The Emotion of Pride

Don't be proud of others' accomplishments; be proud of your own.

One day in the not so distant past, I started thinking about a phrase that we have all used at one point or another. We use it as a congratulatory statement, to acknowledge a person's accomplishment of a personal goal, and don't give a thought to what it actually means. You know the statement: "I'm proud of you!"

In the past year or so, I've completely stopped using this statement. Not because I don't feel the emotions that come with the concept of pride, but because I have come to the conclusion that pride is a deeply personal emotion for your own accomplishments, and no one else's. Let me give you a concrete example of what I mean.

I have several friends who decided a year ago to start eating healthier and going to the gym regularly. They are all showing massive progress towards their goals, and some have even reached their goal weights and are talking about taking it further; some have just decided to maintain what they have done now; some are still working very hard towards their goal.

I am so happy my friends who have reached their goal weight have done so. They have posted progress reports and pictures on Facebook, and when I see them in person they truly look amazing (the camera does no one any justice). I'll admit to a twinge of longing too, because I also want to get few extra pounds off.

These are remarkable achievements for anyone who is on the weight-loss journey. But by saying "I'm proud of you!" I feel like I'm taking ownership of some of that accomplishment away from the person who really owns it. I didn't help that person with anything but maybe some cheerleading along the way. Should I really be proud of being a cheerleader, saying words that come so easily when I see the product of that hard work, when someone else put all the work into their diet and exercise to lose their extra pounds?

When I look back over my own life, there are few goals that I'm truly proud of myself for achieving. It seems that more than a few of my accomplishments were set to make others happy. There are also a lot of times when pride stood in the way, or made me do things that ultimately I'm not proud of, and caused me heartache and pain.

A friend of mine once called me humble when we talked about my thoughts on pride. I don't think it's humility. I think it's acknowledging that pride is not an inherently good emotion; be proud of yourself, but be happy for your friends and family. Their accomplishments are not yours to claim. Congratulate them instead, and express your honest admiration for them, but don't take even the smallest bit of their own pride away.

Stage Fright

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.
— Victor Hugo

My mother had this electronic keyboard that was set up next to her real piano, and for some strange reason, I was drawn to these instruments like a moth to flames, ever since I was a baby. I had putzed around a little bit on the piano, but playing seemed beyond my grasp. My mother played her piano with what seemed to me such grace and beauty, the way children think everything their parents do is perfect, but I still knew when she played the wrong notes, because it sounded "different" in my head.

Keep in mind that I was four, but I remember this bit really very clearly: I had made the connection between the pages that had this strange language on it and what it was she was playing, and could follow along, because the higher notes were higher on the bars on the page and the lower ones were lower on the bars on the page. One day, I noticed that the keyboard had the same language, spelled out in the "letters" of this language, above certain keys. There was also a translation, a Rosetta Stone as it were, above the letters of this language, C, D, E, F, G, A, B.

I had learned how to read in English by this time, thanks to my preschool teachers, so I knew the process of learning how to read. All I had to do was take that knowledge and apply it to this strange language. So I pressed those keys on that electronic keyboard, and listened to each of the notes. Since the keys were laid out in the same pattern above and below where these notes were written, I made the connection that they were the same note names. They also sounded similar, and when I pressed the same keys in the same place they made this wonderful "same" sound in my head.

OK, so this is my roundabout way of telling you that I taught myself how to read music. I remember it taking about a week to make these connections, and then another week to find a piece of music that was simple enough to read and learn, and then I was off to the races.

When we started going to church, I think I was around the age of six, I further learned how these notes worked. I learned how to make these notes into vocal song. I learned little harmonies, and how those notes worked together in those little harmonies. We did music in school, and the teacher there saw how I lit up when we sang in class. I think she knew what it meant to me — it was an escape. I continued singing in choirs throughout college, to the consternation of some, and the relief of others.

When I was nine, I started playing the violin. My little hands just weren't big enough for anything else. They still really aren't. I can't play a Corelli piece to save my life; I just don't have the stretch. It isn't a lack of talent, I'm sure my teachers would tell you that. I'll come back to the violin a little later in this blog.

I write all this to tell you about how anxiety has kept me back from fully enjoying the experience of making music. Anxiety will insinuate itself into the deepest corners of your mind, and try to destroy anything you hold most close to your soul. I love music so much because it is an escape, but it is also a trap for anxiety, my anxiety, to snare me.

To perform, you have to play and sing to an audience, and to advance your musical career, you have to play and perform alone or in a small group. I have had terrible stage-fright my entire life. I have blamed it on a fear of microphones in the past, but that isn't really true.

I can get up on stage and speak from no notes whatsoever on my other interests and passions, but playing or singing alone? I need encouragement beyond anyone's wildest beliefs. Why is it that I am so afraid of this, that I even have difficulty singing in karaoke?

This is what I've come to understand about myself: I am terrified, absolutely and unequivocally petrified, of being judged. I have always had what I think is an intense knowledge of what is going on around me at all times, and judgement by others. I'm hyper-aware of microexpressions in people's faces, and how they are responding to stimuli. My mother says she recognized this in me from a very young age, possibly back before I was even toddling around.

Singing or playing in a group is not an issue for me, but by myself is... I pour everything I have into music. Yes, it depends on the piece, but it is all about the expression of that music, the emotion behind the notes and the words and the dynamics, and it strips my soul bare for everyone with eyes to see it. It has to be perfect whether I'm singing melody or harmony, but it also shows my barest self, my naked self, my beautiful side and my ugly, my pain and my frustration. It shows me as I cannot hide, and leaves me vulnerable to those judging looks and staring eyes.

I confronted a part of that fright this weekend. I was a junior in high school, and I was singing in the choir then, but wasn't playing my violin much, just at home. After a performance, my mother gave me a proud-of-you-hug, and then she cut me to my core with one little statement: "You look like you're in pain when you sing." Then she turned and walked to the car.

This almost made me give up music for good. It stopped me in my tracks, and made me doubt every time I had ever sung, ever played, ever thought I was good at making music. I stopped thinking that I could possibly make a living at music, which many of my music directors thought I should pursue at college. I stopped thinking it was viable that I could help direct the children's choirs at church; I stopped thinking about advancing my talents and maybe sharing them with others. What was the point, when apparently all I conveyed was that I was in pain?

It took me 15 years to confront her about this little statement, and that it still makes me cry. I'm crying now, just writing about it. Her response was, "I thought it would help you. It helped a vocalist I once knew a long time ago, before I said it to you."

No, Mom, it didn't help. It hurt. It sliced into the one thing I knew I was good at, the one thing I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt I could do, could work hard at without failing, could escape into and find solace in and curl up into and release at the same time. It chopped up my heart into little tiny pieces and left them scattered the gym floor like bits of confetti left over from prom night. It shattered me.

I'm not blaming her entirely, because I could have just picked up the pieces and soldiered on. I did, after a fashion. I continued singing in choirs (I even got asked by the choir director in college to be a "ringer" my senior year, where I didn't get class credit for singing in his choir, and to move around from alto to soprano depending on where he needed an extra voice or to keep others on-key), and I participated in some remarkable ensemble pieces, and even minored in violin performance in college... but I didn't major in it. I didn't play or sing outside of school, beyond some drunken attempts to sing karaoke.

I sing in the car now. I've never been one to sing in the shower, but I could. I sing when no one's around to see my face. I want to sing in a choir again... I want to SING again... I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I'm good enough. But this time, I really am in pain.

A Sense of Family? Maybe?

Isn't our family's tartan pretty?
Coral and brown on a field of bright blue.

Ever since I was little, I remember there being an intense sense of family pride. This wasn't some vague notion of what we were as our little family unit — we were members of a glorious Scottish clan (and Irish, if we want to count my mother's maiden name), and whatever we did was to honor that name and the heritage of the Picts. My mother cross-stitched the family crest for my dad, and we always had a spot of the family tartan in the house.

Here's the family crest. For those who are interested,
the Fortiter et Recte simply means "Boldly and Rightly."

I enjoy learning about Scotland and our family's role in Scottish history. It's not explored much in the history books, but those in the know know how integral our family was to Scottish independence. It also doesn't help that there was a fire in the 18th century that kind of destroyed the family record, but as far as anyone really knows we emerged as a clan (or family) with a tartan and chieftan, abruptly, in the 15th century. Maybe I'm descended from elves who decided to become mortal. Our clan is known for producing some "weird ones."

For all of the family pride and honor... I don't think I quite live up to it, especially the "Boldly" claim. I do have a strong ethical compass, which I know was inherited from both my parents, but which we blame on the Scottish genes. I've done some things in the name of family honor which no one knew about until I explained it, many years later.

The reality is that I wish I could go to Scotland and visit the land from which my ancestors came, and from where I feel this inexplicable draw originating. I've spent my entire life feeling like I didn't fit in, and I don't. Not quite. I might have to explore that concept a little further down the road.

I've never felt a sense of home. I know that's silly to read, but it's even sillier when you know that I grew up with my parents' marriage intact, a strong bond with my extended family, and that I love a great many friends all over the world, who are from any number of backgrounds, as if they were family. All that does not contribute to a sense of home for me.

Family isn't just my clan, or the people I happen to share genetic material with; home isn't just my family or the people with whom I live. It's deeper, stronger, and wider than all of that. I truly see my close friends as my family, and I see in them a need to do something more than what I am doing. What that is, as yet, remains to be seen — and perhaps I'll never know what it is.

Fortiter et Recte indeed.

Musing About Past Acquaintances

I completely stole this from The Foundry - Chicago's website.
It's too cute not to share.

I was sitting at my computer thinking about the myriad people I've met throughout my life, and how much I wish some of them had stayed, and how glad I am that some have left me alone. There are always those whom you instantly feel connected to on some level, and some who are instantly repellant.

I remember this one woman who was around my age and who was instantly repellant to every fiber of my being. I met her when I was still figuring out whether I was going to continue working or to go back to college and finish my degree, and she was working on the student newspaper. I was encouraged by my mother go to by the student newspaper and introduce myself, and to ask if I could copy edit a little bit for them.

This woman, I'll call her K, knew who I was before I knew who she was; in fact, how could she not, since my mother and I have similar enough features. I had heard my mother, a communications professor, talk about K a great deal, how talented she was, how much potential she had, her leadership skills, etc. I had been primed to like this woman once I met her, as she sounded like a wonderful person to know... on paper.

K was not thrilled to meet me, however much she had heard from my mother about me. She laid eyes on me and apparently determined that I was a threat, though to whom I would be a threat I still have no idea. She instantly covered up her scowl with a fake smile to make a beauty queen blush and proceeded to talk over me whenever I had a question with one of the writers about how they had worded a particular phrase, and to otherwise ignore me even if I had a direct question for her. I was there to learn, as introduced by Mom, was not a student at the school at that time, and was there to determine if working on the student newspaper was not in my future in some way.

As I was sitting here thinking about how much she seemed to detest my mere existence, the thought came unbidden "She gives a bad attitude a bad name." Have you ever had similar thoughts about anyone you've met?

Please Tell Me I'm Not the Only One...

Monday, I went to the center that houses my doctor and counselor, and talked to the guy who handles assistance for people who can't afford to go anywhere else. He coordinates things like vocational rehab, food bank assistance, prescription drug assistance, and other things like that.

This appointment went as well as could be expected. I told him the most traumatic of my experiences, which I haven't quite gotten the nerve to express here yet. (But just you wait... it'll be worth it, I promise.) It was in due course of our conversation that it would come out; and it's something I need to air, over and over again, until the reality of it is no longer so terrifying.

Maybe I was a little sensitive after telling him part of my story, and the sheer compassion in his eyes was so touching. Maybe I really just needed to come home and cry my eyes out because of the retelling. I know my anxiety was just looking for any excuse to be paranoid, but it struck me as I drove home that this has been my entire life...

There was a man standing outside the center waiting on his ride. Maybe it was a friend coming to pick him up, maybe it was the public transportation, maybe it was a cab. All I know is that immediately alarm bells started ringing so loudly in my head as soon as I made eye contact with this character.

My immediate reaction upon making eye contact with anyone is to smile at them, to acknowledge their presence. Everyone appreciates someone acknowledging that they exist, and I can't help that smile any more than I can help that my heart beats without me thinking about it. This man smiled back, but that creepy, leery smile that really sets every hair on my head and body on edge.

As I was walking away, it was like a staccato drumbeat:
Oh my God, he's thinking about what he's going to do to my body.
He's watching me walk away and looking at me like a piece of meat.
He's thinking about ways to hurt me.
Hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt.
Pain, pain, pain.
He's going to hurt me and there will be nothing anyone can do to stop it.
Can I scream?
Will I be able to scream?
What will people think if I scream?
He's going to come to my car door and he's going to try to grab me.
Lock it, lock it, lock the damn door.
Key in the ignition, drive away,
Drive away fast. Get home, get safe.
Safe, safe, safe... need safety.
Need to be safe. Feel safe. 

My teeth were chattering when I got home and not because it's springtime and the shade is a little cool. I was terrified that this man was somehow going to know where I live and was going to find me.

Ludicrous, right? Absolutely ridiculous that this or something like it will drum through my brain a million miles an hour, faster than I can catch it happening. Even more ridiculous is that ever since I was small, I can remember being afraid that someone was going to hurt me.

He looks like he's mean. He looks like he's going to hurt me. He's got a beard. Beards mean bad men. Bad men have hair on their face.
She looks like she's mad at me for some reason. She's got that look on her face, she's just inches away from me now... I didn't do anything, why is she mad at me? 
Run, run, run away. Block it out, block them out, don't talk, don't draw attention to yourself, don't don't don't... don't hurt me, please don't say something that'll make me cry. Don't hurt me.

All this because an absolute stranger might have a stormcloud over their head that day.

Or in the case of the man waiting for his ride under the tree, he might have had a disorder that meant he couldn't help staring at me. Or, since there was no one out there but him and me, he might have just been staring because I was the only thing moving and a pretty woman smiled at him kindly.

Outrageous Panic in NYC

A couple of my known triggers for panic are crowds and unknown faces. I've always known that if I didn't have a specific job to do within a crowd, I get anxious for absolutely no reason, other than the sheer volume of people surrounding me. I privately call it "specific agoraphobia," because I don't panic if I have a specific task list to accomplish; I guess you could say that I'm so focused on that task list that I don't know when I'll fit panicking into my list!

New York City. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. Or, for me, the city that induces absolute terror. Crowds of people everywhere, and no eye contact whatsoever unless it's by accident or in the job description. I went to NYC with my university's student newspaper crew for a big conference of other student newspapers around the nation. I should have been thrilled with the opportunity to go to NYC; instead, I was petrified before we even began.

I'm not afraid of flying, nor of turbulence, nor of landing. Circling the Statue of Liberty was thrilling as we came into JFK International Airport. The cabbie, and other New York drivers, could stand to learn a thing or two about personal bumper space from the South, and speed limits for that matter, but it was interesting to cross the bridges from Queens to Manhattan at a lightning fast pace with seven other women.

We stayed at the hotel reserved for the conference, the Roosevelt Hotel. Nice place, reminiscent of the Swinging 20s, what with the Art Deco accent pieces, oriental-style carpeting, dark stained wood, stained glass, and brass fixtures everywhere. I could have spent our entire trip exploring that hotel with a critical eye to the crown moulding, the details in the wood panelling, and the light fixtures. Figuring out how to use a rotating door with a constant stream of incoming and outgoing people was tricky, but the doorman kind of figured out I was from upper-class but backwater South Carolina, and he always held the stationary door open for me. Sweet man.

I had no idea what was expected of me at this conference. There weren't that many sessions scheduled for copy editors, which I am great at by the way, and I had no time to gather my wits about me before I was thrust into the first of these breakout sessions. Perhaps if I had had more time to simply process where I was, I'd have gotten more out of these sessions, but I don't recall anything meaningful from them!

What I do remember is the Saturday night we decided as a group to head to an Italian restaurant, just outside of Times Square, to take advantage of our one university-sponsored meal. One of the members of the group had a grandfather who lived in NYC, and he recommended this place above all others in the city for where we were. I kind of wish it had been in Little Italy, but it wasn't.

Of course, being from out of town and wanting to make sure we had a table, our advisor, my mother, made a reservation for 30 minutes ahead of time. We immediately began our trek, and bobbed and weaved our way through multiple groups of people waiting in line outside restaurants and clubs of all sorts. I saw more skin on display out there in 30 degree weather in March than I generally do at the pool in August here in SC. I also accidentally caught the eyes of many people staring us down in that indefinable way of the world-weary and wary Northeastern US resident.

By the time we were halfway to the restaurant, I was starting to feel the panic rise like bile in my throat. My heart was beating to burst out of my chest and lay itself on the pavement in exhaustion. The rushing of blood in my ears was drowning out the encouraging cries of my companions, the staccato pattern of car horns honking, and the natter-nattering chatter of the people we wended our way through and around as a fast-moving water current breaks through a beaver's half-constructed dam, to only have it seamlessly come back together as the haphazard lines formed again behind us. My eyesight dimmed, barely registering the bodies we pushed through and around, and my eyeballs themselves felt as though they were made of molten lead. I saw the pinpricks of light at the edges of the darkness, a surefire sign to me that I was on the brink of losing control of my body and my mind, and my body felt as if it were simultaneously freezing to death and burning in a pit of lava. I burst into a cold sweat as I battled these internal elements, knowing I was as pale as death and looked as though I had just recently risen from the grave. My mother held one hand while the editor of our newspaper held the other, following the tiny form of our guide, the granddaughter, to our end destination.

We skidded to a halt outside the restaurant, and I could go no further. The crowd in front of this restaurant was milling to and fro like a wind-tossed sea, and the battle I was fighting with my body was done, my ship could not stand the forward momentum any longer. There were stools available, but I couldn't trust my body to heave itself onto one of those tall contraptions without spilling over the other side of it, so I wedged my hind end onto a bottom rung between the legs of the stool and held my head between my knees. I just wanted to lie down on the terra cotta floor tiles and let the waves of panic wash over me, taking me completely out of the time and place I was in, but my mother squatted down and held my head, thinking she would keep me shielded from my internal demons by blocking out the external forces that brought them forth.

I tried, feebly, to push her away, as over the rushing blood in my eardrums I could hear my companions asking what was wrong with me, and her response of, "She doesn't do well in crowds. I don't know what it is, but she just doesn't do well in crowds. Does anyone have any idea of when we'll get seated?" Meanwhile, the pinpricks were growing ever stronger and crowding what vision I had left, and I felt as though I were calling through a cavern as I asked my mother to please find me a glass of ice water or let me succumb to the lethargic sludge I felt my body had become. The concerns of other patrons were voiced, and through the din I heard the judging laser-sharp and shrill voice of some other customer, as loud as if it were spoken in my head rather than in the sea of people, "Well, if she doesn't do well in crowds, she's got no place in New York!" There was a sharp retort from one member of our party, which my focus could not find in the darkness that was overtaking me, so it enhanced my sense of shame that I could not stand up for myself to the harpy instead.

We were seated sometime after, and I sucked down the provided ice water as if I had just come in from the desert. The women all looked at me with various degrees of concern, and perhaps fear, and all I could feel was judgement from every corner. I averted my eyes from them, pleading with my mother with my eyes instead, to explain this, as I could still feel the hot and cold tendrils of panic shooting lightning through my frayed nerves, making my skin jump at the texture of my coat, my sweater, and my jeans, the feel of my hair brushing my shoulders, the infinitesimal pricks of nails and hair growing micrometers at a time, the sweat drying in odd places on my skin, and I felt my brain rattle against my skull, screaming at me how wrong this all was and that we should just go away for a while. I felt the marbles shift in my dry mouth, echoing in the cavern that was my ears, telling the women I was with that I would be fine, I just needed a minute to catch my breath.

I feel so ashamed of that moment, and so many others like it. I have no control over this feeling, and at times I lose all function and do not retain consciousness. It worries me, and makes me wonder what happens when I do lose myself in the dark. Even more concerning is my knowledge that if I had been the guide through the morass, I'm sure I wouldn't have had this particular experience to share with you.

Rambles About Last Week... and Further in the Past

One of the problems with trying to work in a "for or without cause" state is that you can be let go for no reason from a job. One of the best things about working in a "for or without cause" state is that you can leave for no reason. I've experienced both.

I was so excited three weeks ago, because I'd finally been hired by what I thought was an amazing small business. I've signed a nondisclosure agreement so I can't give details on the company (nor would I really want to), but I got let go from it last week. The reason I was given? "He [the company owner] is just looking for a certain kind of personality, and you don't have it."

Maybe it's because I pushed back when I was asked, kind of forcefully, to compromise my ethics and write a response as a 'customer' to a negative review another customer had left for this company. Maybe it's because I asked for a little bit of time with the operations manager to actually learn how to do the paperwork at that job that required more brain cells than answering the phone, having it be the owner of the company, and directing it to said operations manager just to have her spend most of the day talking to him rather than teaching me how to do that paperwork. And maybe I'm just sensitive to that above statement, because this isn't the first time I've gotten in trouble for my personality.

At a previous (contractor) employment, I got written up for the most trivial and mind-blowing of reasons: I was laughing too much. I have a well-developed sense of humor; you'd have to have one if you're going to make it through the potential minefield of my-life-so-far. At that point, my father had had his final brain surgery and things weren't looking good, my contract was about to expire with no real hope of renewal, and I had been assigned a monumental task (after the due date, I might add) that took all my time away from my other responsibilities. Those who knew my situation at home and cared about me took it upon themselves to call or come by my workspace and talk to me — and anyone who knows me knows I have a finely honed sense of "snark."

Needless to say, I laughed at just how ludicrous that write-up was, and right in the supervisor's face. I got let go two weeks later, just after I'd turned in that monumental project, and was escorted out like the criminal laugher I am.

I've also left jobs, not because I didn't need the income, but because I have ethical and moral standards. One of those things I've learned in my various employments is that every company needs procedures on the books. It's not often that you identify a need and offer to fix that need within a company, but at this one, I couldn't help but offer.

The company in question was contracted by a federal agency to help people on disability benefits find — and retain — jobs. This was the only company in the network that operated as a call center and had no attached career placement capabilities. People couldn't come into the company and talk face-to-face with their assigned coach; they had to talk over the phone.

Well, I was promised when I took the job that my job was to rework the website so that it was more functional and conduct social media marketing, which I told them would take about nine months to see progress made in that regard. When I actually started working there, my coworkers would come to me to complain about the lack of procedures, and when I had observed the day-to-day operations of the company, I realized that those folks were right.

I'm no good on the phone in a call center. My voice gets tired, I get cranky because I hear too much in the background and I lose focus on my own calls, and I need time to recharge my batteries before I get on the phone again. Fielding calls and throwing them to the appropriate individuals, or taking messages, no problem. And I need eye contact, because I need to be reminded on some level that I'm talking to human beings.

This company slowly but surely was taking away all of my internet-related duties, ignoring my requests to write procedures for them (gods above, the contradictory information that the call center staff was given day in and day out still gives me the heebie-jeebies), and putting me on the phones. I finally had it, and told them that if I couldn't firmly establish what the rules were and put them in black-and-white procedures (my ethical boundaries snapped), and that if I couldn't do what I was promised I was hired to do and was finally seeing real results happen, then I QUIT.

I'll be the first to tell you that I know that work is not all sunshine and roses and rainbows, but there's something about my personal makeup that says I must help others and that I must address those issues I see with systems that need fixing. How I'll do that in the future remains to be seen, but I dream of a job where my ability to see these things is valued and encouraged, rather than attempted to be beat out of me by a system that doesn't much care.

An Introduction to Fear

I took the URL for this blog about a year ago, and since then I have started and stopped writing this inaugural post, writing a good deal and then erasing it all, ignoring the fact that I even started it for the longest time, but I think... I think it's time to start being serious about this.

I think what stopped me was that I thought no one would want to read about what's going on in my life, and maybe that I was afraid that potential employers would find this and use it against me; and then I realized, tonight, it doesn't matter and the right employer will see this for what it is, an outlet. What matters most is that I need to have an outlet for what's going on, and privately journalling, while great, sometimes takes more effort than I have — and I can type faster than I can write too!

Part of the human experience, in my experience, is that we all have demons that chase us. My demons seem to have been just waiting for me to exit the womb. My mother says that I was born with a smile on my face and a wrinkle in my brow, and she just knew I'd taken on the cares of the world at that moment.

I've been literally scared of everything for as long as I can remember. Startling at the smallest sound, trembling in the presence of friends, and petrified of strangers and what they'll do to me... it sounds so silly! But this has been my experience, and it has been very difficult to articulate for the past 30 years. There are days when I look out the window, and literally cannot muster up enough courage to leave the bed. My mother had to institute a rule in the house: "If you're not puking, have white stuff on your tonsils, or don't have fever, you're going to school." Well, I hate puking and will do anything to prevent it, I've been mercifully given only very rare bouts of strep throat, and my temperature has always run cool; if I have a fever, I'm probably knocking on death's door. But that doesn't mean that I had to talk while I was in the classroom.

A lot of people will tell you, when you tell them that you're scared, that it's nothing to be afraid of; alternatively, they'll tell you that everyone's afraid of that. What they don't understand, what I don't understand, is how fear affects your life. For me, it's conquering the fears everyone else seems to have, like a fear of falling, or speaking to large audiences, or holding a snake — but those little ones are what stop me in my tracks. Those little ones like learning how to ride a bike, or telling your friends that you need help, or here lately, telling your doctors that you know you need help. 

I'm on two prescriptions for my anxiety now and facing an uphill battle war that's been 30 years in the making. I've had to tell my doctors, "Look, the depression is always going to be there, no matter what, because both sides of my parentage have passed that down to me. I need some help to not be scared of my own shadow. The smile on my face, and the giggles, they hide the part of me that is trembling just talking you right now. I need you to see that I'm fighting for the breath to tell you this, and it's only the things I've learned that help me cover up my fear, the giggling, the smiling, that keep me from running out that door."

I hope I can continue my drug regimen. I hope I can continue to see my doctors. I hope I'm not leaning too much on my friends and family, asking them to please be there for me. I look at those bills piling up with no way of paying for them, and I'm scared I'll lose that hope. Worse than that, I'm terrified that I won't win enough battles, and that I'll lose the war against my anxiety.