A farewell to fear

The thing I loathe most about fear is how sneaky it is.

How one moment you can feel completely confident and positive that the path you’ve chosen is the path you desire, and then–bam! Crippling anxiety. Lose next turn.

It feels comforting to relegate fear into preset categories:

• Fear of failure
• Fear of commitment
• Fear of pain
• Fear of the unknown

We’ve even tried to make it trendy: FOMO–Fear of missing out. But that just goes to show how terrified we are of fear itself.

I say we. I shouldn’t loop the entirety of society into my anxieties and worries. I am terrified of fear. I am held down beneath its weight. I am. Me.

It would seem illogical, then, that I should do things like broadcast the things that make my stomach churn and jaw ache (weird anxiety tic; you don’t get used to it) on the internet. But I don’t fear this; I don’t fear sharing my thoughts in words I can erase, rewrite, erase again, edit later, erase again, and rewrite again; words that will mostly be read by strangers who won’t leave a comment and whom I will likely never meet. I don’t even fear having people I know read things like this, if for no other reason than it will spark a more interesting conversation than the circles of small talk that far too often dominate interactions between two people capable of so much more.

It would also seem illogical that I would fear the thing that could take away much of my fear. But I do. It’s keeping me up right now, making me question every quiver of my stomach and buzz in my head, every potential change from “normal” into what will be–if all goes well–my “new normal.”

I started taking an SSRI today, and I’m scared.

I’ve struggled with anxiety and PMDD for years now, and always just assumed I could find a way to control it myself. More exercise. Better diet. More therapy sessions. Weekly acupuncture. But the thing is, I knew it wasn’t working. I also feared what it would feel like to not be in control–to give up my brain and my body to a tiny pill that I don’t understand and, even after hours of research and dozens of questions asked of and answered by professionals, never will.

If you’ve read anything I’ve written or met me for more than a minute, you know I am a control glutton. Not in the way it’s portrayed in movies, where it’s somehow cute to be finicky about pillows being arranged just so, but in the “I will lose all sense of equilibrium if something doesn’t go according to whatever plan I have concocted” kind of way.

At least on my bad days.

On my good days I can force Logic to overtake Emotion and debate myself back into a state of, if not calm, then at least acceptance. But on my bad days–the week leading up to my period, the days I haven’t gotten enough sleep, the countless times I’ve said yes to too many things before checking in with myself and realizing I’m already running on empty and oh, by the way, there’s not another fueling station for a good 70 or so miles–I lose it. Usually not in front of others, sometimes on the phone with a trusted friend or relative, but it happens: my usual levelheaded, strategic-planner self who prides herself on considering situations from multiple angles and reaching an informed conclusion–poof!–vanishes.

This anxiety (perfectionism, obsession with control, OCD–whatever you want to call it) has manifested itself in many ways throughout my 30 years of living. I was the kid who threw a fit when plans changed at the last minute. I didn’t like playing at other kids’ houses because I didn’t know what games they had or which dolls they would allow me to use. I look at menus before going to restaurants. I buy almost exactly the same things at the grocery store every week and eat almost the exact same thing every day. I am a creature of habit. Change–a break in control–terrifies me. It’s not a fear of the unknown I suffer from, rather a fear of interrupting the known.

I know my current strengths and weaknesses. I know which people in my life lift me up and bring me down. I know I like solo travel. I know I dislike sharing a bathroom.

I also know I feel good–truly good–only a handful of days a month. I know that I feel ill over things that don’t merit anything more than a passing eye roll. I know that I actively avoid pursuing bigger, better, more meaningful projects, relationships, and changes because they’ll require being vulnerable. Risking rejection. Admitting to myself and the world that I’m not perfect and never will be.

And I know that I’m sick of living life halfway.

So today I went to a doctor. I told her all the things that scare me and that have been holding me back–that I’ve accepted as my normal–and I asked her to help me silence the fear and take the first step toward change. She did, and now I’m here: Day One of many days to come, during which I’ll feel as many ups and downs, frustrations and triumphs as I always have, but hopefully without the crippling worry that it’s not enough. That I’m not enough.

Because I am. You are. We are. And if we need something or someone to help us realize and remember that, then so be it. Life is happening and I want to live it. Failures and all.

This is 30.

I wake up early. Early for most, normal for me.

Already a few text messages sit waiting in my inbox. From my best friend, in Bora Bora on her honeymoon. From aunts and uncles. From my mom.

I contemplate another cup of coffee after breakfast but choose a walk along the river instead. It’s colder than I’d dressed for, and I turn back earlier than I’d planned. I smile at the smattering of people I pass along the way: couples walking their dogs; pairs of women, chatting; older men; college students, jogging. They don’t know it’s my birthday, and that’s just fine.

More text messages waiting to be read when I get home. I get in the shower. My thighs are pink from the cold. I should have worn another layer; I’d forgotten what 33 degrees and cloudy feels like for more than a quick walk to and from the car. The water is hot; I let myself linger–a small birthday treat, from me, to me.

I don’t expect anyone to remember it’s my birthday, and yet I find myself wondering who will remember and who won’t. Each year a surprise: Friends of decades letting the day pass without so much as a hello; friends of mere months going out of their way to acknowledge this as My Day. It’s not, but it’s nice to pretend, for a little while.

Back into bed to warm up, to savor a few moments of quiet. Soon I’ll leave the apartment, embrace the day, count down the hours until dinner with my family in a small restaurant perfect for celebrating, for hiding.

A sudden flashback to the art museum in Zagreb, Croatia–my first outing after scalding my leg. The blisters popping in the bathroom. Limping pathetically up and down the staircase. A disturbing exhibit tucked into a back room.

Other flashbacks–of previous birthdays, of past relationships, of faces long unseen, of moments unimpressive at the time yet now impossible to forget–are sure to appear throughout the day. Memories. Regrets. Remembrances. Questions. Thoughts normally marked as off-limits, permitted for these 24 hours. “My Day.”

Thirty years. A studio apartment. Hot water. Chilly walks. Glasses. Coffee. Memories. Text-message birthday wishes. This is 30.

Falling on my face: An unsurprising saga

I fell on my face earlier this week.

Not figuratively; literally: I was hurriedly leaving work, pulling on my backpack and reaching for my phone to text that I was en route to my upcoming meeting, and my boot caught on the sidewalk. The usually slippery tread stuck stubbornly, and, as my momentum carried me forward and I flailed and hopped about trying to catch myself, I knew it was no good. Within a second, I was pancaked on the concrete, chin scraping the ground, arms spread, salt everywhere.

The symbolism of falling on my face isn’t lost on me. The link between trying to do too much in too little time–juggling myriad thoughts and tasks and duties and dreams instead of picking just one and giving it the time and attention it deserves–and having it all spiraling out of control until I’m sprawled on the ground, in control of exactly nothing, is glaringly obvious. We can’t do it all. More accurately, I can’t do it all. No matter how much I want to; no matter how hard I try; no matter how much I schedule, plan, train, and research; I can’t do it. Not all of it anyway.

This isn’t news, to me or anyone else. I’ve written about it before, been told it before, been the one to tell others it before. So, if it’s nothing new, if I know the pursuit of perfection is my Achilles Heel, why haven’t I learned from it already? Why do I still find myself falling on my face when the weight of my self-inflicted too-full schedule catches me off guard and pushes me to the ground?

I recently escaped the depths of winter in Minnesota and retreated to the sunny desert of Sedona, Arizona. I rented a house, shuttled from Phoenix to avoid renting a car, and spent the week in almost total solitude, save for the company of the mountains and the occasional fellow hiker. It took me several days to wind down and give myself full permission to just relax–to read when I wanted to read, eat when I was hungry, hike when I was restless, sleep when I was tired, daze off into the craggy earth-toned distance when I needed to shut my brain off. I wrote a lot during that week, recording whatever thought popped up or feeling suddenly emerged. I felt my shoulders release the knots they’d built up and my neck loosen from its normally rigid state of attention. I was fully aware that running away from normal every-day responsibilities was a temporary reprieve, and that I needed to learn to implement these same self-love strategies into my day-to-day back in Minnesota, but for that week, I let myself pretend it was just me and the mountains and embraced the fantasy that I was a stranger to the world.

As an overachieving introvert, I have no idea what moderation looks like. For me, it’s all or nothing: complete solitude–phone off, doors locked, laptop on airplane mode–or full engagement–caffeinated and prepared to tackle any question or problem from any coworker, family member, friend or complete stranger. “Middle” to me is a mystery: Does it mean giving only 70 percent instead of 100 percent? Saying no to the things that I personally wouldn’t enjoy but know are important to the individual asking me to participate with them in? Delegating more? Initiating less? Aiming lower?

Many would say, “Moderation (or finding that middle ground) is trying your best, and accepting when something just isn’t possible.”

I can’t stand that. I always try my best. And if I’m not trying my best, I feel guilty for not trying my best. I try my best at things that don’t even require my best–things I know I could satisfactorily accomplish at less-than my best, but still spend twice the amount of time on than they merit because I can’t stomach doing anything less than my best, and therefore just wasted my time and likely passed on something far more attractive and lucrative because I’ve already committed to thing I should have just said no to in the first place. It’s either: try my best, or don’t try at all. Which is terrible. And impractical. And unhealthy. It’s also why I find myself here, again, nursing a chin bruise and would-be ego bruise (somehow no one saw me fall), and asking myself why I keep falling on my face over and over.

Everyone has a weak spot. Everyone has an Achilles Heel, a thorn in their side. I’m not alone in this, I know. But sometimes I need to write a pity post and lick my wounds and regroup from a very long, very people-filled two weeks back in very cold Minnesota in order to fully admit defeat. You win, life. Take your bow, take my pride, take all the time you need to gloat in your victory, and then please take your leave. I need some time to regroup before my next face plant.

 

Smile and Wave

Walking to the coffee shop this morning I passed the usual unusual mix of people you encounter mid-morning on a Monday:

A short, portly, bald man leaving his house, shuffling across his unmown lawn to his car, slowing down to look at me and ask me how I was doing. “Pretty good,” I answered. “How are you?” “OK,” he said. “I’m OK.”

A pair of Hispanic men discussing something in depth, one of them pausing to toss a piece of trash into an oversize dumpster.

A construction worker standing off to the side of his work site, pretending to look busy studying a blueprint but really checking his phone.

My favorite came a block away from the cafe. As I contemplated how sweaty I’d gotten in such a short walk, I glanced down and saw a middle-aged woman approaching me pushing a double stroller. Strapped into the side-by-side seats were petite identical twin girls, about two years old. Bright blond hair, fine skin, delicate build, they looked like little dolls, barely filling the seats. As soon as I looked their way, they smiled and waved at me–same time, same smile, same hand, same wave. They looked so genuinely pleased to see me, to greet me, I couldn’t help but smile and wave back.

The moment only lasted a few seconds, and neither girl will remember the interaction (nor the identical interactions they’d likely already had with all the people they’d already passed on their morning stroll), but for some reason it struck me. It was so pure, so spontaneous, so real–so unlike so many interactions we (read: adults) have on a day-to-day basis. More than that, it was simple–just a smile and a wave–and yet it elevated my morning from average to temporarily delightful.

Indiscriminately smiling and waving at everyone you pass probably isn’t a great idea. But the occasional nod or smile or moment of eye contact with a passing stranger, barista, server or fellow coffee-shop goer might go a long way. It never hurts to be kind to someone. And hopefully it will lead to that someone being kind to someone else in return.

 

I Want to Hold Your Hand

The old woman stopped next to the electrical box and leaned against it. She had her grocery tote — the kind with wheels, a little shopping trolley — with her, and used it as a walker to slowly make her way along the sidewalk.

I was leaving my apartment in Budapest for the first time in two days, the victim of a nasty virus, and was anxious to explore. I spotted the woman as I was crossing the street and, when she made eye contact with me, smiled at her.

Based on her cart and the direction in which she was heading, I assumed she was on her way to the market around the corner — a quick walk for me; a seemingly enormous feat for her. I glanced around, hoping to see an aid or loved one nearby, parking the car, perhaps, or arriving from a different location, but knew she was alone.

I approached her slowly and, as respectfully as possible, tried to ask the question of her destination using facial expressions and gestures. I’d only just learned how to say “thank you” in Hungarian, and couldn’t begin to pretend I’d be able to look up — and then pronounce — how to ask if she needed help in the short time it would take me to cross the street.

I don’t know whether or not she understood my charades, because the moment I got close enough to her, she let go of the electrical box and, with surprising swiftness, grabbed hold of my hand.

She never broke eye contact and her hand was warm despite the cold, strong winter wind rushing at us. She asked me a question in Hungarian — presumably if I was from Budapest, or, if not, what I was doing in Budapest. I continued to smile and shrugged as an apology, slightly shaking my head. “Deutsch?” she tried next. “Nein,” I answered. “America. English?”

By now we were on the move. I towered over her and bent down as far as I could to make sure she could lean on my arm. She kept her trolley as a makeshift walker in her right hand, clung to me with her left, and shuffled with purpose, stopping every quarter block or so to rest, look at me, and talk at me in a mix of Hungarian and German, with just enough English thrown in to make me wonder if I was mishearing her — if perhaps she was speaking in English the whole time, just with a thick accent. (She wasn’t.)

We made our way down the block, past the market, and across another street, her hand tightly grasping mine, our pace slowed to a halt every time the wind picked up and threatened to blow her over, as if she were nothing.

I wondered for a moment where we were going, how long I would have to serve as her human cane, but quickly disregarded the thought, scolding myself for being so selfish. After all, I had no where to be, no one to meet up with. This woman needed me, and, if I were being honest, I needed her.

It was two days after Christmas, and I had been alone — no one to talk to save for the occasional brief conversation with strangers or Airbnb hosts; no one to touch or hug or lean on; no one to look me in the eyes and try to connect with me, common language or no — for two weeks. It might not sound like a long time, and, in the large scheme of things, it isn’t. But add up enough one- and two-week chunks, enough clumps of days spent entirely alone, enough lengths of time during which the only “real” connection you have with another human is talking to friends or family via video chat, and it ends up feeling like a lot more than *just* two weeks.

As we shuffled along, my temporary companion kept up a constant stream of one-way conversation. To emphasize a point, she would stop, turn, and look at me, repeating whatever it was she had already said, as if by saying it twice I would somehow know, somehow suddenly understand Hungarian. In response I would look at her, shake my head, pat her hand, and shrug, sometimes laugh a little at our odd situation. A few times I offered a response in English. Most of the time I just kept smiling, always returning her earnest gaze. At some point she would nod, apparently satisfied that at least I’d understood she was trying to communicate something of importance, even if I didn’t know what that something was, and tighten her grip. Then onward we would shuffle.

Two blocks and 15 minutes from where we’d first met, the woman stopped, pointed at a door, and said, “Here.” It was a door I had passed multiple times in my five days in Budapest, and I had come to the obviously false conclusion that it was an office in transition — a neutral space with a cluster of desks and various rooms, all visible from the large picture windows. Nothing about the space indicated it was somewhere that anyone could live. Scanning the exterior of the building, I spotted a metal sign that bore the Hungarian national seal and, below it, a few words as well as an etching that looked like a house. Apparently, this was a government-run senior housing facility — the place my new friend called home.

I looked at this woman — the only person in weeks who had needed me, who had leaned on me, physically and emotionally — and wished there was more I could do for her. The wind had caused tears to form in her eyes, and without a hand to wipe them, they were running down her crinkled, wind-whipped cheeks. I wanted to wipe them for her, to tell her that she wasn’t alone; that I could stay with her for the day, if she’d like. But I couldn’t say any of those things, nor could I do anything to really help her; all I could do was continue to hold her hand.

As swiftly as she’d first grabbed hold of my arm, she suddenly let go of her cart, grabbed my other hand, and put the hand that had been intertwined in mine up to my face. “America good,” she said, patting my cheek. “Here, no good. America good. Danke schön.” Then she kissed my hand, hoisted herself up the step, opened the door, and shuffled inside.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched as she made her way through the florescent-lit entryway and, eventually, a door down a short hallway. My right arm hung down at my side; my right hand grew cold from the wind. I waited another second, then put my hands in my pockets and turned around, back toward the street that had been my original destination not 20 minutes before.

I don’t know the woman’s name or history. I don’t know where she was coming from or who will help her the next time she’s blocks away from home and needs an arm to lean on. All I know is that for as much as she needed me for that brief period of time on that Tuesday morning, I needed her more.

I wish I could have told her as much; I wish I could have had the words to express to her that I appreciated her smile and kind eyes and warm hand. But instead all I was able to say as we parted was, “Danke schön; guten tag.” And then I squeezed her hand, smiled one more time, and let her go.