It's kind of like drowning.
Your mind is racing, thoughts flying around wildly as you struggle to catch your breath. Nothing makes sense and the thoughts won't stay in place long enough for you to process them; they are scrambled blurs of pictures and sounds. You try to focus on breathing but your thoughts distract you and you forget. While your mind has shifted into overdrive, everything around you has slowed significantly. Or is it the other way around? You aren't sure. You can't tell which way is up, or if up is really down. You will realize you are crying when you feel the tears on your face, no sooner. They actually surprise you because you aren't sure why exactly you are shedding tears. Your mind will flail about frantically, but eventually you resurface and things are okay again.
It's called a panic attack...although I don't think its name gives this occurrence due justice. If it were my decision it would be called a holy-shit-I-think-I'm-dying attack. Or something like that.
I didn't really start having these overwhelming bouts of anxiety until a few weeks ago, while I was working as a counselor at a large summer camp. I'd been there for a couple weeks--I worked for a total of six, so I still had about three and a half to go-- when I started to just kind of...fall apart. It was a rough summer, the most strenuous I've had yet, and with everything that happened combined with the fact that I would be leaving for college two weeks after I returned home from camp, I think it became too much.
I came to that realization earlier today as I was lying on the floor of my dorm room in the midst of a panic attack. Only two words were clear in my mind at that moment...
Too much.
Which, when I'm thinking clearly is a huge conflict, because Jesus says He won't ever give us more than we can handle. So why am I having these ridiculous attacks that make me feel certain I am having some sort of breakdown? At first I saw two options. One, Jesus lied. Two, This is not, in fact, too much for me to handle. The former is beyond absurd; it's impossible. So that left me with option number two. But then it hit me--there is a THIRD option.
Perhaps this IS too much for me to handle...alone. But Christ says that we're never alone. He had Himself nailed to that cross so that I wouldn't have to carry my cross all by myself. That's what the Body of Christ is for. And here I am walking around like an idiot assuming that I am somehow an exception to that; that somehow I'M strong enough to do this completely by myself. I've lived in that illusion for about 18 years now.
God sent me a friend while I was at camp. Funny story, actually. I fainted a little over a week into the first session--it was REALLY hot, and my body decided it had had enough for the moment-- and she was the nurse who took my blood pressure upon waking up (I don't remember any of that, but she says she was there, so I'm going with it). Anyway, she loves Jesus with a sweet and genuine heart and I was lucky enough to be taken under her wing. She loved on me and continues to do so in a way that I've never experienced before.
And yet I continuously refuse to allow her to do so. But--I promise--I don't do it on purpose. It's just that...she tells me things that I've never heard before, that I have an incredibly difficult time comprehending. It's not that I don't want the love she so willingly gives or the Truth that she is constantly reminding me of. I do. I want it. I need it. I crave it. And it scares the shit out of me. I'm afraid that if I let someone in, if I open myself up, I'll only end up heartbroken. But I know that Jesus sent me my friend with a purpose because I feel safe with her. Her presence is comforting to me. I tell her she makes me sleepy because when I'm around her I'm able to completely relax, I'm comfortable, I'm...safe.
My prayer is that Jesus will soften my heart and allow me to share it with my friend so that she can help me carry the hurt and the pain that is starting to consume me entirely. She insists that she WANTS to, so I need to start believing her. I need to let Jesus love me and start to heal me through her. The question now is...how? How do I reverse a mindset that I've had since I was a little girl?
Christ has the answer, and I pray that I remember to trust in the fact that He knows what He's doing, and that my life is not only in His hands, but that He cherishes me as his own. His daughter. His beloved. I think that's the start. Where the healing begins.
"For I will restore health to you and heal you of your wounds," says the Lord. (Jeremiah 30:17)
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Crazy Bagel Lady
A Baker’s Dozen consists of thirteen bagels. A Bagel Bunch has eight bagels. And to be honest I don’t even know how many bagels are supposed to go into a Bagel Pack…six maybe. These special bagel deals that the bakery I work at are supposed to save customers money, and ultimately increasing our revenue.
Yesterday, a woman approached the counter, and I instantly inferred from her disheveled look and blank expression that this was not her day. I—in an attempt to be chipper—smiled and asked the woman what I could get her. She paused just long enough to make the moment awkward, and then grumbled that she’d take seven bagels. Well, clearly, this was annoying. Why in the name of everything holy would this woman knowingly choose to order a seven pack of bagels when she could get eight for a better price? So, assuming she had simply made a mistake, I asked if she meant she wanted a Bagel Bunch. She looked at me like I had just asked her how much she weighed. Obviously offended, she sighed dramatically and repeated that no she did not want a Bagel Bunch, she wanted seven bagels. My cheerfulness was wearing thin and things were going downhill very quickly.
As I stood there, burning holes into this ridiculous woman with my eyes, our company’s motto came to mind: the customer is always right. No matter what. Do anything the customer says. As I considered this, I realized just how insane this rule is. Obviously, the customer is actually not always right, because after examining the situation from all angles, I concluded that this woman was wrong. She was just wrong. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb here; not only is the customer not always right, the customer is almost NEVER right. A few seconds later she pulled me out of my thoughts with another irritated sigh. I took a deep breath and politely explained to the woman that only an idiot would buy seven bagels when she could get one extra bagel for a cheaper price. She responded very irrationally by dramatically demanding to speak to a manager.
Now, granted, I am nearly incapable of patience, but this woman would have pissed Ghandi off. I found myself infuriated by her stubborn stupidity and I silently cursed her as I walked to the back to find my manager.
I know she did it just to spite me. I’m absolutely certain of it. The manager explained to her the exact same thing that I had only a few moments ago, yet, this time her eyes widened and I could practically see the light bulb floating above the woman’s hollow head. She smiled and said of course she’d like to purchase the Bagel Bunch, and why hadn’t someone told her that in the first place! Was I speaking in Swahili? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.
Now that we’d avoided the Bagel Bunch crisis, it was time for her to select which flavors she wanted. Here we go, round two. Ma’am, I said, what kinds of bagels would you like?
What do you mean? I just want eight regular bagels.
Oh ok, so eight plain?
No! I don’t want them all to be plain, just some.
Ok…so what about the others?
Just give me some of everything.
It was unclear to me at this point whether she wanted several bagels of all different flavors, or several of our “everything” flavored bagels. It took roughly twenty-two days for us to get everything settled, but eventually she took her stupid bagels and stalked out of the store.
I handled it fairly well, I think. I charged her for a dozen and gave her the original seven. Go ahead, lady, make my day.
Yesterday, a woman approached the counter, and I instantly inferred from her disheveled look and blank expression that this was not her day. I—in an attempt to be chipper—smiled and asked the woman what I could get her. She paused just long enough to make the moment awkward, and then grumbled that she’d take seven bagels. Well, clearly, this was annoying. Why in the name of everything holy would this woman knowingly choose to order a seven pack of bagels when she could get eight for a better price? So, assuming she had simply made a mistake, I asked if she meant she wanted a Bagel Bunch. She looked at me like I had just asked her how much she weighed. Obviously offended, she sighed dramatically and repeated that no she did not want a Bagel Bunch, she wanted seven bagels. My cheerfulness was wearing thin and things were going downhill very quickly.
As I stood there, burning holes into this ridiculous woman with my eyes, our company’s motto came to mind: the customer is always right. No matter what. Do anything the customer says. As I considered this, I realized just how insane this rule is. Obviously, the customer is actually not always right, because after examining the situation from all angles, I concluded that this woman was wrong. She was just wrong. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb here; not only is the customer not always right, the customer is almost NEVER right. A few seconds later she pulled me out of my thoughts with another irritated sigh. I took a deep breath and politely explained to the woman that only an idiot would buy seven bagels when she could get one extra bagel for a cheaper price. She responded very irrationally by dramatically demanding to speak to a manager.
Now, granted, I am nearly incapable of patience, but this woman would have pissed Ghandi off. I found myself infuriated by her stubborn stupidity and I silently cursed her as I walked to the back to find my manager.
I know she did it just to spite me. I’m absolutely certain of it. The manager explained to her the exact same thing that I had only a few moments ago, yet, this time her eyes widened and I could practically see the light bulb floating above the woman’s hollow head. She smiled and said of course she’d like to purchase the Bagel Bunch, and why hadn’t someone told her that in the first place! Was I speaking in Swahili? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I said.
Now that we’d avoided the Bagel Bunch crisis, it was time for her to select which flavors she wanted. Here we go, round two. Ma’am, I said, what kinds of bagels would you like?
What do you mean? I just want eight regular bagels.
Oh ok, so eight plain?
No! I don’t want them all to be plain, just some.
Ok…so what about the others?
Just give me some of everything.
It was unclear to me at this point whether she wanted several bagels of all different flavors, or several of our “everything” flavored bagels. It took roughly twenty-two days for us to get everything settled, but eventually she took her stupid bagels and stalked out of the store.
I handled it fairly well, I think. I charged her for a dozen and gave her the original seven. Go ahead, lady, make my day.
Boyfriends Are For Normal People
I am convinced that I have been destined to become a nun; not so much because of a profound spirituality I possess, I’m referring more to the whole issue of celibacy. I have tried my hardest, with sheer determination not to let my life-long singledom reek havoc upon my ego. So far, I have successfully shoved the thoughts of my impending mental breakdown into the far corners of my ever-fragile mind.
Yet, I do believe that there is hope for a partial—to say full would be pushing it—recovery. It is possible that I could learn to live as a functional, sane single, a somewhat normal member of society, amongst the people, yet utterly alone. After grocery shopping for one—no list, simply knocking the cheapest necessities into my little basket, seeing as using a shopping cart for only myself would be of the utmost absurdity. I would return home to my two bedroom apartment where my cat—an obese flab of fur who would be my best friend, my sole companion—would be splayed out upon the twin bed I purchased him, attempting to make us feel more like a family.
Setting the table for one would be a ridiculous waste of my huge expanse of free time, so instead I simply eat standing over the sink, no need to get a plate dirty. The cat eats what I eat—probably the cause of his extreme obesity—from his special bowl that I painted for him in another futile attempt at making us more like family. My diet consists of the staples—Ramen Noodles, rotisserie chicken, and Nutrigrain Bars—among necessary crisis foods—mainly chocolate and bread—for dire emotional emergencies.
I will spend a generous amount of time reminding myself of the perks of being completely alone: no one to tell me that talking to myself is, in fact, very unusual; no one to question my authoritative decisions—the cat generally cooperates as long as he is well-fed—no one to hog the other side of my bed and complain about the strange things I do in my sleep. Some of the perks seem ridiculous and out desperation, but they suffice as a way to make me feel content with my insignificant life.
After exhausting my list of perks, I will contemplate going to a club and trying to be “picked up” but will then remember the last time I did this, and how disastrous it was. I returned home drunk and even more pathetic than usual, having paid for all of my own drinks because no one would buy me one, not even out of sympathy—don’t think I wouldn’t stoop low enough to play the sympathy card. Then I would pass out on my sofa and dream of being alone. But I’m not really alone am I? Here, kitty, kitty…
Yet, I do believe that there is hope for a partial—to say full would be pushing it—recovery. It is possible that I could learn to live as a functional, sane single, a somewhat normal member of society, amongst the people, yet utterly alone. After grocery shopping for one—no list, simply knocking the cheapest necessities into my little basket, seeing as using a shopping cart for only myself would be of the utmost absurdity. I would return home to my two bedroom apartment where my cat—an obese flab of fur who would be my best friend, my sole companion—would be splayed out upon the twin bed I purchased him, attempting to make us feel more like a family.
Setting the table for one would be a ridiculous waste of my huge expanse of free time, so instead I simply eat standing over the sink, no need to get a plate dirty. The cat eats what I eat—probably the cause of his extreme obesity—from his special bowl that I painted for him in another futile attempt at making us more like family. My diet consists of the staples—Ramen Noodles, rotisserie chicken, and Nutrigrain Bars—among necessary crisis foods—mainly chocolate and bread—for dire emotional emergencies.
I will spend a generous amount of time reminding myself of the perks of being completely alone: no one to tell me that talking to myself is, in fact, very unusual; no one to question my authoritative decisions—the cat generally cooperates as long as he is well-fed—no one to hog the other side of my bed and complain about the strange things I do in my sleep. Some of the perks seem ridiculous and out desperation, but they suffice as a way to make me feel content with my insignificant life.
After exhausting my list of perks, I will contemplate going to a club and trying to be “picked up” but will then remember the last time I did this, and how disastrous it was. I returned home drunk and even more pathetic than usual, having paid for all of my own drinks because no one would buy me one, not even out of sympathy—don’t think I wouldn’t stoop low enough to play the sympathy card. Then I would pass out on my sofa and dream of being alone. But I’m not really alone am I? Here, kitty, kitty…
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