Bittersweet Stress

     I find the strangest ways to stress myself out. I have torturous fits of panic and when you ask me to pinpoint why, I panic even more. It's the strangest thing. I've always been this way. I stress and worry about things completely out of my control, all of the time. I've tried the breathing exercises. I've tried therapy. I've tried meditation and medication. Nothing can stop this stupid brain from overworking itself into an absolute frenzy.  And what do I worry about? Everything. Everyone. It's very stressful stuff to me, but to the regular, functioning person, it's nothing that can't work itself out, usually. If my sweet parents had a quarter for every time in the last 29 years they had to tell me "Mandy, you can't control the situation, there is nothing you can do about it, so there is no point in worrying about it," they'd be able to move to the country and live in a giant house by now. And own some horses. And have a butler. And a chef....you get the point.
     My poor parents. They've spent most of my life trying to convince me that everything was all right and that I was constantly worrying for nothing. They were so happy to see me thrive in college. Then I get my Master's degree, making them the proudest of me they've probably ever been.  And at the age of 24, I think I finally started to relax and not worry that someone was going to break in and steal me in the middle of the night, or that while my parents were on one of their motorcycle trips they would veer off the road and plunge into the depths of the mountains to their deaths (yes, this is always where my head went. From: everything is okay to total devastation with no stops in between for logic to intervene).
    But, I started to relax. And life was good.
    One day, I was applying for PhD programs, weighing the pros and cons of which city to move to, planning my adult life, talking about marriage with the love of my life and then it just ended.....it all stopped. It was all over. 
    I had finally started to believe that all of the worrying was in my head and I needed to relax and simply enjoy the exciting things happening and then tragedy struck. The love of my life was gone. And not just gone. Just as I had done in my head for 24 years, it came true. Total tragedy with nothing in between. He wasn't coming back. Ever.
    There isn't much to say immediately after that. Suddenly though, I quit worrying. About anything. Because it had finally happened: the worst possible thing I could have imagined...


    A friend of mine and I met up not too long before I left for Chicago, and I was filling her in with what's been new in the last several months. And as I finish catching her up, she looks at me, and with no hesitation or joking quality about it, said "God, Amanda, you're like a magnet to death. No offense."
     I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed the entire way to the restaurant. Not my regular, gut-clenching, you-are-funny-as-sh*t laugh, but more like what one would describe as maniacal perhaps? And this is because she was right.
     Most people will agree that at the age of nearly 30, I've been around a lot of death. People don't call me morbid for nothing. The strange thing about it though, it doesn't ever get easier. It hurts every single time, in different ways, but DAMN, it's painful.
    A friend of mine just suffered a really tragic loss two days ago and I couldn't be around people yesterday. I have this strange ability/hindrance (depending on how you look at it) to take on pain of others, and it's almost more than empathy. It's as though I truly feel their hearts breaking. And I guess that would be my wish: to take that pain and make it my own. Take away the sadness and suffering from others. I'd do it happily. That's probably one reason I'm so debilitated by others' hearts breaking. Twisted, isn't it? I've spent most of my life worrying about the worst possible thing happening in any given situation, and then it happened to me.  And, I survived it. Not very well for quite a while, but I kept breathing. Because I had to, even if there were times I didn't want to,  I HAD TO.  And after five years, I decided existing wasn't good enough anymore, I was ready to LIVE again. So that brought me to Chicago. And yes, it was for me, but it was mostly because of my amazing parents, who really pushed me to find passion in life again; constantly reminding me my life wasn't over just because someone else's was.
    And yesterday, as I struggled with not being at home to comfort my friends, I talked to a new favorite friend up here, who is slowly, but surely convincing me day-by-day, to turn my negative, sad thoughts into positive strides to help others. He's beyond awesome, he's amazing. And my dear friend who welcomed me with open arms? Well, she couldn't be a better support to have when I'm in a bad spot. I'm doing alright, even when I think I'm not, I am.
    So, although my heart hurts for others and I wish, wish, WISH I could take the pain and suffering from those with broken hearts, I'm still trying to manage to take care of my own.  One of my most favorite movies, called 'One Last Thing' has a quote in it, and I refer back to it  time and time again (since death is a commonality). 
     "When you're born, you cry and the world is happy; when you die, the world cries and you are happy."
     Sweet thought, right? Even if it is bittersweet.

Off the Rails

     So I've been in Chicago for three weeks now, and it has been terrifying and more exciting than anything else in my life.  A lot of this I owe to a dear friend who welcomed me with open arms. I have conquered ridiculous fears (most of my fears are incredibly ridiculous, such as people on stilts  or semi-trucks without the trailer...SERIOUSLY).

      For instance, it  took me a week to gather the courage to get on the train. Why? Because I'm a neurotic weirdo. This is the girl who will walk up to a stranger and strike up a conversation and not think twice about it. I wasn't scared of the people, or of being alone (I actually really enjoy exploring this city alone sometimes), but I was fearful of not knowing what to do at any given moment. How do you buy a ticket? Where do I sit? Where am I going? How do you transfer? Where do all of the different colors go? etc., etc., etc., Now, I realized this is on the brink of psychotic behavior, but thinking about it nearly paralyzed me. I don't like to look like a total idiot. And I was almost positive that is exactly what was going to happen. What if I got lost? What if I was late to be somewhere?  All of these questions caused me great agony for a week.

     I was talking to my dad, trying to rationalize my fears to him. My wise father listened to me patiently, and then said something along the lines of 'Mandy, what's the worst that will happen if you get lost? What if you are late? People are late sometimes, it happens. You've been lost before, but you've always found your way back. What is the worst thing that could happen?'
     And of course, he was right.
     What was the worst thing that could happen?
     Now, if you know me at all, you know I'm an extremely worrisome person. I work myself into panic attacks all of time; I'm expecting the ground to drop out from underneath me at any given moment.  But I have got to get a grip, because it's hindering me from taking it all in and enjoying it to the fullest.  And how am I going to experience the entire journey if I couldn't get on the damn train?

      So my best friend, Sharon and I made a plan. Well, she made a plan for me. A very simple train ride, from point  A to point B, and a specific place she knew I'd love. She talked me through, step by step, how to put money on my card, where I would put the card to get through the gate etc,. (Sharon is the most patient person in the world when it comes to my neurotic, fearful tendencies.) I was ready. The next day I gave myself a pep talk and made myself promise not to break down in public (shut up, I know).

       I got on the train. Well, that was easy.
      What the hell was I so nervous about?? I knew what stop to exit from. I felt at ease. However, my destination stop was shut down for remodeling. Now, usually I would go straight into crisis mode. But rationale kicked in and I just hopped off at the next stop.  The specific place Sharon intended for me to enjoy myself and celebrate my train ride was only half a mile away. So I walked. Even though I had no idea where I was whatsoever, I was okay. I walked up to the door and they were CLOSED. I stood there, threw my fists in the air and just LAUGHED. Of course they were closed. Still-no panic. I simply turned around and headed back.

     I ended up finding the coolest little cafe and have been back since. I met some cool people. I had interesting conversations and experiences with some of those people. I regularly talk to a few of them now. New friends:)
    If everything had worked out according to plan, I never would have found this little gem. And everyone was right, of course I was okay.
    Facing my fears up here in Chicago has been intense, but soothing at the same time.  I'm not an idiot by any means, but when I moved up here, somehow I completely forgot that I'd be bringing along my emotional baggage.  Things I thought I had handled and let go of have resurfaced, and I have to fight my way through them again. Conquer the inner demons. We all have them, but I'm in the perfect place with good people to thwart the negativity. I'm working on my pessimistic ways, hoping that at almost 30-years-old, I can finally stop worrying so much about what could happen and just enjoy the ground I walk on, instead of waiting for it to drop out from under me.
    I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Must Be a Sibling Thing

      "Dare me to throw this dollar bill out the window?" I asked my brother as I drove us home from Spoon River Drive.
      "No!  Why would you throw a dollar out th-"

       Out the window it went. And after total befuddlement and shocked laughter, my brother just shook his head and looked at me. We had an entire conversation without saying a word. Long  story (silently) short, he called me an idiot for wasting a dollar, but thought it was amazing I did it. Then, he saw the look of self-disgust on my face when I realized I had JUST THROWN A DOLLAR BILL AWAY. Literally (Ugh, I hate that word when it doesn't apply, but oh, how it did). I was so mad at myself and the Boy thought it was HILARIOUS.  And we both exploded with laughter and couldn't stop. I kept my eyes on the two-lane road, but the laughter lingered out in the fields with the humidity as we drove home, leaving a brilliant, obnoxious trail of laughter.

        I've called my brother Boy for twenty years. Why the Boy? No idea, truly. Probably the same reason I named my stuffed teddy bear Teddy (I was always the creative type). The Boy and I are 2,500 days apart, or basically seven years apart. I'm the eldest and he's the baby. And he's cool. The type of cool that remains within a person for their entire existence. The type of person you want around forever. Intelligent and loyal almost to a fault. I named him the Boy when I was nine and while referring to him, I call him The Boy; when talking to him, I call him Boy. In fact, some of my friends probably still don't know his real name (he doesn't mind) and only I call him that.

He's a significant source of my strength and happiness.

  

      "You just LIT ME ON FIRE!" she screamed as we swatted the sparks dead.

       Her leg had a tiny burn mark. Her bedspread  had wicked burn spots. All I had done was try to stop her hiccups. I had heard (not yet tried) that in order to rid one of hiccups you are to light a match, drop it in a shot glass of water and slam it. My sister has notorious hiccups. So we sat on her bed, her hiccupping and holding a shot glass of water, and me with the matchbook, getting ready to tackle this annoying feat together. I struck the match, it broke, sparks hit her leg and her bedspread. She's screaming. We're scrambling. Putting out the imaginary giant flares of fire.

     "My leg! My leg!" she yelled as I made sure her bed wasn't going up in flames.  The ordeal finally ends. Her bed was soaked with spilled water and she had a burn (very minor, but EPIC when she tells it), but...her hiccups were gone. Apparently, if you burn someone with fire, it scares the hiccups right out of them (I DON'T RECOMMEND TRYING IT).

      She and I are 599 days apart, or  19 months apart, Her name is Lee, but I call her Leezer. A friend of mine once thought I called her Laser and that stuck between them. But she is my Leezer. You don't truly know sibling love unless you've chased them around the house with scissors, or taken the blame for something you didn't do, or set them on fire (kinda).  She's the one you always want in your corner. She oozes badass with her sweet motherly ways (she did learn from the ultimate badass, our mom). She'll take fire on full force if it tries to burn anyone she loves.

She is a significant source of my strength and happiness.

      I hear people talk about their relationships with their parents, their siblings, their families in general, and I know not to take what we have for granted. I've got a family that will take on anything together, and if we can't defeat it, we learn our lesson, hold onto each other tighter and keep trying. Grin and bear it- a significant family motto. But, with the Boy and Leezer as my siblings, there isn't much room for defeat. Moving away from my friends was truly difficult, but my family? My Leezer, the Boy, my nephew (the coolest kid in this existence), and my parents?? That part has been the hardest and hurts the most. I talk to at least one of them daily, they have the ability to truly ground me. I count my blessings when it comes to the Boy and Leezer. I tease them, telling them it's too bad they got stuck with such a hot mess of a sister, but I know neither of them would trade me willingly. They are my protectors and my biggest fans (besides my parents). When I overthink things and panic about my move up here, it is Leezer and the Boy (and especially my parents) who tell me how proud they are of me and that of course I'll be just fine. And although I occassionally wonder what others' opinions might be, it is these two who I care to impress the most.  For that, I count my blessings over and over. I am a lucky, lucky broad, with siblings who have my back no matter what. And that's kind of the point, isn't it?

This is Your Life, Ending One Min-

       There is a first time for everything, isn't there? And for every first time, there are layers upon layers to digest before we feel comfortable with whatever it is we're doing. And even then, sometimes we don't feel comfortable for a really long time, if ever. I've been writing stories since I can remember. Reading, writing, and talking to people: my most favorite things to do. And all of those things have brought me stress multiple times, at any given time. Whether it was in college trying to understand the character of Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky's 'The Idiot', or writing my own obituary for a class assignment, or talking aloud in a support group, these situations terrified and stressed the hell out of me.
       For instance: starting a blog. Sharing my words with the world seemed fine and dandy, one-on-one, but on the internet? And although my friends, family, professors etc., have always been encouraging, claiming I'm a talented writer with a gift, well......I was always sure everyone was just being nice. You don't bash what someone loves to do even if they're awful, right? But just like the sad contestants on the talent shows, I would hope someone would tell me I sucked before I made a fool out of myself....but that got me thinking....at least those people were WILLING to make a fool of themselves, even if it meant being humiliated.
        I can't fail if I don't try, can I?
        So here we are. I'm finally pulling the trigger and sharing my words with the world. And if it sucks, so be it. I've spent enough time in my head dreaming, nightmaring (yes, I make up words), and tormenting myself that I've somehow already failed before I even try (which ends up in rambling sentences, I'll work on that, I promise ). But just like I was taught: you can't complain about politics if you don't vote; I can't expect to call myself a writer or a fan of literature if I don't write.
        I had to take a plunge. I was tired of just existing. I was sick of the constant ache, tired of the what if's, sick of wondering if there was an actual purpose for going through the hell most of us have endured? So I dipped. I got the f*** out of dodge. And a lot of people who know me were surprised I actually did it, other people were surprised it took me so long. I don't know the exact reasons, but I'm sure there are many and they will resurface at some point (they always do).
        But for now....   
        What better way to do something drastic than to quit my job, junk my broken car, pack some bags and take a leap of faith? So here I am. Living in Chicago, writing more than I ever have in my life, dealing with my stress demons AND truly, truly enjoying my life and this experience. I'm learning (the hard way) to deal with my fits of panic and worry, and living life to the fullest when I can actually get my mind to relax. 
        So here we go.
        Fall out of the plane on this journey with me, won't you?