If you are someone who is prone to anxiety, do yourself a favor and do NOT purchase scarlet red body wash. I promise that if you do, you will look down at the bottom of the shower while soaping yourself and be CERTAIN that you are bleeding from at least one organ. EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. TIME.
It does wake me up, though.
A few months ago a girl moved into my building– young, a teacher, seemingly normal and cool. Someone I would actually hang out with. We spoke in the lobby for a bit, exchanged apartment numbers, and said we’d see each other soon. I haven’t run into her since– until just now, in the elevator.
Girl: “Hey! How have you been?!”
Me: “Not much!”
And then our friendship ended.
I know some teachers who are so traumatized by their germ-infested classrooms during cold/flu season that they wash every single item of clothing they wear, every single time they wear it. Which is completely ridiculous.
I burn mine.
“See you next Tuesday!”– my therapist, to me, every single time I leave her office.
I’ve got to switch my therapy day.
I pull the hood of my puffy coat over my head, whimpering in the cold.
Eric: “There ya go! Warm now?”
Me: “Ugh. No. My eyes are still watering and freezing. I need a hood that covers my ENTIRE face.”
Eric: “That’d be perfect actually.”
Me: “Why? So you don’t have to look at me?”
Eric: “Are you kidding me? I LOVE looking at you!”
Me: “Awww…babe…”
Eric: “It’s listening to you that’s hard.”
Eleven days ago I had a biopsy done because my doctor saw something that looked, as he so eloquently and not at all alarmist-ly put it, “less than impressive” (what every woman wants to hear from a man staring up-close at her half-naked body…but I digress).
Since then, I have spent 11 days googling and thought-spiraling myself into a diagnosis of about 568 different versions of cancer. (Are there even that many kinds of cancer, you ask? Well, the answer is YES, if you count all the varying combinations one could have. Because some people have ankle cancer and eyebrow cancer at the same time, guys). So in the past week and a half, I’ve been having pounding heart palpitations, shortness of breath, sweating profusely, plagued by nightmares, and overall haven’t been able to relax. At all.
My doctor just called and everything is completely fine. The results were 100% normal.
So clearly, there’s a lesson here.
If you make yourself sick enough with worry and completely destroy your mental health (and the mental health/patience/will to live of those around you) for 11 solid days, God will say “Ok, everyone here has suffered enough” and reward you with a clean bill of physical health.
So YOU’RE WELCOME FOR THE ADVICE.
Whenever someone gives me a compliment, I automatically assume they are drunk.
I know, this doesn’t say much about my self esteem. So I am working on it.
I’m trying to get to a place where, when people say something nice to me, I truly believe they are being genuine. That I am a good person, and people can recognize and point out my positive qualities without being under the influence of a ton of alcohol.
And the fact that they’re always throwing up right after– that’s just a coincidence.
The other day some teachers in my school were discussing how the 5th graders have been very into googling their teachers to see what kind of dirt they can dig up.
I’m sure this trend will catch on with the 4th graders soon enough, so just to prepare myself for what my students might find, I googled my name. The very first thing to pop up (besides my LinkedIn page) was an essay my father wrote about why he supports mental health organization Active Minds.
It goes into detail about my battle with Depression and Anxiety, focusing specifically on a time when I was deeply, deeply depressed, to the point where I had to quit my job and move home. It talks about how I couldn’t function. How my brain essentially lost the ability to comprehend the simplest of information. How I was terrified all the time, and couldn’t stop crying. How I was completely dependent on those around me. How I took, and continue to take, medication for mental illness. How I saw, and continue to see, a psychiatrist.
And you know what? Good.
Sure, I could worry about the general stigma and misunderstanding. I could worry about judgement from the students’ parents. I could worry that the children, families, or administration would look at or treat me differently.
But I don’t. At all. The old me would have.
Here’s how I see it now:
Your teacher was really sick and she got better, kids. And she works extremely hard to stay better, even though some days can be pretty tough. But she keeps going. And she has wonderful, strong relationships with caring, amazing people who are there to support her through the darkness and celebrate with her in the light. She stumbles, and sometimes it takes weeks or months to get back up. But she does. And she’s stronger and wiser for it.
I think that’s a pretty great lesson for a 10 year old.
Don’t you?
Now let’s just hope to god they never find my blog. 
“I just survived the first round of parent teacher conferences and the next round doesn’t start until 5:30pm. I deserve this.”
–Me, to myself, justifying this late afternoon snack*
* snack = coffee, wine, and Xanax
Miles I ran this morning: 10
Miles I spent listening to Adele’s “Hello” on repeat: 10
Feelings I felt: All of them. Every single feel.
Times I’ve been caught singing it aloud to myself today: 7
Times I’ve been asked to sing a little more quietly please: 8 (one person asked twice)
Fucks I give: 0
Here. Have a feel or fifty:
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