llamas, braininade (brain marinade?)​, and an outfit any kei$ha would envy

I grew up being super into performance theater. In one of my improv classes, we were told to alwaysALWAYS say yes to the love. The bottom line is that in a scene, and, yes keeps momentum going, allowing stories to feed and grow as the people progress.

 

"What are you doing?"

"Shaving a llama."

"Where did you find a llama on Valentine's Day?"

 

Yes, you have a llama, and...?

 

Similarly, it was taught that saying no is an immediate shut-off valve for progression.

 

"What are you doing?"

"Shaving a llama."

"No, you're not."

"...oh."

 

This makes sense on a very fundamental level, and I'm not just talking about improv.

 

As long as I can remember, I've always been so particular about what and who I allow into my world, making automatic pro-and-con lists on nearby bits of paper to calculate everything from whether or not I should move across the country to what I'll have for lunch.

 

Scribbling frantically in fits of unwarranted panic, the worries and excitement would spill together in a blend of undiluted fear and excuses. The slips of paper, scratched nearly to death with over-thinking, would get put in a pile. Some lists would be duplicates. Some would be assigned point values in order to supply concrete, quantitative data for my racing and unpredictable emotions.

 

Often, the outcome was a resounding NO! NO WAY. NO HOW. NO. MOTHERFUCKING. THANK YOU.

 

I couldn't because I was too scared of what might happen.

I couldn't because I was too scared of how I might feel.

I couldn't because I was too scared of mights.

I couldn't because I was too scared.

 

Saying no to conversation, opportunities, advice, and adventure had been keeping my very conflicted and very busy brain locked up in the confines of my skull, marinating in the isolated crazies and steeping in uncertainty. My yes, and's were getting slashed to bits before they even had time for tea.

 

And then, slowly, I began easing the solid NO!'s out of the way. I had to push at first. But eventually I peeked my toe out, (driving to places I'd never been), then a foot, (going to the aquarium), and a leg, (designing and publishing my first-ever professional website).

 

To avoid a huge long list of terrible body metaphors, let's just say that in the last three months, I've seen more of people I wanted to see more of. I've written recklessly and am nearly finished with the rough copy of my third book. I went to a mixer for creatives where I mingled in a room full of talented people, knowing almost no one, and kindling the start of what would become a very passionate love affair with Leopold Bros gin.

 

And most recently, I've registered for an [un]conference in Vegas. I'll fly alone to a city I haven't seen since I was seven to be greeted by strangers, all with powerful stories and contagious personalities. I'll wear clothes I never thought I'd own, hug people I never thought I'd meet, and embark on one of my greatest adventures to date.

 

There's something so liberating about cranking on those say-yes-to-the-love floodgates, about throwing those doors open wide and letting myself experience the pure exhilarating terror that comes with consciously welcoming newness into my very routined brain. So, I'm a woman with a BA in poetry kicking ass in finance. I'm changing every day. And in May, I'm going to go make 75 best friends in Vegas wearing a skirt that has disco in the name.

 

Um. YES! And?

anxiety, too much information, and kicking 2013 in the gonads

I have this thing where I can't fall asleep on my back because I'm convinced that resting peacefully in a perfect lower-me-into-a-coffin position means I'll die. Surely, it's just too convenient for me not to. On the rare occasion when I do decide it's okay to tempt fate, I shove my hands down my pants because certainly, certainly, the Universe couldn't be cruel enough to strike a girl dead with her hands down her pants. Can it?

Before bed, I once had a guy look over and ask why my fingers were shoved in my underwear like a creep-o extraordinaire. We'd made a platonic pact, and here I was putting half my arm where the sun don't shine.

"I won't die in my sleep with my hands down my pants," I explained simply, years of the fear-induced recording embedded like gospel.

He blinked a couple times. "If you're going to die, you're going to die, and then the paramedics will find you with your hands down your pants."

I'm not sure if you guys know this, but being awesome is pretty fucking terrifying. There are so many things I consciously want to do. I can think about them, and get excited, but then when it comes time to do it, I just freak the fuck out. There's no poetic way to put it; it just is what it is. I can't pinpoint exactly when I became so scared of everything: driving on the highway, dying my hair a noticeable color, walking through malls on my own. But I have become that terrified person. And I hate it.

On an intellectual level, I can acknowledge how absolutely trivial and goofy those things sound. However, I still get physically terrified, causing me to avoid uncomfortable situations at nearly ALL COSTS. My pulse quickens and there's a tightness in my chest that I always think means I'm having a heart attack but actually means that I've forgotten to breathe upon merging into traffic from an on-ramp. Of course, the OH-MY-GOD-WHY-AM-I-HAVING-A-HEART-ATTACK feeling doesn't do much to dispel the anxiety, either. That's mostly when the crying starts.

Ultimately, the overwhelming, gut-wrenching fear has been such a huge part of my life for so long that I've forgotten about the version of me who isn't scared of everything. The version who performed onstage, single-handedly directed plays in college, loved going to movies alone, dyed her hair hot pink, laughed too loudly at restaurants, and generally lived.

The other day, Shmoyfriend said he really wanted to go to the aquarium, then sheepishly added that he knows I don't like it.

"I don't?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"You said the giant room with the sharks makes you feel uneasy," he replied, an automatic response to years of me hedging around things that make my pulse race just a little too fast.

And then it hit me. My anxiety has become such a huge presence in my life that not only do I avoid situations that make me uncomfortable, but other people have to steer us around adventures to avoid a bout of anxiousness surrounding things that, logically, pose no actual threat.

When he articulated it so plainly, it highlighted just how wastefully I've been living. Or not living, actually. I mean, I love the aquarium. I'm going to go to the fucking aquarium. By giving myself permission to avoid the things that may make me feel uneasy, I've been giving them power over who I am and what I do. And to me, that seems pretty stinkin' stupid.

So now, I'm allowing myself to be brave. Once a month, I'm going to do at least one thing that makes me oh-so-very panicky in the hopes the huge wall of hyperbolic anxiety will finally let me through.

I'm not entirely sure what all of these will be yet. I'll have to see where the biggest sources of my anxiety rest, and move forward from there, systematically isolating and tackling them. However, I do know that for January I'll be going to a mixer for creative types where I'll know almost no one. I'll be presenting myself as a member of their tribe, truly branding myself as a person with something worthwhile to give, and to share, and to offer. This is a huge step. I'm going to come out of the safe little shadowy boxes I've so artfully crammed myself into, and moreover, I'm going to come out of them in new lipstick.

After nearly 24 years of dealing with this bullshit, I'm ready to lace up my tennis shoes, slam my apartment door behind me, and kick Fear in the nards. 2013, bitches.

UPDATE:

I went to the aquarium!

Lumpfish. True story.

[Insert Jaws theme song.]




"Hairy Otter" is a pretty decent name for vagina. Just sayin'.

 

Also Shmoyfriend and I got these shirts to commemorate the experience. I'm basically a baller and/or shot caller, save the 20-inch blades on the Impala. Mostly because I don't know what "blades" are, but a car with knives sounds SO DANGEROUS.

life lessons, melodramatic introspection, and a let's-be-honest pep talk

Right now, I'm sitting in a purple brick building drinking caramel apple cider and waiting for a friend to find out if she's won a bid on a house. A gorgeous house. Do people win bids? I don't know much about housing. But I digress.

Last night, as I drank cinnamon whiskey, watching lame movies via instant streaming on my tiny TV, and getting so caught up in crafting that I finally crawled into bed exhausted and exhilarated as the sun rose, I can't help but think that I am finally becoming the person I was meant to be. I try not to be too floofy (totally a word), about The Uuuuuuuniverse taking care of me, blah blah, but I can say with startling clarity that the last few months of fucking shit up has been leading to this glorious, abnormally-warm November day where I'm genuinely and furiously happy.

As most of you probably know, the last year (AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING YEAR HAS PASSED) has been an adventure for me of ginormous proportions. That's hyperbole, and makes it sound like I've been on a hobbit-like journey, when in reality I've just cried a lot, binge drank, and bought an obscene amount of ZzzQuil to cope with the little asshole known as insomnia. Mostly, I've just been overwhelmingly underwhelmed by cubicles, asshats, and the way my shoulders knot up beneath my ears in the way that makes me feel like if I don't GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL DIE. I think they call that anxiety, but I call it getting so upset I dry heave out my car window on the way to terrible jobs.

The answer to this problem was that I did get out. I got out over and over again, leaving behind jobs that were more welcome-to-the-dark-side-you-douchecanoe than you're-doing-something-good-for-society. And I felt guilty. Every single time, my anxiety seamlessly became this amorphous blob, fluctuating rapidly and unexpectedly between crippling fear, uncertainty, and a dirty conscience.

But something has changed. Me, mostly. I've learned that I'm the most important thing in my life. I've learned that if I need to wander around Hobby Lobby for three hours until I can calm my racing pulse, (and impulsively decide that I need to learn the fine art of wood burning), that's okay. Leaving meaningless jobs where I was nothing more than an anonymous zit on the ass of corporate business is okay. Eating apples and Nutella for four days straight is okay. I'm okay.

Is my depression magically cured? Absolutely not, but I'm on new meds, (oh, HAI, I take meds), and found a therapist I like. Do I have my dream job? No, my dream job is being a professional chocolate tester and also napper where the uniform is a flying squirrel onesie. But I do have a fulfilling position at a local school district where I matter. Did I wake up today and shit glitter in regards to the sheer wonderment of such a bright and shiny and magical day?! Unfortunately not, but that's probably okay since I've hypothesized the tiny glass shards within the glitter would probably make a messy exit. BLOODY BUTT MASSACRE 2012.

But I did wake up and brush my teeth, put on a cute sweater and leave the house. Progress.

I don't want to be all, seize the day because every day we're moving one day closer to death, but YOU GUYS. SEIZE THE DAY BECAUSE EVERY DAY WE'VE MOVING ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.

If this last year has taught me anything, it's to make time for what you love, to make time to live, whether that be knitting mittens, collecting coins, painting abstracts, or alphabetizing movies. Isolate what makes your eyes bright and your shoulders relax and go do it.

DO MORE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU AWESOME.

Also, don't eat a lot of glitter. Just in case.