Here I am.

I just spent half an hour in the bathroom of The Green Frog Coffee Shop. Changing. Applying make-up. Brushing, pinning, and defrizzing my hair. I even put on pantyhose (which is necessary since I forgot to shave.)

In 23 minutes I will be interviewing for a job. A job that I DESIRE/CRAVE/NEED…especially after what just happened.

I don’t think I’ll get the job. It’s just a long shot. I don’t have a lot of experience. And it comes with a lot of responsibility and self-motivation. Am I up to that?

My shirt is wrinkled. My legs are hairy. I forgot my chapstick. My hair is doing something wonky. And my bladder chooses now to be finicky. (I peed 3 times in 2 hours. Too much.)

I feel awkward because the lady who is interviewing me introduced herself on the phone only as “Earlene.” I would rather call her by “Ms. (Last Name)” but she didn’t tell me her last name! And I’ve never been in this building before. What if I get lost?

Crap. Anxiety. Can I do this?

I can do this?

*Sigh*

I’m already so anxious about this week that I’m shaking. Dry heaves. Crying.

And I tried to reach out last night. But no one gets it.

I’m just a nuisance to them.

don’t you get it? I’m supposed to reach out for help. And no ones helping. They all think my problem is too trivial. Or that someone else will help. Or that I’m unable to be helped.

Well no one is picking up the slack. No one is helping. Everyone is busy. Or sick of me.

I did my part.

Help me.

Since this whole ordeal, there were 3 things that made me happy.

1. Ella.

2. Teaching Bible class.

3. (something else.)

And now I can’t teach. Ugh. It makes me so unhappy.

I keep finding out about FHU alums who have or do drink, smoke, do drugs, get divorced, have pre-marital sex.

It makes me feel better about myself.

It starts with a trigger. Seeing something or going somewhere where I don’t know what’s going to happen.

My stomach lurches and begins to churn. My head spins and I get dizzy.

My heart pounds, unevenly. My hands shake.

My breaths are shallow, like a weight is on my chest.

My brain can’t focus. All I can think about is nothing at all.

I start to cry. Read: I sob and shudder uncontrollably.

My knees become weak and I cannot stand. I feel faint.

I shake all over. Rock myself. Cry. Sputter for breath.

Half an hour later, I usually sleep. Or stare into space. By then I am balled up in the fetal position under 4 or 5 blankets.

My body aches. Everything from my face to my calves. I’m freezing cold and shaking.

I just thought you might want to know what a panic attack feels like.

Things that keep happening but need to stop:
1. Friends canceling plans last minute.
(They tell depressed people to reach out. I reach out, and my friends squash plans last minute. That makes things WORSE.)

2. Policemen/Security guards viewing me as a threat.

3. People greeting me with “Are you ok?” Rather than “hello.”

4. Panic attacks.

(Things that have given me panic attacks:

1. Policemen, security guards and/or their respective cars.
2. My phone ringing.
3. Church.
4. Chorale.
5. Going anywhere on campus.
6. Lots of people.
7. Being alone.
8. Twitter.)

Things that remind me of him:

Music. Theater. TV shows. Movies. Friends. FHU. Food. My apartment. Church. Certain places. My computer. My cell phone. My clothes/hair/make-up.

Essentially, everything.

Things that I want to do:

1. Cut my hair off.
2. Move somewhere where no one knows me.
3. Give myself amnesia.

Things that I need to do, but keep putting off:

1. Dishes.
2. Laundry.
3. GRE studying.
4. Grad apps.
5. Calling JJ.

It’s 2AM and I should be sleeping.

Except that I just finished a conversation with someone that gave me hope.

I had another rough day (surprised? I’m not.)

SO after talking to Elizabeth for 2 hours (if I had a million dollars, I’d give her half, for being so awesome.), I came home and talked to this person online.

Said person made me realize again why I love God. I’ve gotten a bit far from that lately. Not that I’ve lost faith or hope in God.

I just forgot the reason for my faith. I lost my passion.

And my Christian friends have been doing their Christian duty by trying to reel me back in. While I appreciate that, it does nothing but frustrate me.

(Soap box: Saying things like “I hope you come back to God” when I haven’t ventured away from God is insulting and offensive. Saying things like “Most of this is your fault and you brought it on yourself.” is also not effective and just pushes me away. Dear Christians, please use kindness and compassion in dealings with those who are your bothers and sisters.)

Anyway, this person isn’t a Christian. He doesn’t even like the idea of religion. He has refused on multiple occasions to discuss religious matters at all, in regards to him. Though, he knows that it is the most important thing in my life.

So, we went through the normal “What did you do today?” conversation. My end included worship and religious things of course. He expressed his distaste in such.

And then. He opened up. And talked about his insecurities about religion.

And then. I opened up. And talked about my faith and why God is so important to me.

Then I realized: It’s been a long time since I expressed that.

God sent me a non-Christian to help me realize my passion again.

I hate that Christians get a bad taste in their mouths when talking about non-Christians. I feel like people recoil in disgust when I say things like “I have friends who aren’t Christians.”

This non-Christian gave me renewed hope, when fellow Christians left me feeling revolted and ashamed to call them family.

It’s true. God works in mysterious ways.

I’ve been going through a hard time lately.

(That might be the biggest understatement of my life.)

I’ve lost sleep, appetite, weight, friends, happiness, sanity, faith.

That’s a lot of things to lose.

And I know that there have been tons of friends praying for me and trying to help.

I appreciate that. More than you know.

But it hasn’t really gotten better.

Sometimes I feel God working on my heart and healing it.

And then, someone/something in this world rips it open again. I can’t help but feel like I should just isolate myself from the entire outside world and just let me and God live together in peace.

Anyway.

One thing that this…experience…has given me is artistic vision.

I know, you’re probably laughing at me right now.

Well, I might not show it, but I LOVE the arts. Poetry, paiting, photography, are my favorites. Singing and ballet as well. I just love the arts.

Most of my favorite poets and artists flourished when they were in the worst part of their lives. van Gogh. Emily Dickinson. Tchaikovsky (who has always been my favorite composer, and I just realized that the word “chai” is in his name, which makes me love him more.)

I think that there’s a good reason for that. The arts are all forms of release. All of these “starving artists”* used their talents to cope with the turmoil in their personal lives. And look where it got them? Famous, mostly. And dead. But let’s focus on their legacy…not their life.

I hope it at least helped them feel better. I hope that painting/composing/writing made them all happier. Or at least able to live a little bit longer.

The arts are so emotionally charged. I love it. How many artists can you think of that committed or attempted suicide? How many had bouts of depression? Pretty much all of them. How many of them found solace in their work?

So for now, I don’t mind being a little depressed. (Ok, a lot…) It gives me the ability to be a better artist.

Is that weird?

*I know that the term “starving artist” refers to those who gave up material things to pursue their dreams. Those who lived on nothing, and forsook menial jobs to live their passion. But I’m taking up my own artistic license here and broadening the term “starving artist” to refer to those who forsake happiness and contentment for their passions.

First of all, I’m going to apologize. To my friends: I’m sorry that I’m not the friend that I should be right now. I’m grumpy and cranky and uninterested. I’m not being a good friend.

I can’t be right now. It hurts too much. I even hesitate before speaking the word “friend.” Because I don’t know what’s true. Or, WHO is true.

Yesterday I went to campus. I left with a panic attack. A bad one. Stayed in bed for a bit. (Ok…12 hours.) I wanted to reach out and have someone to go to. But 3 things got in the way.

1. There are some people who I don’t want to be around in that situation.

2. There are a lot of people who don’t want to be around me.

3. Those who do, don’t know what to do or how to act.

(4. Those very very few who know what to do don’t live here.)

So let me give you some advice on how to handle a friend who is (for lack of better words) freaking out.

1. Don’t give advice or tell me what to do. Especially don’t say things like “It will get better” or “just pray about it.” Because at that moment, it is worse. It isn’t getting better. And saying that makes us feel like “I’m even failing at getting better.” And I know praying works. Telling me to pray makes me think, “I have been praying. And I’m still sad.” Praying may work, God is listening…but it’s not a quick fix. Praying does not mean all of my problems will go away.

2. Don’t say “Why are you like this? What’s wrong?” Because most of the time, we don’t even know. We can’t explain it. And out reasons are never good enough for you. I don’t know how many times people have said, “That’s nothing to be upset over.” Well, I am. And you just made me feel worse for patronizing my problems.

3. Don’t leave. I came to you because I’m lonely. Walking away makes it worse.

4. Do listen. Even if we don’t talk. Just sit. Watch TV. Be available. Eventually, we will talk. But just being there means more.

5. Ask “How can I help?” Last night, someone helped by picking up Taco Bell. And a hug. And letting me cry. It’s nothing big. Just simple.

6. Don’t shun or be scared of me. And when we hang out again, don’t be awkward. Some people act like I’m glass. Like when we hang out again they stare at me doe-eyed like I’m going to flip out over a wrong look. Or they hug me and spout off about how much they love me and wish I was ok.

Chances are, by that time, I’m already ok. I’m just fine. Bringing it up again just forces me to remember the bad things in the past. Just let it go.

I’m sorry if this is harsh. I just feel that it would help me and my friends if they knew what to do and not do. And I’m open to questions. One of my main goals in life is to help people who don’t suffer from depression to better understand it.

All through high school (you know, my goth days) I listened to all of that punk/grunge/metal/emo “rock” music.

The sad, angry, depressing, whiney, fellas with eyeliner.

Why?

Because they said things that I related to.

Well guess what. They’re making a reappearance in my playlist.

“I’m not, not sure,
Not too sure how it feels
To handle everyday
Like the one that just past
In the crowds of all the people” (Silverchair)