Holidays and Other Intrusions

I'm a weird duck.

I suppose it's a lot like when you sit back and start to contemplate your own mortality. When I consider my list of quirks, I realize it borders on psychosis.

This morning as I was sipping my coffee and staring out the window into the blurry morning that comes with hating my glasses but not being ready to put my contacts in, I started categorizing holidays by which was the most stressful. This started last night as I realized I have yet to make New Year's plans, which needs to be approached with care, as New Year's plans for me means finding the best way to sleep through New Year's Eve without being woken up at midnight. Top most stressful holidays (in order):

1. New Year's Eve
2. Halloween
3. Christmas

For the record, my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. Nothing wrong with eating food all day in a low stress environment. But here's a brief explanation for the ranking above, which prompted me to explore my neurotic tendencies further.

New Year's Eve: By far the most atrocious holiday ever. I do not hate any holiday like I do New Year's Eve. That's right, I hate it. Probably the only holiday I actually hate, instead of "don't care for". First- it arrives well beyond my bedtime. I hate how people suggest that staying up until midnight one night of the year shouldn't be such a big deal for me. Why would you want to start the New Year feeling tired and sick? Isn't New Year's about starting your year off right? A clean slate? Why would I muddy my clean slate with exhaustion, a possible hangover, and the decreased immunity that follows? And the pressure. Oh my god, the social pressure that comes with New Year's Eve gives me a panicked feeling much like when that camera crew from the Chamber of Commerce stopped by a few weeks ago and everyone started pressuring me to do an impromptu interview. Everyone thinks I should do something for New Year's Eve, and my biggest pet peeve is when people think I should do something I don't want to do. I could go on... but just the thought of New Year's Eve makes me angry.

Halloween: While I don't necessarily hate Halloween (see above), I'm not a big fan. And there's a very simple explanation for this: I don't want random people knocking on my door. That's it. It stresses me out. There's a social anxiety component to this, that I'm completely aware of, but don't feel like it's something I, nor my therapist, need to address.

Christmas: I bet a lot of people would put this first, but Christmas in itself is actually a fairly pleasant holiday. One thing that gets me worked up a little is that I always want to find "the perfect gift" for my loved ones. Some people are easy to shop for, others aren't. So I get frustrated when I can't come up with something good. But here's the thing. Immediately after Thanksgiving, one of the local radio stations starts playing 24/7 Christmas music like it's an acceptable thing. All the stores get super packed. If I have to go to Target for coffee filters, I have to navigate the Christmas crowds. Maybe I should go to Vons for coffee filters. Avoid it altogether. I almost want to just order them from Amazon, that way the only person I potentially have to face is the delivery guy, but Amazon gives me a tracking number that sometimes lets me know how many more stops the guy has to make before he gets to my place, which gives me a heads up that someone may be knocking on the door soon and I should probably not be sitting in the bathtub or otherwise indisposed.

This thinking led me to start thinking about the 1 year birthday party for my friend's son that I was invited to. Super nice people. But the party is a pancake-Christmas music-pajama party... with bonus points for rocking out in holiday pajamas.

Umm....I love pancakes.

I just don't know how to approach this kindly. So here it is: I don't love kids. I don't love Christmas music. I don't love being around a bunch of people (67 families invited.... 28 have confirmed they are going). I really don't want to be around a bunch of people in my pajamas (I mean, would I have to wear a bra?).

My coworker (who has 4 kids) tells me that parents don't even like birthday parties for their kids. Like big ones, where you invite the entire school. So he's steered his kids into more meaningful celebrations like camping or Lego Land or something like that. Kudos.

For a couple months I fretted about how I was going to come up with an excuse not to go. Finally, I figured I would just politely decline, sans excuse. I went on to the Facebook page for the event, clicked "Not going" and guess what? It didn't even give me a space to explain why. I'll leave it at that.

Then the other day, I received a group text about a "mellow/relaxed" bridal shower/bachelorette  lunch and/or spa. 7 people on the text. Instant anxiety. This is where I start to realize (I know, even after all the above paragraphs) that I've got issues. And here's where my brain goes: first of all, 7 girls, all together in one location. (OMG!!!). High energy, happy, cheerful girls. (What is my problem?) Spa: this one is tricky. I don't like my fingernails painted, and I like them trimmed to stubs. Nails are out. Pedicures are out as well. My feet are so incredibly sensitive, that during my last pedicure, the lady finally gave up touching them and just let them soak. Also- because I run, my toenails need to be kept at a certain length as well as certain angles. I know what angle each toenail needs to be at in order to not become ingrown and to not cut into the one next to it. I also don't like my toenails painted. I used to. That stopped after nearly losing a few toenails after the Boston Marathon and having to monitor their progress closely over the period of a few weeks.

I wouldn't mind a facial.... by a licensed dermatologist. There are so many things that can go wrong with a facial, that is not easily hid under a hat or a long sleeve shirt. I also am not prepared to spend a few hundred dollars on a facial. I also think it's weird to get group massages. Isn't that like a group orgy? Do you hear the other girls murmuring about how good it feels? Um...?

Which made me suddenly think about how incredibly picky and rigid I am. I like what I like and I don't like what I don't like. This is probably why I don't fight Mike (much) about being so picky about food and microbes and shoes in the house. I get it. I get what it's like to want things a certain way and have people push and prod for you to do something differently. But I know how this makes me come across. I can read everything I just wrote. Not liking all these things others enjoy. It makes me seem difficult and stubborn. Maybe I am.

And this is where it's difficult to ascertain whether it's my anxiety holding me back from these things or if it's that I just don't like doing these things. In response to me not wanting to go to some sort of party, Jen said "I thought your anxiety was getting better." It threw me a bit. I was thinking I just didn't want to go to the party. Jen was thinking it was a great thing to do, but maybe I was just having too much anxiety about it to feel like I would enjoy it. I don't even know how to properly think about that. Big get-togethers sound like a horrible thing to me. Is that because I'm anxious around groups of people or is that because I just don't enjoy big get-togethers. Or do I not enjoy big groups because I'm anxious around big groups?

When I start contemplating that, it feels a lot like trying to grasp dark matter in the book I'm reading about astrophysics by Neal DeGrasse Tyson.

Ativan and Whiskey

I don't normally order beverages on the plane as it's usually a time devoted to my thesis, and you can't fit both a laptop and a drink on the small trays that fold out from the seats. Today I am breathing, because I can feel myself holding my breath intermittently, followed by the need to hyperventilate to replenish the oxygen. So I order a tomato juice and think about how when all this thesis madness is done, I'd like to go back to being the type of person who sips beverages on the plane.

When you take an anxiety class, they teach you how to breathe. As I stood in line on the jet-way, I practiced my breathing. In to the count of 4, hold for 7, out for 8. We were told not to do it more than 4 times as it can make you dizzy. I decide I'm going to do it more than 4 times, just for fun. Just to see what happens. But as I start number 4 I'm already light-headed. So I finish number 4 and turn my attention to the "no food" sign on the jet-way controls. I wondered what malfunction prompted that sign, and I picture a spilled milkshake that causes the jet-way to retract prematurely.

With Santa Anas over the service territory last week, we all worked overtime over the weekend and the first half of the week. After a few 12-14 hour shifts, I had completely pushed my thesis aside, and felt zero guilt. At 2 am on Wednesday, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the wind speed and humidity in our backcountry, felt satisfied that we were okay, and lay my phone back on the nightstand. I closed my eyes to try to get in a little more sleep before my 3 am alarm.

Thesis.

My eyes opened and I stared into the darkness as I realized tomorrow is the day I defend my thesis and I haven't even practiced my presentation. And I'm up. I shower and head off to work. I scan my badge at the entrance to the parking lot, and as the security arm lowers behind me, I glance at my watch. 3:45 am. Geez. It's still the middle of the night.

My nerves escalate throughout the day, and I decide it's okay to take my medication to keep them under control. I know my doctor would agree. I picture not passing my defense, and I'm holding my breath again. During our afternoon Skype meeting, I watch my leg tap rapidly on the screens in front of us and I wonder if anyone else notices. As I excuse myself to catch my flight, the director smiles and gives me a fist bump, my manager gives me the thumbs up, and I wonder how they'll react if I come back with news that I failed my defense.

I take another anti-anxiety pill as I wait at the airport, and anyone watching would think I'm afraid to fly. Somehow, crashing is the least of my worries. I work on my presentation as I wait for my flight.

I have a plan, and put it into action the next day. I take an Ativan two hours before my presentation- to make up for my lack of preparation. I don't remember the logic behind that idea, but it works. It's mostly a blur now, but I managed to make it through a 45 minute presentation with some difficult questions from the audience in the 15 minutes that followed.

Then I retreated to a conference room with my thesis committee to get the real scoop on the status of my thesis. Two committee members would sign me off right then. My advisor would like me to put off graduating for another semester so I can add more content. Again, I forget to breathe. Read Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. In an instant, I am panicked. I see myself trying to maintain the workload I've been carrying for the past year and despite the Ativan, my heart pounds in my chest and my stomach turns in knots and part of me says to relax: "Don't drink the poison". The other part of me says to fight. To squash the idea before it has a chance to bloom. I keep my expression blank as I've been trained to never show weakness. The 4th committee member agrees that it's not a big deal to defer graduation for another semester. My advisor chimes in "Is it the 300 dollars? If so, I'll pay the $300."

I do not tell him how I've forgotten how to breathe. I do not tell him how this has landed me back in the psychiatry department, and how this is the second time in my life I have needed to be medicated in order to make it through the day and the only other time was due to a traumatic experience. I cannot do this for another 6 months.

I calmly tell him it's not the $300. It's having this thing hanging over my head constantly. Knowing that when I leave work, I have to go home and start work again... on my thesis. It's spending all my time off working. It's affecting my health and well being, and I need to graduate.

He tries keywords, but I catch them for what they are: sharp hooks. And I'm not biting. "Thesis-lite" but I know it's bullshit. He can't believe I put in all that work and it only came out to 55 pages- he expected more. But I know better. I know it's sufficient. "And you really don't have very many references", but I am unfazed and stand my ground. My reference section is over two pages long.

He tries telling me how important this work is. How tons of people are going to be downloading my work and he wants it to be as complete as possible. I maintain eye contact and blink, saying nothing. Normally, this would work on me. I'm driven by guilt. But I've got a year's worth of painful anxiety sitting on my chest, and Ativan and Zoloft pumping through my bloodstream. I will not budge. I reiterate that I need to be done. The two committee members I respect the most are behind me. They think I've done a great job and just need to add a couple more things that I can get done before the November 2nd due date. My advisor finally agrees that if I can get those additions in by the due date, he'll approve my thesis.

We go up to the lab for shots of whiskey. Later at dinner he tells me he's being an asshole because of how important this work is. It's just that so many people are looking forward to reading this. The Ativan and whiskey has gifted me with enough apathy to let him drone on without much of an emotional stir from me.

The next day, Mike and I drive to Paso Robles so I can have a much needed break from everything. I leave my laptop at his place, but see I've got 4 emails from my thesis committee. I leave them for the end of the weekend. Bits of anxiety pop up like a whack-a-mole game, and I hit them each time. One week to get my thesis to my advisor's approval (whack), the formatting that I know grad studies will take issue with (whack), what if he doesn't approve it (whack), how can you take time off like this without working on your thesis (whack). I keep pushing them down all weekend.

As I board my flight back to San Diego, it's all back. The churning in my stomach, the gasping for air. I've been swallowing mouthfuls of salt-water to keep my airway clear and here I go again. One more week. Hammer down for one more week. Exactly what I've been saying for a year now. I'm no longer fooled by the light at the end of the tunnel. One day I'll find myself out in the daylight and wonder how I got there. One day I'll breathe without having to check it off my to-do list. One day I won't need reminding. And I'll be the person who drinks tomato juice on the plane and stares out the window at the clouds. Who comes home from work and stops working. Who breathes without needing to be told how.

Self Care

I'm not a fan of solicitors or salesmen, people who want me to sign petitions, or really anyone who wants to get me to do something I didn't first seek out myself. (Sidetrack- did you know in Ireland, solicitors are like lawyers or something? Imagine when they come to the US and signs are everywhere saying No Solicitors.)

When people try to hand me a flier out on the street, I just keep my hands in my pockets so that they actually cannot hand it to me. I realize this is viewed as rude. But 99.9% of the time, I don't want what they're handing me. So they're just handing me trash to throw away for them. To me, that's rude.

Where am I going with this? Well I'm going to take the long way around this one. A couple weeks ago, a lady at work (we'll call her Lucy to protect her identity) asked us if Katie and I could come talk to a group of high school girls for a science workshop. Just an hour, then someone else would talk, then they'd do a tour, etc. So we agreed. Then a week later, she emailed and asked if we could each talk for an hour, totaling 2 hours. We agreed to try to stretch it to an hour and a half, but now we're pushing it. We were agreeing to come in for free on a Saturday, when we've been stretched pretty thin as it is. Then, a few days later, she threw us under the bus to come up with hands-on activities, and cc'd the person in charge of the science workshop. So that it was all on us to come up with something when that was never part of the agreement.

Combine that will all the pressure from my advisor to add more analysis and plots to my thesis. And what keeps coming back to me, is how he told me Sunday night that for the next few months, I'll be working on papers for him to publish.... for free. I was cut off from the funding when I came down here, but apparently I can still do the work.

After a near catastrophe with my email shutting down Thursday night and me being up late with help desk trying to get it fixed, I woke up Friday morning exhausted. I rolled out of bed and tried to make sense of weather data for the briefing. We've got a potential storm coming, which meant I had to get it right. I barely got it out on time at 6 am. I looked at the clock and figured I probably should get ready for work and skip my run. But then I thought about the meetings I had scheduled for that day, and having to come in on my Saturday to do more than I agreed to, and being pressured to do more writing and data analysis with my thesis and research papers than I feel is reasonable. I decided I should probably be good to myself and actually go for a run, make breakfast, and roll in late for work.

I'm glad I did. It was the first step in making myself a priority. After the workshop today (another near catastrophe), I came home, ate a bag of donut holes, drank a cup of coffee, and passed out on the couch. When I woke up an hour later, I drank another cup of coffee. I thought about my thesis and how I've got so much to add to it. I thought about the vegetables going bad in the fridge and how lately, I haven't had the energy or motivation to cook meals. I had carne asada nachos two nights in a row. Before that, I had bread and cheese for dinner a couple nights in a row. I looked out at my balcony that needed to be swept and straightened up. I thought about my bathroom that needed to be cleaned and laundry that needed to be done. And the routine is to push all of those things aside (again) and finish my thesis plots. My mind shifted back to the second night of carne asada nachos. What about me? What about my needs? What about my limits? Multiple therapists now have recommended that I be nicer to myself. After several months of struggling with that, today I finally realized what it means.

I got up from the couch and made dinner out of the farm fresh vegetables that are delivered to my door every two weeks, and the pork I bought at the farmer's market that came from the ranch about an hour or so north of here. While it cooked, I cleaned my bathroom and balcony, and swept, vacuumed, and mopped all the floors. I decided I was going to put aside my thesis to care for myself and my needs and wants.

Back to the people handing out fliers. If I don't put out my hands- they can't hand me one. My advisor has already said that my thesis is good enough for it to pass through graduate studies, but that he thinks I should add more analysis and more plots. And he thinks I need to spend the next several months writing papers for free (after graduating). And there's a fine line between obligation and my own personal limits, and sometimes it's really hard to know where that line is. But outside of getting my thesis approved and submitted to grad studies, he can't put more work on top of me than I'm willing to accept. I don't have to take my hands out of my pockets.

I'm slowly working out what it means to be nice to myself.

Stand up eight

I think back to 2013, as I made my plans to head back to school and decided getting my master's wouldn't be too difficult. Closing up my computer for the night, I have to chuckle. For the past 10 or 11 months, I've been slowly deteriorating. There's a great Japanese proverb:

Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

And I try. I've been getting knocked down my entire life, and eventually you just get used to getting back up. It becomes habit. 

Last weekend I worked 12 hours on Saturday and 8 on Sunday to get my thesis done and turned in to my advisor. Let me backtrack. Over the summer I had an emotional collapse. Too much pressure over too much time. I reached out and got help and am slowly trying to pull myself together, or at least keep from drowning. On Wednesday I graduated from anxiety coping skills school. At least I graduated from something. 

Back to last weekend. I was exhausted. I converted my thesis document to PDF and sent them both over to my advisor, 20 minutes before bedtime on Sunday night. As I scrolled through the PDF document, a feeling of calm passed over me like I hadn't felt in at least 6 months (medications excluded). I sent the email, got up from my desk, and began getting ready for bed. I started thinking about how on Monday after work, I could just come home and relax, instead of my usual routine of picking up my thesis and beginning work again. It was a soothing thought. My phone signaled a text message. It was my advisor. 

"Can you chat?"

I looked at the time. No. No I cannot chat. It's nearly 7:30 pm and I have to be up at 3:45 am to prepare the weather briefing. 

"Yep."

 I started to prepare the coffee pot while he skimmed my thesis and listed things that needed to be changed. Then he started adding more data analysis and more writing, and more papers, and more plots. An hour later I was barely able to mutter "Ok" to each of his demands. I felt myself slipping underwater. I didn't even struggle. (Turns out in the distraction I also neglected to put coffee grounds in the coffee maker.)

I hung up the phone and slowly sat down at my desk, and stared at the screen. Then promptly lost my shit. 

It's now been 5 days and it's been tough getting back up from that one. Maybe I'm halfway up. I feel like I'm dragging a 200 lb weight around. With no end in sight. I've learned something from all of those "light at the end of the tunnel" speeches. It's the same thing I learned when I was on a hotshot crew hiking to the top of the mountain. Every peak before the last one was a false peak. It looked like you were reaching the top because you could only see sky beyond the hill.... until you crested the hill and it was just a step leading to a steeper hill. And so on. The light is an illusion. Sometimes I say it's from an oncoming train. In any case, it's not really there. Throughout my career as a grad student, I have seen that light at the end of the tunnel at least a dozen times- then quickly everything goes black. At this point, an oncoming train would be a blessing. 

So. I'm getting back up. I think. I don't know exactly why, although self-preservation rings a bell. 

Fire

You eventually get tired of hearing about fires. At least I did anyway. My last season in fire, 19 firefighters burned alive. We had already submitted paperwork with our dentists' contact information, in case our bodies were ever burned so badly that dental records were our only means of identification.

I read through the article Mike's mom sent me about the fires in wine country, just in case she ever asked me about it. But I already knew enough, and didn't care to know anymore. We parked our research truck in the ashes of Fountain Grove and scanned the atmosphere through the night, and watched the Nun's Fire burn in the distance. Mansions reduced to ash and melted metal, whole neighborhoods burned to the ground. And the people. The people who couldn't get out in time. An officer showed me a picture of one he found- nothing but a few vertebrae to differentiate concrete from human. 

But you never do leave fire behind. For 14 years I have made a living off the tendency for California to burn. People from out of state will tell you they'd be terrified to live in a place where the ground shakes occasionally. Maybe because we all want to believe that the ground beneath our feet is solid, and won't one day fall out from underneath us. But I don't suspect my home will ever be lifted off the ground and deposited a few miles away in a pile of wooden shards by an unpredictable vortex of spinning air.

Yet everything burns. The article is from Alta- Journal of Alta California. I was going to read through it, then send it to the recycling bin so I didn't have to think about it anymore. Instead, it sits face up on my coffee table, flames illuminating the face of a male firefighter. I hate that my thesis involves this fire. I don't want to be part of the "everyone" who is talking about, researching, that fire. But I am. So I hold on to the journal, in case I need it.

During your emergency response training, they teach you that you will get called on the worst day of someone's life. You get called because something goes horribly wrong. You don't get called because someone is having a wonderful birthday party. You don't get called to the neighborhood where all is quiet and all is well. I thought I would become a meteorologist and learn to predict rainfall, and leave my fire days behind. But it's what I know. It's what I understand. And that understanding propelled me into years of research, and then into my new job.... still studying fire, and making a good living off of it. Fire is a parasite. It gets into your blood and becomes permanent. People want to talk to you about it, ask you about it, show you articles and ask if you've seen the movie.

I've lived it. I live it. I am not a moth drawn to the flames. I have walked through those fires and will never shake the embers from my shirt, or the smoke from my hair.

Some of my indoor plants are on a field trip to the great outdoors. There have been a lot of plant deaths lately (my fault) and since I'm trying to pull myself together, I thought caring for the living beings in my house would be a good start. Some of the plants needed to be replaced (because they were dead), but some just needed new homes. Others have been inhibited by location and needed a field trip to expose them to light on all sides.

The guy in the middle behind Sharky McSharkface lives outside, so he's not on a field trip like his buddies he's surrounded by.

I just moved back to San Diego after being gone about ten years, and am still working on my thesis. All the uncertainty and stress before moving, as well as the moving, getting settled, and trying to find my new routine, has led to a massive increase in anxiety. After getting my care interrupted by the move, I've found my way back to the same psychiatry department as when my dad died. They're renovating the outside, but the waiting room looks the same. Addictions on the first floor, psychiatry on the second. When I find myself feeling embarrassed, I'm reminded we're all visiting the same department and no one really has room to judge. Second therapist in a row to tell me I need to have more compassion for myself. I can't figure out what that's supposed to look like.

Sometimes it helps to care for another living being. I don't know, maybe I'm cheating. Maybe I'm using my plants to practice compassion on something else....besides myself. But I can't expect to pull myself together when I've got crispy dead plants lying all over my house.

A huge issue was the death of Stuart and his housemates. Stuart was a venus flytrap that I've had for about a year. That's quite a bit longer than I can keep most plants alive, so that and the fact that we both eat meat created a bonding experience between us. He lived in a terrarium with two air plants. He's tropical, so he's supposed to get a lot of sun and water. I only have two windows in my apartment and he didn't work real well near either of them, so he was placed on the counter near the kitchen where he only got indirect light. One day in July, I decided I'd take him outside to get some sun. I forgot about him..... and it was during a pretty extreme heat wave. When I got home and saw his withered brown limbs, I panicked. I had killed him for sure. Mike and Carrie tried to make me feel better, like maybe he'd make it. Long story short, he didn't. And neither did his roommates. Finally, over a month later, I have replaced Stuart and his roommates with as-of-yet unnamed plants, and added a little sand castle.

They are currently sunning themselves on my coffee table.

And then there's this guy. This guy deserves another shot at life.

He used to live on top of my bookcase. I'm guessing the reason he ended up under-watered is because I'm short and either had to bring him down to water him, or stand on the chaise lounge and squirt him with my water bottle. He used to be a pretty big, full, plant with lots of bright green vines. All of those vines died except this one. I decided I wanted to try to save him, but having a scrawny looking plant on top of a big bookcase was depressing. I dug him out of the pot he was living in (see the white pot behind him with little orange flowers that now houses a bright philodendron), managed to save some of the roots attached to him, and gently set him in this little pot with loosely packed soil. I feel like his demise is inevitable, but I really hope he makes it. From my experience in emergency medicine, I understand what it takes to keep a human alive, but plants are a different story. If he lives through being parched to the brink of death, dug from his home and plunged into a smaller pot, I'm going to give him a name. Something heroic and courageous. I don't know why it causes me so much despair to lose a plant.

This guy lives on the second shelf down on my bookcase. I have no idea why he's doing so well. I've had him maybe 6 to 8 months.

But you can see that he's got one arm sticking way out.... because it's the only one that really gets any light. This is why he's outside right now. I'd like the rest of him to get some sun and even out a bit. Maybe I should be rotating him occasionally? If only plants could talk.

This is one of the new guys. Poor thing was root-bound, and you can see how he's only had one side exposed to the sun as well. He's going to end up on top of the bookcase. Let's hope I give him a little better treatment than I did his predecessor.

This guy replaced another one I killed.... by over-watering. He at least appears a little heartier than the last one.

And lastly, this little guy got a new home. He's been in a plastic pot, living in the bathroom since Carrie brought him over. Carrie has an amazing green thumb. He's not dead yet, so that's something. He comes out every once in awhile to sit on the coffee table and get some sun. Not a lot of light in the bathroom.

As I was re-potting the philodendron, there was a root hanging off one of the vines. Just hanging out in the air. I don't know if the plant was purposely doing that or not, so as I put him in the pot, I tucked his little root into the soil and hoped I was doing the right thing. I suddenly felt like I was caring for a small child, and it struck me as somewhat odd. But maybe plants just need some love and respect, and they'll decide to be friends with you forever.