The Bout of Books read-a-thon is organized by Amanda Shofner and Kelly @
Reading the Paranormal. It is a week long read-a-thon that begins
12:01am Monday, January 8th and runs through Sunday, January 14th in
whatever time zone you are in. Bout of Books is low-pressure. There are
challenges, giveaways, and a grand prize, but all of these are
completely optional. For all Bout of Books 21 information and updates, be sure to visit the Bout of Books blog. - From the Bout of Books team
It's been a while since I've done some serious reading, and I would like to read more. So, for this reason, I will be participating in the Bout of Books read-a-thon, starting on Monday! My goal is to read for one hour a day. The books on the docket include The Burning Bridge by John Flanagan, the second book in the Ranger's Apprentice serious and Hope and Help for Your Nerves by Claire Weekes.
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Anxiety Explosion
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.
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, 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.
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