#sparkofmadness

I was sixteen when I had my first panic attack.

It was at a sleepover at my best friends' house. It was late and everyone was asleep. I was lying in the same guest bed I'd slept in countless times before. I was shivering uncontrollably. My hands and feet were freezing and wouldn't warm up. I was shaking so hard I was sure Molly, sleeping next to me, would wake up. I curled up, tucking my feet underneath me and shoving my hands under my arms, hoping to warm up.

But a wave of nausea sent me lurching to the bathroom down the hall. I was certain I'd be sick. I collapsed in front of the toilet, braced for unpleasantness. But nothing happened. I just sat there, shaking and weak and nauseated and terrified.

I was about to die. Something deep inside was irretrievably broken, a malfunction that couldn't be fixed. I was certain of it. I knew for sure that my body had betrayed me, that some small mechanism in brain or heart had started clicking just out of sync with everything else and that these were my last moments. Dread washed through me, a slow molten lead that carried sparks of helpless adrenaline. My heart pounded, my head swam, and I couldn't. stop. shaking.

It didn't even occur to me to wake anyone up, to call an ambulance, to ask my friends' parents what was happening. Whatever was happening, nothing would stop it. Nothing could protect me. No action I could take, no help from grown ups. Whatever this was, it was happening and it was permanent. Something was irreversibly fractured in the world, in me.

I don't know how long I sat there, huddled on the cold tile, waiting to die.

Eventually the chemicals in my brain started to level out, enough for me to regain some sense of agency. I crept into Becky's bedroom and grabbed a copy of the most comforting book I could think of - Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone - and went back into the hall to get a blanket from the closet. I was certain I was not going to get back to sleep any time soon, so I retreated back to the bathroom. I crawled into the bathtub, cocooned myself in the blanket, and read until the sun came up. The shivering subsided, slowly.

The next day, I tried to explain what had happened, and Molly looked at me, all of thirteen years old, and told me I'd had a panic attack.

I was lucky. For so many reasons. I had a name for what had just happened. I had a diagnosis. I had a starting point for understanding what was happening.

And I have friends who understand mental illness, who suffer from anxiety and compulsive disorders, who have lived with and survived depression and bipolar disorder. I've been surrounded by people who don't stigmatize mental illness. I've felt free to seek out counseling and treatment, because I know my anxiety is not shameful or weird.

My friends gave me a space to talk, and learn, and understand.

My anxiety still interrupts my life. I have heart palpitations and stress headaches that trigger hypochondria anxiety attacks. I have panic attacks (fewer now that I live in sunny Colorado, away from the months of gloom that dominate the Midwest) that cut social outings short. I recently went caving with friends. I love the outdoors, and am fascinated by all kinds of nature. I'm not claustrophobic, but halfway through the cave system, I had to stop. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, and no amount of rational thinking let me shake it off.

I tend to be rational and objective. My anxiety disorder has made me confront the disconnect between logic and emotion, because although I know my fears are unfounded and unlikely, I still find myself unable to power through them. It felt like a failure for a long time.

But I'm surrounded by people who love me. I run in a part of society that doesn't look down on therapy or medication, that sees those things as proactive and admirable, instead of admissions of failure. I learned to hold the cognitive dissonance, to accept that all my rationality is still held in a body controlled by chemicals that sometimes get out of balance. It's okay that my logic sometimes loses against my brain juices.

But not everyone is lucky like me.

In the wake of Robin Williams' death after a long battle with depression, people are talking about mental illness.

He said once that you're only given one little spark of madness, and that you have to use it, and if you let it go out, you've got nothing. He was talking about the part of each of us that sees the world unlike anyone else, that can create things that are new and wonderful.

Becky came up with the idea to use the celebration of uniqueness and creativity to help people talk about mental illness, with the hashtag #sparkofmadness.

Depression is deadliest when it's suffered alone. You feel alienated, and you feel like you're alienating others. It strips you of hope, of objectivity, of the ability to feel the love your friends are giving you. It lies to you.

I had a bout of severe depression at the end of my junior year of college. It was triggered by, stereotypically enough, being dumped, right before my birthday.

I have always been pretty happy, pretty optimistic. I never questioned or really even considered my own self-worth. I knew I was a good person, knew I was loved, knew I was worthwhile.

But for about five months, I stopped believing it. I started thinking of myself as someone it was easy to walk away from. I started thinking that all the love and support my friends showed me was unearned and shameful. It felt like I was lying to them, that they thought I was this admirable thing when I had nothing to offer. I didn't see myself as worthy of love or time or effort, from myself or from anyone else.

I took incompletes in half my courses that semester, which my professors were kind enough to grant. I had spent the previous two decades of my life defining myself as a good student, as someone eager to learn, and even that persona was taken away. Or, I let it slip away.

I found myself crying, and hating myself for crying because it was weak and self-serving, and I didn't really deserve the self-indulgence of tears.

The color went out of things. I fell into a soul-sapping boredom and ennui. No highs, no lows, just a constant bleakness. I took hotter and hotter showers, wishing the heater would be calibrated higher, trying to burn some sensation into my skin. I took up idly harmful hobbies, like drinking slightly too much, or smoking the occasional cigarette. I was still enough of a hypochondriac to prevent me from ever doing anything really damaging, fortunately. But I felt a deep satisfaction in the disregard for my health, a quiet, savage pleasure in self-negation. It was like, well, no one else is willing to admit that I'm not worth much, so I will. I would drag my nails across my arms, leaving stinging welts that would nonetheless fade. I didn't want notice or pity, because I didn't deserve it.

What saved me was my best friends, the ones who helped me navigate the rough waters of anxiety way back when.

I wrote a blog post (back when Xanga was a thing) about how I was feeling. I don't think I was looking for pity or reassurance. The last little treacherous part of me that craved the concern of my friends (the last little part that was still sane and didn't believe depression's lies) felt weak and selfish and greedy. What I wanted was confirmation, was agreement with my viewpoint. I wanted them to realize, Oh yeah, that's right, what have we been thinking, of course you're not worth our time! How silly of us! I wanted to get rid of those links of affection, because the affection hurt me.

But they didn't.

They didn't douse me in trite "It'll be okay"s and "Cheer up"s! They listened to me, and didn't minimize my feelings by telling me I'd feel better soon. They just expressed love, refused to let me hold onto the lies I'd been telling myself. They shared their own battles with depression and anxiety. They chipped away at the unfeeling armor I'd been building up. It sucked.

Cracks started opening up in the armor. Everything hurt. Being selfish hurt. Allowing people to care about me hurt. But it let me entertain the possibility that maybe it wasn't that everyone was deluded about me, but that maybe I was deluded about myself. I set up an appointment to talk with a therapist at the local hospital. My college has an arrangement with the hospital; counseling and therapy are provided for any student who wants it, for free.

I only went for a couple months. We didn't work through any great revelations. I already knew what I needed to be doing, had thought through all the logical side of things. But what helped, what I needed, was someone who didn't know me who cared. My therapist called me kiddo, was generous with concern and affection. I know it's part of the job. But it was good, needed, to be cared about by someone who had never known me happy and whole. For someone who only knew me as broken and raw to still find me worth time and effort, in any capacity, helped me start to see myself that way.

Being depressed wasn't itself something to be ashamed of. It happened to me. It wasn't because I wasn't vigilant enough. It just happened. It's something that happens to a lot of us. For me, it was a brief period, a depressive episode. For others, it's a lifelong struggle, a constant battle to care and be cared for.

Mental illness, like most poisonous things, is a danger when it's hidden and not talked about. When its victims suffer in silence. When it divides us and whispers or screams lies at us.

We fight stigmas against mental illness by having conversations. We move forward by sharing. We win when we speak up and reach out.

You know someone who suffers from mental illness, whether it's anxiety or depression or any other disorder. We all experience hardship and grief. We all need support.

Share your stories. We can lift the stigma against mental illness and therapy. The time to talk about depression is not when it claims a life. It's now, so we can know we're not alone.

Here are more personal stories of fighting mental illness:
#sparkofmadness
Becky's story of fighting compulsion and anxiety
Mickey's story of fighting depression
Allie's story of fighting depression

Learn more about depression:
From the Mayo Clinic
From the National Alliance on Mental Illness

#VEGASMEGABIRTHDAYWOW

I made these for my two best friends:

An old writing adage for Becky.

And a classy piece of art for Meghan.

Becky and Meghan are born two days apart and have always thrown absurd, wonderful joint birthday parties. This year, we lived it up in Las Vegas (where Becky's getting her MFA).

It was ... absurdly fun. And I know fun usually implies something vapid or forced, but I genuinely had a wonderful, memorable time. I know this is one of those memories that'll be savored, one that will acquire a hazy syrupy glow of nostalgia and fondness.

Needless to say, being with Becky and Meg was right. When you've been friends for as long as we have, being together feels like the universe coming back into focus. I also got to spend time with the inestimable Felipe and Alex! Love those fellas.

I also got to spend time with Becky's Vegas friends, and I can now pretty confidently count many of them as my friends, too.

There were shenanigans which included alcoholic milkshakes, a giant metal praying mantis that shot fireballs out of her antennae, Truth or Dare, an unexpectedly fancy whiskey attic, spontaneous indoor rock climbing, the cheesiest diner I've ever seen, and even a writing craft lecture.

It's okay - I'd be jealous, too.

Okay, confession:
I was a little anxious about the trip before I left. I have a history of being deeply and painfully socially awkward. I've mostly grown out of it, but there's still a part of me that doesn't really believe that I'm no longer the wallflower I used to be.

A lot of my middle school awkwardness stayed with me through college (instead of dissipating, as it does for most people, as I understand it) because most of my peers were excessively cool. They were these unbelievably witty, esoteric, insightful artists and writers. They practically bled that weird brand of raggedy insouciant sophistication that's so unique to privileged but-trying-so-hard-to-not-seem-privileged college kids.

All of them seemed so Together. Like, they had things Figured Out. They had opinions and knew the difference between a syrah and a merlot. They lounged around and talked in these scornful, beautiful, careless voices. Compared to them, I felt like a dorky, too-earnest, naive kid, struggling to keep up with the grown ups. I was completely in awe of them, and completely intimidated by them. I always felt that I had to prove myself, that I had to earn my way into their exclusive circle.

Someone would crack a joke that hinged on an obscure piece of literature I hadn't read, and I would hear, "Impress me - then maybe we can be friends."

Someone would disinterestedly dismiss a comment I'd made and I would kick myself for being so stupid.

And, perversely, instead of becoming disgusted by the whole thing, it just made me try even harder, scrutinize myself even more. I have a problem with confrontation - my Asian heritage shows up in the form of accommodation and acquiescence, I guess - so instead of realizing that the reason I'd never live up to their expectations was that their standards were unreasonably high, I just accepted that I wasn't good enough.

Even as an adult, I've believed that - when getting to know people - I can't let anyone know what a total and complete dorkasaurus I am. I can't get loud or enthusiastic. Just play it cool, okay? Stop bouncing around, stop trying so hard, give people some room, geez.

I was worried, before I flew out for the birthday weekend, that I'd fall back into my old awkwardness. And then, while journaling at the airport, it suddenly hit me. I'll never be as good at cool as that one kid I went to school with. I'll never be as fun as that one girl I know. But, damnit, I am the best at being Leta. There is no one who is better at it.

And I'm rad. I know it's not cool to be all braggy-self-lovey, but I don't care. I'm awesome. A dork, yes. Over-excitable? Definitely. I am absolutely an unforgivable know-it-all (who doesn't even know that much about anything in particular), and I do get awkward and shy sometimes. But I also meet people with the expectation that I'll like them - I don't need people to impress me before I'll admit them into my life. I laugh really hard at stupid things. I like board games and staying at home sometimes, and I read books over and over, and I haven't read Faulkner or much TC Boyle, and I don't like a lot of music I probably should like, and I prefer cider over liquor and plain old apple juice over cider, and I give amazing high fives and I love hugs and am a terrible dancer and I don't really know what's cool, and that's okay with me.

What the hell. I don't need cool.

And I had a fucking blast in Vegas with everyone! There were probably people who don't think much of me, who think I'm a boring so-what with boring so-what thoughts. But I like most everyone I met, and I don't care if they know that I like them. I don't care if they know what a spaz I can be, or how nerdy I can get, or how earnest and eager and - sure - naive I am about some things. I don't care if they know how much I loved it. There seems to be this weird taboo against talking about or showing or admitting how much you really like something, and I've decided that this is foolish.

I loved it. The whole trip. Everything.

I loved meeting everyone and getting to know people and making friends. I loved being myself with my two best friends in the world. I loved seeing how much everyone loves Becky. I loved being wholehearted and holding nothing back. I loved that there were people who have only known me like this - trying to be no one else but myself.

It's a shift that's been coming on for a long time. I don't need to be cool and superior. I can afford to expose my own ignorance, because how else do you remedy it? I can afford to not hold back, even if I end up going too far, because what's the use of anything you do by halves?

I know I had a point with this post, but I've forgotten what it was I was trying to say.

This just turned into an indulgent, self-congratulatory pep talk for me. But I couldn't write this post without going into all the personal revelations that accompanied the trip.

I don't have a good way to end this, so I'll just wrap up by saying that I can't wait to go back.

Variables

Nick and I were listening to an episode of This American Life the other day. I learned that, apparently, a frequent and common sign of autism is a tendency to fantasize about traps.

A woman begins to suspect that her husband may be autistic, so she has him answer a diagnostic questionnaire normally given to children and teens.

"And then the questions started getting just bizarre, where I was like, this must be a typo. I remember there was one question about, have you ever fantasized about making traps? And I said, 'Oh, that must be a typo.' And he's like, 'No, I totally have.'"

Nick and I were trying to figure out why traps, specifically, would be this universal thing.

We decided that maybe it was just an extension of the desire to control or predict situations, particularly chaotic ones. Building a trap to catch, say, a rabbit - that's a pretty good analogy for taking an unpredictable situation (i.e. nature) and carefully constructing a series of logical events (i.e. rabbit smells bait, rabbit approaches bait, rabbit triggers sensor, etc) which lead to an easily controlled and predictable end result (i.e. a rabbit in a trap).

It makes a kind of sense.

It got me thinking about my own tendencies to plan for adventures and disasters. I have fun discussing zombie contingency plans. I like to pack imaginary Adventure bags. What would I take with me on a quest through a vampire-infested city? What would I need on a voyage through Fairyland? What kind of tools would I want to survive an alien abduction?

It's kind of fun, thinking through the variables. It's also nice having these pre-defined worlds populated by monsters with clearcut weaknesses.

Like, if I found myself facing off against a werewolf or The Fair Folk, I could totally handle it.

I think that's one of the reasons fantasy and scifi are so appealing. The worlds they describe follow rules, and if you just learn them, you're fine.  I can understand why people with autism find traps so soothing. If you can just figure out the rules, if you can account for all the variables, everything works.

I kind of feel that way, particularly right now. I'm sort of getting the hang of my new job, but I keep feeling like I'm forgetting things. I don't feel fully trained. On top of this, the girl who also does this job the other half of the week just announced that she's moving to Texas with her husband. So in a few weeks, I'll be the most experienced person doing this job.

The person they're hiring will potentially take over my shift, and I'll move to the other half of the week. I might be a jerk and put my foot down and refuse to change shifts. I've already gotten to know the volunteers on my shift, and the idea of starting what's basically from scratch is hugely unappealing. I just trained for this shift; I don't feel like I have it down well-enough to train someone else for it.

Also, I'm a little concerned about hiring someone who was from the same applicant pool as me last time. I'm afraid that this situation will result in competition - who's doing the job better, who was the better hire after all? I'm not feeling competitive - I just hope the new person isn't, either.

And I can't find my keys. So, in all, I'm feeling a bit unequipped to deal with everything that's going on right now.

I just want someone to hand me a rule book, a field guide to doing this job well, to making the right decisions. If I can figure out all the variables, I can make solid plans
.

new new new

So the new job is going pretty well. At this point, the volunteers I manage still know more than I do, so that's a bit awkward. Hello, I'm doing the same job as you, but less well, and I'm getting paid to do it!

I'm sure it'll get better.

My laptop has decided to stop working. Or rather, the keyboard quit and the ability to detect and connect to wifi signals followed suit shortly thereafter. SO I got a Chromebook.

I know it's just a netbook, but honestly, pretty much everything I do is online anyway. Word processing, video watching, music listening, etc. It's all done on the internetz. And I use google products almost exclusively.

So far, I'm digging the experience. It's taking a bit to get used to the Chrome OS, but for someone who's used gmail and the like for a decade, it's a pretty easy learning curve.

I just recorded a video with it. Not astonishing quality, but it doesn't need to be. I have my handheld pocket camcorder for better quality videos.

It's been nice having a stable job. I don't feel guilty about doing silly, unproductive things with my free time anymore.

For example:



Yep. Completely useful and grown up, I know.

What is this madness?!

Holy cow. Holy, sacred, numinous cow!

I ... I have a job. Like, a grownup job with benefits. At a science museum. Working with volunteers and wearing a labcoat and preparing frozen sheep organs for dissection and making agar plates and cultivating bottles of algae and innoculating bacteria cultures and painting visitors' tongues blue and stuff.

Mind. BLOWN.

I start officially on the first. I am so. unbelievably. excited!