would get out. How many of my acquaintances found my blogs anyway? That should be the real question. If they found them, they didn't not tell me that they did.
Thinking about the lack of motivation to write, I am reminded of a tweet I recently saw about Kafka's diaries.
I wonder if because I don't want anyone to see my writing that I hinder myself from writing. "Who is your audience?" No one. If no one is supposed to read it, then why write it in the first place? It's hard to open up and write because putting your writing out there makes you vulnerable. As Lindy West has written, commenters online can be cruel. It's easier to protect my insides, my heart, my soul from all kinds of people by just not being open in the first place.
That is how I've always lived. Keep quiet. Don't attract attention. Keep your opinions to yourself because putting yourself out there gets you hurt. It attracts that wrong kind of people in your life.
But if I never write at all, my insides become an unorganized mess. Words help to articulate, change, and strengthen my beliefs. To keep my strength and to keep my heart strong, I must write.
But what seems to be lacking is the motivation or perhaps drive to write. Many of my college and high school classmates have started to write blogs, and I secretly follow them manually, rather than adding them to a blog list or RSS feed. I would prefer that they don't know that I'm following them. Funnily enough, I didn't want them to know that I have blogged many times before. I started a long time ago, back in 2012 or so, and I have archived blogs and made them private, out of fear that word would get out. How many of my acquaintances found my blogs anyway? That should be the real question. If they found them, they didn't not tell me that they did.
Thinking about the lack of motivation to write, I am reminded of a tweet I recently saw about Kafka's diaries.
The process of writing is difficult, but the mechanisms of writing are easy.Kafka's diaries show the real fun side of writing. pic.twitter.com/h7UWC7UFVR— Matt Haig (@matthaig1) March 19, 2017
I wonder if because I don't want anyone to see my writing that I hinder myself from writing. "Who is your audience?" No one. If no one is supposed to read it, then why write it in the first place? It's hard to open up and write because putting your writing out there makes you vulnerable. As Lindy West has written, commenters online can be cruel. It's easier to protect my insides, my heart, my soul from all kinds of people by just not being open in the first place.
That is how I've always lived. Keep quiet. Don't attract attention. Keep your opinions to yourself because putting yourself out there gets you hurt. It attracts that wrong kind of people in your life.
But if I never write at all, my insides become an unorganized mess. Words help to articulate, change, and strengthen my beliefs. To keep my strength and to keep my heart strong, I must write.
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