I Am...

You know what's a nice little challenge to set for yourself? Blog about panic attacks without having one. Cause, I'll be honest, I don't love telling strangers that I get panic attacks. Fuck, I don't love telling anyone. 

Now, I could say that the reason for this is the stigma behind panic attacks. And that certainly doesn't help -- because despite the fact that people are becoming more aware of how they actually work and that everyone knows someone (probably more than one someone) who's afflicted by them, society at-large doesn't really take kindly to anything that effects your brain or your emotions, let alone both. 

But it's actually my own perfectionism that makes me not want to tell people. I don't like the idea that I can't handle something. It makes me feel weak and inferior. Like, I wasn't given all of the proper tools to function as a human being. It's isolating. At least for me it is. When I'm having a panic attack -- or one is approaching -- other people, no matter who they are, get sucked into the noise of the panic attack and add to the assault on my brain. So, sharing that I get panic attacks with the world -- even when I doubt anyone is going to read it -- is pretty close to a 10 on the scary meter. 

I feel like I need to blog about it though because as someone who's getting married in just about three weeks, the panic attacks are more frequent. Now, before you start to worry, the attacks have nothing to do with the actual getting married part. That part is awesome and the man I'm marrying is the most effective person at helping me with my panic attacks. He's never once judged me about them, which kind of blows my mind cause whether it's true or just feels true having a mental illness in this country (not saying we're worse just saying I only live here) is like setting yourself up to be judged. People assume just about anything they want to when they find out a nugget like this. You can't be relied upon. You can't handle stress. You aren't logical enough. You let your emotions rule you. You're defective. 

And god-forbid you take medication for it, well, you're more than broken...you've given up on yourself. I actually had a friend once who, when I made the big and brave decision to go to a psychiatrist, turned into Tom Cruise before my very eyes -- rallying around the idea that psychiatry was a bunch of crap and more dangerous than anything imaginable. Never once worrying that the most dangerous thing imaginable was saying all of this shit to me -- preaching it, really -- after I had struggled so long to make that harrowing decision like that. 

I have certain triggers -- things that I tend to refer to affectionately as "what makes me twitchy" -- and one of those triggers is money. There have been times in my life when I've been comfortable and times in my life when I've been in fear of homelessness. And I think that once you really think you could be out on the street, that fear of being back there never really leaves you. I hope I'm wrong about that because I'd like to think that someday I might beat this feeling but so far that hasn't happened yet. 

And, of course, you can't plan a wedding without talking about money. All the time. And, more than likely, with people whom you're not comfortable talking about money with -- at least for me. Which kind of puts me in an area where I can have a panic attack at any time. And I can feel them from a mile away. I can feel the oxygen leaving my lungs and my fingers starting to fidget. I can feel myself looking it dead in the eye, wishing like hell that it won't come while knowing the whole time that it's going to. And I can feel the world's disappointment when I can't stop it from happening. 

The stigma is bad. It's so bad that even though this runs in my family, I don't feel like I can tell them. My mom knows but she's the only one I've really told and it took me decades to do that. But when you spend your whole life listening to family members talk about your favorite aunt who passed when you were in high school -- the godmother that you have so much in common with -- and make light of her struggle, it gives you the scars that she can no longer wear. I understand that she didn't make life easy -- not for her or for others -- and I get that sometimes we need to be able to laugh at the things that scare us most or have caused us pain but you just never know who might be listening. 

It's not easy being a human being. We're all broken in some way. And if you don't think you're broken, well, that thought is a neon arrow pointing to those broken pieces. I struggle with depression and anxiety. Every day. It has little to do with how happy I am or my goals or dreams or the love I feel. It just is. I have triggers and crutches and coping mechanisms. I have hopes and fears. I have insecurities -- some that I was born with and others that the world helped to create. 

I am real. I am valid. I am not less of a person because of my struggles. And I say this all as much for you as I do me. Because some days, I can't hear my own voice inside my head, all I hear is the world echoing inside of me. And where mental illness is concerned, those words are generally not positive and soothing. 

Sometimes writing can help me manage a panic attack. Sometimes, not. But regardless, I have a gift and an understanding. It's time for me to stop being afraid of other people's ignorant thoughts. I don't deserve that. No one does. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am also intelligence, compassion and strength. I will continue to try and not let others dictate how I feel. I will continue to try to stop being my own worst enemy by broadcasting negative thoughts and words into my own head. I am brave. Things that are easy for other people are not easy for me but there are things that I can rock the hell out of that other people can't. 

We are all different. We are all equal. We're human beings and this isn't math class. There isn't a spreadsheet somewhere that lists all of the things a human being is supposed to have that each of us has to check-off for ourselves. Doing something or handling something better than another person doesn't mean you win. Nothing about you -- on the inside or the outside -- works that way. We may want it to, we may have spent millennia trying to tell people what traits are better to have -- from skin color to gender to how your brain works to who you love or how or if you worship -- but the only trait that really sets us apart is compassion. And if you have it deeply, it can seem like your tragic flaw. You can feel crushed under the weight of it, watching all of the pain in the world and feeling it in your bones. And people will make you feel weak because of it. People with little or no compassion will do all they can to make you feel like there's something wrong with you if you do have it. It's not that the people without compassion have louder voices, our voices are just as loud, but they've been holding the microphone for far too long. People's differences, people's uniquenesses--do not make them less-than. There's no such thing as a human imperfection. Why? Because there's no such thing as a perfect human being. It's not in our genetic makeup. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am panic attacks and humor and compassion and intelligence. I am the only version of me that there is. And therefore, I am the template. I am the mold to being the ultimate me. No one and nothing can take that from me as long as I don't let them. And I don't. 

I am proud of who I am. There are things I need to work on and things I need to cultivate. And there are things I need to spread to others because the force is rather strong in me. The force is strong in all of us, we just need to realize that no one is more privy to strength and character than anyone else. 

We, as humans, can make the world the beautiful place that it can ultimately be. But it's all on us. We can't wait for someone to do the work for us. Whether you believe in God or not, it's our job to do not his. And the first step in the process is to tell someone else how great they are. Pick someone you wouldn't normally say it to. Pick a stranger. Pick an enemy. Pick someone who looks like they're having a tough day. Look them dead in the eye and say, "hey, you've overcome a lot and I think that's pretty awesome. I see you doing things that I wish I could do and I'm really impressed. Thanks for adding that to the world."

I am depression. I am anxiety. And I wouldn't change any of it because then I wouldn't be me. And I like me, as Mark Darcy would say, just as I am. 

It's Always Sunny on Criminal Minds

You know what's like seeing a shooting star on the night of a full moon during a leap year while the olympics are going on? A tv show crossover. 

And I'm not talking about those very special episodes that network television loves to do in order to force people into tuning into shows they normally might not watch just to see a split second of a character from one of the shows they do watch. Look Dr. Ross and Dr. Carter are having a double date with Rachel and Monica! No biggie that ER took place in Chicago and Friends in NYC. Oh, isn't life on tv adorable! 

What I'm talking about is when you're watching one of your favorite tv shows and all of a sudden, you're inside one of your other favorite shows. 

This happened to me last week.

I was watching a Criminal Minds episode on Netflix. One, I feel is only fair to point out, that I've seen a bunch (like every other Criminal Minds episode). I'm not sure what was different about this time. I must've been looking up at the screen at just the right part, paying attention where I otherwise might be dicking around on my computer -- because truthfully I think and write better when I have noise on in the background and CM is one of the shows that I'll just let play while I work. Whatever it was...I watched as the unsub (CM lingo *wink, wink*) rounded the corner, his peacoat wrapped around him and his Clark Kent glasses secure on his head, and I stared on in amazement as he walked right fucking past Paddy's Pub. 

For reals, yo'.

He walked right past the entrance to Paddy's. Now, I know what you're going to ask. No, there was no sign. Come on, dummy. This is Criminal Minds and the team wasn't even supposed to be in Philadelphia. There was no Sweet Dee or Mac, Charlie or Dennis. Frank wasn't drinking wine out of a can and Rickety Cricket wasn't huddled by a dumpster. But fuck, if that killer wasn't about to stab someone right outside of Paddy's Pub! 

I was motherfucking delighted. Granted, I couldn't pay attention to the rest of the scene at all. The next thing I knew the story had moved on to the next plot point while I was busy looking up and down the street for a makeshift shanty town. But it was delicious. Those, probably, two minutes where two of my favorite shows collided was just goddamn lovely. Yes, it took me out of the show I was watching for a few minutes but that was okay. It was glorious and I loved it. 

This just doesn't happen often enough. Maybe if I wish real hard in two months time as I go to blow out my birthday candles, the next season of American Horror Story will take place in Stars Hollow!! 

Short Poppies -- the best damn reason to learn to pronounce the name Rhys.

Let's talk for just a minute about Rhys Darby, New Zealand's most delightful and enigmatic national treasure. My fiancé and I just finished watching Short Poppies, Darby's 8-episode faux-documentary, centering on the overly-ordinary and completely unusual fictional small town of "The Bay". In each episode, The Bay's mockumentary focusses on one townie of choice, always effortlessly and hilariously played by Darby. 

Now, I cannot express to you how madly important it is for you to (finish my blog) and then immediately open Netflix and binge watch all eight in a row. They're each less than a half an hour -- you won't have to call in sick from work or anything -- and it will end up being the best (approx) 3 hours of your entire month...or your life, depending on how things are going for you. 

For anyone who's a fan of Kiwi comedy -- and if you're not, you really should be -- you will immediately recognize Darby from his fucking perfect portrayal of pitiful, lovable, sad-sack band manager Murray, in Flight of the Concords. I dare anyone to watch that show and not realize halfway through the series that Murray is their landslide favorite member of the band. 

Rhys Darby more than delivers in Short Poppies. From Terry Pole, the first resident of "The Bay" we're fortunate enough to meet, the leg model and local lifeguard, to my own personal favorite Mary Ledbetter, the leader of the Lady Walkers who delights in delivering personal criticisms to everyone in the town, Darby seems to call on old Kids in the Hall folly and mix it with his own over-the-top yet somehow totally understated portrayal of each character. 

Sprinkled with fun and surprising cameos -- in front of and behind the camera --  I'm already longing to watch the series a second time. I know for a fact that there were moments when I was laughing too hard and too loudly to be fully confident that I heard everything that was being served up in front of me on a fucking comedy platter. 

Wedding Vows

So, I'm getting married in a month. Like, literally. On this date in November of 2015, I will be getting married. Okay, so now we're one day off cause I fell asleep writing this.

Lots of things are tough about wedding planning. Just like lots of things about it are totally easy and totally fucking awesome. Some examples...

Things that are tough:

*Getting save-the-dates and invitations out on time

*Finding a good bridesmaid dress if you're confident enough in yourself that you actually want your chicks to look as awesome as they are.

*Finding the time to do everything

*Not going crazy when the post office is out of your stamps

Things that are easy:

*Cake tasting

*Spending money

*Imagining the getting married part

*Being excited

*Losing track of time

*Feeling lucky

*Stressing out

*Saying fuck (truthfully, this is always)

Things that are awesome:

*Cake tasting (this deserves to be on two lists)

*Picking out wedding party gifts

*Playing with fire and wax to seal your invites

*Presents!!!!

*Finding your dress

*Asking your bridesmaids to measure their heads

*Knowing that for one day you are legitimately the goddamn most important person on the face of the earth or at least in your world.

Now in addition to getting the invites out on time, finding the perfect bridesmaid dress and not going postal on everyone, you know what else is fucking hard? Writing your own damn vows. 

Now, I know there is someone out there that just closed their eyes and imagined their wedding and *boom* the perfect vows were so created. And you know what? I bet they sucked. I bet everyone at that wedding was like, "what the shit is Sheila talking about or "Jesus Christ, why didn't they just go traditional?" Because writing vows is hard, people.

If you give even two of the smallest shits about the person you're marrying, you want the vows to be the best damn words that ever entered into their ear-holes. And if you fancy yourself the creative type or the funny type or like me, the arrogant bastard child of Jane Austen and Amy Schumer, the vows are going to give you fucking nightmares. 

Seriously. Like Poltergeist-type nightmares. 

You know what's tougher than trying to mix the sentiment of Gilbert Blythe with the comedy of Chelsea Handler? Trying to do it in a wedding dress. And god knows that you don't want to be one of those people that try too hard or go too far with it -- after all, it's supposed to be about the love and the moment and the rest of your lives. 

So, I'll continue on, writing my fourth draft of vows that will describe in absurdities and flowery language how lucky I feel to be marrying the love of my life. I'll somehow find a way to convey in a minute or two that every unsolicited dick pic, every name-dropper, every total fucking stalker (I had three) was worth it. That the homeless man who used his tent in the Home Depot parking lot as a bargaining tool or the guy who ran across four lanes of traffic on Wilshire Blvd once he realized he wouldn't be sleeping with me that night or even the cop running for councilman who tried to make my then-current twosome into a threesome was all so totally worth it...because I met HIM. 

And hopefully, I'll find a way to do without using the word "fuck".

I am the Puppet Master

So, I've discovered that the quickest and easiest way for me to feel like a living, breathing god is for me to solve my own Internet problems. I was working at a pretty good clip, late Sunday night. I had my website projected up on the living room wall, designing away -- trying to make myself seem like the coolest chick to ever live. Like The Fonz with breasts. "Ayyyyy." I had Netflix going on my iPhone, because silence to me is a creativity killer, and I was bouncing between writing and playing The Sims FreePlay on my iPad but we're just going to brush over that last part and pretend I never mentioned it. 

All of a sudden, it went dark. Not the lights or anything...even worse. My internet.

It hit my iPad first -- it always does. The Netflix on my phone was still playing fine but when I went to access my game I was told the server was fucking off somewhere. I could see all of the lights on my router were a lovely shade of green. The steady ones are steady and the blinky ones, blinking. But by the time my brain processed this, the Stone Age had hit my phone and the computer.

I hit a button on the front of my router that, quite frankly, I knew nothing about except that it helped me out on a couple of Internet outage occasions. Tonight though, it flipped me the bird. So, I went back to my phone, switched off wifi and did a little internet search to see if our provider was, you know, having problems and crap. I was like fucking Jessica Fletcher the way I was investigating my little problem. 

Unfortunately, I learned nothing. I knew the problem couldn't be on our end, we had recently signed onto the forgetful consumer's friend "auto-pay", so we were all good in that area. Which meant...

I was going to have to fucking mess with the router and try to fix this myself. Now, let me quickly explain to you that I fucking suck at technology. Case in point, I have never been able to keep a printer. I kill them. Like, you know how before Paul Anka, everyone was afraid of Lorelai Gilmore having pets? I'm like that with printers. If I'm lucky, I can hook them up and successfully complete the printer test. Maybe, I can print a couple of documents. But sometime, around month 3, things go downhill quickly and before I know it, I'm once again printer-less. Basically, if you have a printer at work or home that's on it's last leg, just leave it in my care and it will go quickly and peacefully and never have a chance to realize what's happening. 

Now, we'd been in our new place for six months and I had never once had to reset the router which basically made it the best goddamn place in the world. I tried pressing that magic button on the front of the router again and, like before, nothing happened. So, I turned the sucker around to check out the back. I noticed two things right away: there was a power switch and a reset button. Now, this paralyzed me at first. Fuck, I want to reset it, right? I shouldn't just turn it off and back on again, right? Probably not. Now, the reset button was set inside the back of the router so I was gonna have to poke it with something in order to reach it. This extra step said to me that pressing this button was a big damn deal. They didn't want you to just hit it by accident. Clearly if that happens, you mistakingly bomb a Doctors Without Borders hospital in Afghanistan.

After much debating, I decided to take my chances and poked the button with a twist tie I found on the coffee table. I closed one eye (I'd've closed both but then I wouldn't be able to tell if it was resetting) and held my breath and waited. 

And like the goddamn genie in Aladdin, like Zeus himself or Dr. Frankenstein, I controlled the very essence of life. The lights came back on, one by one. The steady ones went steady and the blinky ones blinked. I went to my devices and each one expertly accessed the internet and took me to exactly where I wanted to be. Criminal Minds played on my Netflix once again. Thank God the serial killers were back. 

I was badass today. I was Whoopi Goldberg in goddamn Ghost and Patrick Swayze was my wifi. I was channeling that shit. My website was going to be perfect. I was going to be witty and pithy and my picture was going to make people want to be my friend. "Oh my god, she's quirky AND funny! I bet she's a riot to hang with!" Yes. Yes, I am. 

That's right, Internet. I have powers. 

Never mind that printer sitting ten feet away that has beaten me before we've even begun. I'll get the cord you need to work, you bastard. I'll get the right cord and then you'll be my bitch, too.