Nothing like a panic attack to change things up...

Panic Attack- a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers severe physical reactions when there is no real danger or apparent cause. – Mayo Clinic

            The first panic attack I remember having, I was twenty-four years old. I was in a grocery store when it hit- I started sweating, felt dizzy, and thought I couldn’t breathe. I remember gulping for air like a fish out of water. Having never experienced anything like it, I didn’t know what to do. I remember leaving my cart, and going to sit in my car. I laid the seat all the way back, and waited for this horrifying feeling to go away.  I was so terrified, yet somewhere in the fog I remember thinking I would catch my breath after the next, then the next. Finally the feeling subsided, and I drove home. Anyone who knows me well knows the year I turned twenty-four was one of the hardest years I’ve ever been through.

            I tried to write it off as a one-time thing, sweep the feelings I had under the rug and forget. I had myself convinced it had never happened, until it happened again when I was twenty-six. I was just about to graduate university and reality was rushing towards me faster than I could handle. I tried to act like it was just common anxiety, just like every other college senior. Then I had another one, again in public. This time I couldn’t run to my car, I had to ride out the attack on the sideline of a rugby match. I gritted my teeth and hands so tightly, my jaw ached for a week and my fingernails cut into my hands.

            I went to talk to someone, thank you to my university for providing those kinds of services. The person I talked to was still in training, and I remember her asking me, “Just tell me a bit about why you think you needed to come here.” So I laid out a readers digest version of the last few years, and told her about these experiences I’d had. Next she said something, which most likely was very unprofessional, but endeared her to me all the same, “Holy shit- it’s a wonder you’re walking and talking right now. I’m glad you came to see me.” I continued to see her once a week until I graduated, telling her all about me and about these odd episodes I had. She put a name to them for me- Panic Attacks.

            You see I’m very good at putting my better feelings on display. I’m an extrovert, so people assume I’m happy all the time. Amongst family and friends I’m considered a reliable person, not prone to all kinds of drama, (just the usual amount. Come on, I am human dudes). I felt and still feel pressure to not let anyone know when I’m having a bad day, week, or month. She explained that most likely this was leading to the panic attacks I was having. They happened when I was under a great deal of stress, and felt like I couldn’t tell anyone for fear of letting them down. I remember reacting badly to this. I mean I knew I had a generalized anxiety of crowds, but plenty of people do. I also remember thinking not everyone had this issue, so there must be something wrong with me.

            After my sessions with her, I felt so much lighter. I graduated college, left a long-term relationship that was unhealthy, and started a new part of my life. Of course I had boughts of doubt and fear- I hadn’t been single in almost ten years, was living on my own, and starting a new job. I was meeting so many new people, dating and for the most part really enjoying everything. I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with one of those attacks again; I was going to be ok.

            My body had other ideas. It was New Years Eve going into 2012, and I was in Vegas with my new guy and friends. I was so happy, not a care in the world. We were in a club, and my boyfriend had gone off to the bathroom leaving me with my friend and her fiancé. All of the sudden, I felt it coming- this time my hands started tingling, then the sweating, then the breathing. I grabbed my best friend and told her I thought I was having an attack. Bless her, she took control, finding a wall for me to put my back against and when my boyfriend came back, told him we needed to get out of there. I was so embarrassed. I hadn’t told any of them I’d had these before. I had to explain to them the next day, mortified they would judge me. Of course they loved me, so they didn’t.

            This time I took them far more seriously, learning everything from relaxation exercises, controlled breathing, to trying out meditation. Honestly, sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. I have to remind myself during one that it can’t last. I’m not dying, if I pass out I’ll keep breathing, and I’ll be ok. I’ll be ok. I’ve had a few more over the last couple of years, usually triggered by feelings of being overwhelmed, (which is saying something- has anyone seen what my life is like?!).

            You’re probably wondering why I’m talking about any of this. I remember feeling alone when I first found out about these attacks. No one I knew suffered from them, (this was ignorance. Some of the most important people in my life do). So my thought is- sharing is caring. It does not mean I am weak. It means sometimes, my body has a moment. For me it’s a great reminder that I am not in control of all things. There are moments when I don’t have a grasp on any of it; things are completely out of my hands. Every time I have one, it really is all kinds of scary. The cool thing is, I’m always ok on the other side of these moments. Anyone who may think less of me for having them can get bent; they are a part of me. I’d love to never have another one for as long as I live, but I can’t predict that.

            We are not defined by moments like these. Moments when we are the furthest in the world from being in control of a damn thing. Coming from someone who thrives off control, these are probably one of the best things for me. Twisted, right? They remind me to let go, and it’s ok. I’ve said it more than once while writing this, and I’ll say it again- I’m ok.

My idea of love is...

            I was just asked what I thought love is. Truthfully, I feel that’s such a loaded question. Love is different for everyone. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks this. Since the question was posed to me, I decided I’ll just write what I think it is, in my very limited experience.

            The beginning of love is- Some times it’s a slow burn- I may have known them forever, but then there was that casual touch, that look. Now I don’t see them the same way. Or maybe it was instant- I had to cross the room just to talk to them. I may come across too strong, but they respond well and don’t even think I’m a looney for it. I don’t have to be around them every second of every day, but part of me wants to be. 

            The goofy smile I get on my face when I hear from them, how uncool I am when I respond. Shit- did I text back too fast? Did I just laugh like a hyena when they told me a joke? Eff I totally just snorted, and they heard it. Oh Niki- stop trying to act like you aren’t excited. I suck at aloof. This of course leads me to kicking myself until they respond again, and all is well with the world because they didn’t write me off. They happen to think I’m quirky, and dorky, sexy, and maybe even charming.

            I’m starting to learn their likes and dislikes, where they like to eat, what they like to do with their free time. I’m already too forgiving of things that would bother me in other people, but they are becoming my person. Dear god, don’t show them how twitterpatted I am, and if we have sex soon… well, then I’m done for. All I want to do is climb them like a tree, but I have to remind myself giving away the cookies too soon is not a good idea.

            They figured out that running their fingers down my neck is like kryptonite, and how much I love it when they touch my face when they kiss me.  For someone whose number one love language is not touch, I can’t get enough of touching them. They realize when I say I’m easygoing I actually mean it, and I really don’t think hard about how I dress, these patterns just clash together magically.  They forgive my dorky outbursts, and the fact I’m terrible at goodbyes- I could go on kissing them forever. Because I’m such a girl, I keep thinking of songs I want to share with them, they remind me of how I’m feeling.

            The thick of it- They aren’t the root of my happiness, but they enhance it. They set me on fire, and cool me down. When we get in a fight, even through my anger I want the fight to be over so we can make up. I want them to hold me and whisper in my ear they love me. They have seen me at my very worst- in the fetal position with the covers up to my nose, throwing the world’s biggest pity party. I’ve seen them angry- which truly frightens me, but I realize isn’t my job to fix. We bought two tubes of toothpaste because we squeeze toothpaste differently, so instead of fighting about it we found a compromise.

            We’ve begun a routine, maybe the way we lay out each other’s laundry, who does the dishes, takes out the trash. I fill out all the holiday and birthday cards, they drive on all the trips so I can pass out in the passenger seat.  We have the most exquisite ability to drive the other one crazy. They ruffle my hair when they see me because they know I hate it, I nibble the end of their nose, can’t really tell you why.  There isn’t a question mark, we are us.

            The rough part- Maybe we’ve been fighting too much. Maybe I became depressed, and they are taking it personally. I used to love their drive, now I think they work too damn much. We are frustrated, and scared. We have to choose.

            That’s when we show how truly brave we are. We stand by each other. We love one another, we just don’t like each other that much right now. I started looking back at pictures, remembering how much easier it was before I found out their mother hated me, how everyone expects us to hurry up and get married and produce some munchkins. Before I found out they were jealous of what I do for a living, and how I really hate how much they don’t listen when I talk. They can’t stand how much cooking bores me, and how sometimes I can spend entire days in bed watching Netflix or reading a book. I keep playing the cornball line from the Wedding Date in my head, “I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”

            They are my person, my partner, my friend. My champion, confidant, and sometimes the thorn in my side. We are not perfect- we are two imperfect people who chose one another. We chose. So now we are in this ride together, thick through thin. They are there for me, just like I am there for them. Even when one of us is scared, we fight through our fear. We don’t hold it against the other when we fail, fall short of who we know we can be. We check our pride, because pride only gets in the way of things.  We make each other better. Sometimes worse, but mostly better. We may not be the stuff of fairytales, and our love doesn’t always make sense to a casual observer. None of that matters. We are together, and we both believe we can conquer this life at each others side.

That’s what I think love is.

“I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is.” –Forrest Gump

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy- asking him to love her.” – Notting Hill

“You make me want to be a better man.” – As good as it gets

“It’s only in the mysterious equation of love that any logic or reason can be found.” – A beautiful Mind

30 and counting

            I am counting down the minutes. There are thirty-three more until my twenties are over. I will officially be thirty.

            I cannot say I will miss my teens, or my twenties. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed them immensely. I am a lucky broad, I’ve seen and done so much already in this life. I just would not relive them, or change them.

            I’m looking forward to what comes next. Maybe I will become a mother, a wife. Maybe I will go back to school, become a doctor. Travel the world, touching every continent on my way. Who knows what I will see, do, and who I may meet.

            I won’t lie, my thirties scare me a bit. I could never have imagined this is where I would be standing at this age. I had a very vague idea of where I would be by now. Sometimes the vision of thirty was far more clear to me. Other times so far in the distance, I wasn’t sure I would ever get there, yet here I am.

            I am proud of what I have seen and done, who I chose to love, and what I have done when life hit me below the belt. I cannot say I have many regrets, but there are a few. I wish my dad’s parents and my mum’s dad could see who I’ve become. I wish I’d taken more time to appreciate all I was seeing and doing. I really wish I could tell my younger self what kind of woman I would become, so on those dark days when I felt alone and afraid I would have had something to hold onto.

            I haven’t achieved all I dreamed I would by now. How funny it is to me now, the things I craved to have checked off my bucket list. Turns out there were other dreams in store, dreams I never could have imagined for myself.

            I am human, so of course I’m afraid the big dreams might not happen. One of the lessons I learned from my twenties is I actually didn’t dream big enough for myself. Luckily, I figured it out.

            The biggest lessons I’ll take with me from my previous thirty years are these- I am special. I have a unique rhythm, look, and way of walking in this world. Once I finally realized I will never fit in, my entire life changed. I can weather any storm. I have lost some of the most important people in my life, I’ve failed, walked away from things that were destroying me, I’ve felt broken in two, and I’ve had love taken away from me. Yet here I am, all the better for it.  I am raw, I am open, easily wounded by those I let in, yet tough as nails. I don’t make sense on paper, but I don’t have to. 

            So here it is- the big push. Nine minutes to go, and then the next thirty years begin. If what came before is anything to go by, this ride is gonna be a doozy.

            See all of you on the flipside.  Cheers.

The Mad Hatter:

“Have I gone mad?”

Alice:

“I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”

A love letter to mi madre

            There really is a holiday for everything, National Coming out Day, Secretary appreciation day, Christmas, Martin Luther King Day… and then there’s Mother’s Day. A holiday where most of us scramble to get a card, send some flowers, and make a long distance phone call to tell our mums we love and appreciate them.

            Well, I’ve decided recently to tell the people who are important to me how much I appreciate them, and not just on the holidays assigned to them. So here it is- a love letter about mi madre.

            My mum is a unique individual. She runs on a frequency higher than most, constantly in motion. When I try to describe her to people, I know I’m not doing her justice. You have to meet her to believe all the words and experiences I’m describing are wrapped up within her 5’3” frame. 

            She’s an activist, poet, gardener, dreamer, metal head, stay at home mom, wife, teacher, and the love of my father’s life. She used to take my brother and I to AIDS walks in Palm Springs, marched in Gay Pride Parades, we were members of NOW, (National Organization for Women), and she used to escort women into clinics when it was a thing for people to verbally attack and abuse women who were seeking medical help. She supported a women’s right to choose and gay rights before it was popular, and lost friends in the first waves of the AIDS epidemic.  When one of her best friends found out she had cancer, to show solidarity she shaved her head so her friend wasn’t alone when all of her hair started to fall out.

            She took my brother and I to see Malcolm X when it came out in the theater, (I was in the second grade) and explained his significance in the Civil Rights movement. She used to order Ebony Magazine and others that were predominantly black so I could see people who looked like me when I flipped the pages, and not just white models with straight hair that I could never have. She hung African art all over our house, and hung a little black angel on the Christmas tree.  And when Disney finally made a movie with a black Disney princess, I called and told her I wanted to see it with her, both of us getting a bit teary at the end because my kids wouldn’t feel left out the way I had when I was younger. She didn’t neglect her heritage either, telling us about her French and Irish roots, and how long her family had been in the United States. It takes a pretty amazing woman to not only be half of an interracial marriage, especially when she and my father were married in the first place, and to be the mother of mixed children- constantly dealing with questions about our ethnicity and whether we were adopted. 

            She used to go to Metal concerts and to the movies by herself, unafraid of venturing into the world unescorted. Later she fell in love with country, and would “Trace chase” Trace Atkins to different parts of the country. She got a tattoo before it was popular, and I would tell people about the “painting” my mother had on her ankle. She was and still is stylish without trying to be, dying her hair all kinds of colors and cutting it all different ways, back in the day wearing oversize glasses and one dangly earing, acid-wash jeans and pump up reeboks. When I was in high school and dying my hair, she would put a streak of the color I dyed mine in hers. She’d rather wear crazy prints and tye-dye over anything else.

            My father and I get a bit ticked at her on a regular basis, because when she looks in the mirror she doesn’t see what we see- a brilliant woman who could conquer the world if she wanted to. She’s walked through fire, (literally and figuratively) and come out a better and more positive person. She is a fascinating mix of fragility and ferocity, something I’ve tried and failed to understand how she balances. She champions the underdog, loves everyone, and believes people are truly good. The thing is, that’s what makes her so special. She’s so humble, she’s a constant reminder of the kind of person I should be.

            When I came out to her, telling her I was bi, she didn’t ask god why or tell me something was wrong with me. Her only concern was if I ended up with a girl, she knew I would opt out of getting pregnant. “(Sigh) You would have such beautiful children…” She loves me even though I can be a prize idiot, and stubborn ass. She’s always trying to be the best mum she can be to a broad like me, which is no easy feat.

            She chose to be a stay at home mum, at a time when feminists were telling all women they were letting down our sex by being traditional. This of course is complete BS. I know my brother and I are better people because she was there when we woke up and got home, and when my foster sisters came into our lives she helped show them what unconditional love truly was.

            She can’t sing worth a damn, can be a bit overbearing, very opinionated, knows how to cuss better than most sailors, and can be flat out bossy. All of that being said, these are her layers, adding to her own kind of perfection.

            Whenever she leaves this earth, (no time soon I hope) the world will be less bright, less loving, just less. She’s the glue that holds or little family together, my confidant, my friend. She’s my mother.

Why I'm gonna let my gut feeling win

            I can talk myself into, and out of anything. Leave me with something to think about and I’ll chew on it, spit it out, think about it some more, mull for awhile, then kick the thought until its dead. Seriously, I’ll Frankenstein that thing just to kill it again, (I think you get the idea here). My ability to overthink is through the roof, and being able to borrow all kinds of trouble on top of that- can really be something else.

            I’m not sure I will ever be able to kick the habit of overthinking, but there is something I am sure about- when I let my mind calm and listen to my gut, some kick ass things happen.

            I was taught to think things through, and decide on the best course of action.  We in the west believe the mind and body are divided, so phrases like, “Mind over matter” come into play. Listen, I’m not preaching to go about willy-nilly and never take into account the people and things around you and how they may be affected by your decisions.  That just makes you a prize idiot, and an asshat to boot. I’m not that inconsiderate, (at least I hope I'm not). What I’m saying is- I’ve learned after trial and error, heartbreak and failure, I am one of those people who needs to follow my gut. Then follow the bread crumbs that lead me there.

            I trust my instincts. My fight or flight abilities are well honed,  (safety words, anyone?). When I start to feel an overwhelming anxiety and put my head between my knees, I know something bad is going to happen. When I feel light and airy, I know something good is around the corner. When all I want to do is sleep, it’s because I know I’m dreading something. When I get the heebie geebies, I know I have no freaking business being around whoever is giving me that feeling. And when I feel a pull towards someone from an invisible string attached to my left ribs, I go with it.

            I am not perfect. I am scared, have been hurt, hate being wrong, and I fall down. I get frustrated and impatient, and can be bull-headed. But there’s that moment, when I just stop and feel it, man- it all falls into place when I do that.

            My work life changed once I started letting go of all my thoughts. Opportunities presented themselves, new adventures and amazing people. My relationships with family and friends grew so much stronger when I spoke from my heart and not my head. They seem to value my thoughts and advice, because they know I’m speaking as honestly as I can. And when it comes to love- I just started to really follow this. I definitely had blinders on in this department, and always followed my head. I would get a good push in the feels, then let my head take over and before I knew it, I was lost. I went for what was good on paper, and not what was good for me. Oh hindsight, you’re a bitch.

            Maybe it’s age that’s changed me. Maybe I’m finally learning. Most likely a combo, really. If I feel like something needs to be in my life, I’m going to pursue it. I’m sure there will be quite a few more bumps along the road, it wouldn’t be life if a wrench or two weren’t thrown into the mix.  But when it comes to love, I’m going for it. There’s nothing like sharing this wild and crazy life with someone. What a great way to retell your story, when it starts with, “I just felt it, and it was wonderful.”

“The juice is worth the squeeze.”