Sorry I Hate You Sometimes

The other night as I was going to sleep, I was reading through Facebook and came across a contest.  This contest was hosted by UW Credit Union, and they wanted you to reply to the question: What is your favorite college memory?

Now college was a very positive experience for me.  I met some of my best friends ever, got to travel to some amazing places, and had some very unique experiences.  I learned a lot more going to college than just accounting and marketing strategies.  I learned how to use a hair straightener (seriously, I used to think the girls would put their heads on an ironing board and use the iron to straighten their hair).  I met people who were genuine and honest and positive.  I learned how to operate a bus with a wheelchair lift; how to collaborate with a team; and how to pay my bills (I had only ever had my cell phone bill before).  My college friends introduced me to social media and other cool things on the internet.  They helped me improve my writing and social skills, and more importantly, they helped me with my social skills.  I met my best friends in college, and I had a lot of great memories and experiences.

That night, though, I couldn't think of one positive experience or memory.  Instead, my brain automatically and intensely decided that every negative experience, every moment of insecurity and embarrassment, every doubt I had in college was everything.

I thought about my experience in the dorms, where I met Sally and Whitney, two wonderfully amazing friends.  All I could think about was my next door neighbor fighting with her boyfriend, the guy the sophomores dragged to the elevator where he proceeded to empty the copious amounts of alcohol out of his stomach, the time fucktards gave me shit on the way to a dance, or the fifty other disturbing moments in the dorm.  I didn't think about the birthday party my new friends gave me.  I didn't think about Cinco de Mayo margaritas or the time I had 5 bottles of Captain Morgan in my fridge and nothing else.  I certainly didn't think about the time Ryan and I manned Jitters and we had to share the step stool, which still required us to use the counter sometimes.

I tried to remember the great experience I had with Forensics, but I couldn't.  I thought about the times Ben and I butted heads, the time Jerkface kept intruding on my space to fuck with me, or the times I got chastised for talking a little too in-depth about sex (although they learned that I stopped when Janine started talking about birth).  I couldn't stop thinking about the excruciating loneliness I felt on a lot of trips, always feeling like the odd man out.  What didn't come to mind were the social get-togethers like Homecoming events, Halloween parties, Christmas parties, Sorber happenings.  I loved dinners, jokes, quotes, car rides, practices, tournaments, and even driving 3 hours in the wrong direction.  I got to travel and see places and try new things.  Amazing experience right?  Even the night Shauna and I got puked on and the new guy tried to kill me with air freshener (I had severe allergic reactions before my nose surgery).  Even THAT was an interesting experience.  I loved forensics and all my forensicating friends, and I knew they at least loved me sometimes.  Then why did I keep thinking about being blamed for making someone cry (I honestly did not do anything)?

I thought about all of my classes, the apartments and houses I lived in, my trip to Ireland, my friends, my professors, jobs, and other activities, but the negatives of everything were the only memories I could recall.  That is how I go through life.  I'm sad, lonely, angry, embarrassed all the time.  My mind takes all of my experiences, all of my good memories, all my love.  It takes them and shakes them around like a kid with an etch-a-sketch, and all my good memories fall away like the metal flakes, leaving only the memories that got jabbed into the mind and will not shake loose (if you've ever had an etch-a-sketch, you know what I mean).

When I thought about these things, it made me hate everyone, and it made me lonely.  For those 20 minutes, I hated everything and lay there in despair wondering why no one cared about me.  I wanted to lash out with fists and tongue.  I wanted to scream and rage.  I cried.

Fortunately, I was able to remind myself that my friends, my true friends, have shown me friendship and love.  How often have I asked for comfort or company and been denied?  Almost never, and always for good reason.  I've been to their weddings; I've met and played with their children.  They have invited me to parties and asked for my company.  My good friends have included me in their lives because they love me as I love them.

Unfortunately, I am not always able to talk my brain down.  Sometimes I spend days, even weeks like this.  I haven't spoken to one specific friend for months because I can't remember why I'm friends with her.  I have avoided friends and family because I have been overwhelmed thinking they dislike me or they're not good people.  I have inclinations to tell them off, even though I have never shared my fears or feelings.  Sometimes, I do end up lashing out.  Sometimes, I give in to the thoughts and the Irish whistle starts shooting off thoughts that should not be mine.  Sometimes, I hurt people with those words, and most of the time, I hurt myself.

So this is an apology to everyone I have ever met.  I'm sorry I hate you sometimes.  I'm sorry if I have ever lashed out at you for no reason.  I'm sorry I doubted your friendship.  I'm sorry I hurt you.  I wish I could tell you that I'm working on it.  I wish I could heal the wounds I have given you.  I wish I could tell you everything going on in this chemically fucked up brain of mine so you would know and be able to tell the rest of me that my brain is lying.  So I'm sorry.

Funks, Fantasy, and Freedom

You're probably wondering why I named this blog what I did.  Not gonna lie, it's partially because some of the names I wanted were taken.  This happened to be a blessing in disguise.  Let me first say that I LOVE alliteration.  I also like metaphors and similes, especially when vocabulary words escape me or the connotation isn't right.  Funks, Fantasy, and Freedom basically describes how my Anxiety and Depression affect me.  Below are some explanations to some of my life.

Funks
A funk is a day where nothing is appealing, every minor mishap is a major mistake, and crying is highly probable.  Here is something I wrote a while back to describe the funk while in the final days of it: 

I struggle so much to do the simplest of tasks and small things affect me so drastically.  I question everything I think and feel.  I want to cry or react violently to every mistake I make or when things don't go the way I want them to.  Everything seems to be in such a negative light, and all I feel like doing is shutting off the world. I force myself to socialize (if only a little), I force myself to do things I'm supposed to do (sometimes), I do things to make myself laugh (watching TV does count), I go to bed early, and I have been doing other things to combat this funk.  I still want to curl up under my covers and not come out until I am guarantied a good day.  Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else notices.  Sometimes, I know when people notice, and I get angry.  

Funks can often be just days that I'm in a daze too.  I had one of those last week.  I mostly sat at my desk watching the time and wishing for a good nap or just wishing I had started talking to the ADA lady before Fall/Winter (more on that too).  Funks are the days I'm most likely to have an anxiety attack since I'm pretty much in my head all day, avoiding people.  

Anxiety Attacks

Due to a lack of vocabulary, I use two different words to describe the way my brain/body malfunctions.  One malfunction is the anxiety attack.  The anxiety attack is mild compared to a panic attack.  The anxiety attack is fear or anger in a situation that is beyond the reaction a situation calls for.  Usually, speech is difficult but not impossible, mostly because I'm about to cry.  In fact, most functions are possible.  Instead of fight or flight mode, I freeze up.  Thoughts become hazy, if someone is talking to me (especially in lecture mode), everything they said didn't even get into my ear to go out the other, and my body is tense all day.  I have an intense feeling to curl up under my desk or in my bed and not ever come out.  It can also be an all-day process.  

Panic Attack

A Panic Attack is horrific.  Here is a way I described them once: 

My panic attacks start out with intense feelings of being unwanted, insignificant, judged, or wronged. I get tunnel vision and have to leave the area immediately. I can't talk, I can't breathe, and I know it will be a few moments before my body decides to no longer function. My heart physically hurts, my face tingles, everything feels surreal. I get to a wall and crouch so I don't fall and just cry a mean, ugly, terrified and terrifying cry. Breathing is so difficult, like I only have a little first-sized ball for lung capacity. My everything hurts, I feel like I'm watching myself and trapped in that lung ball at the same time and nothing could possibly make the pain, fear, and humiliation go away. When the panic attack has run its course, my muscles feel tense, I'm exhausted like I just fought my way out of a paper bag that suffocated me. I feel intense relief that it's finally over and extreme embarrassment that it happened again and there was nothing I could do to control it, control myself. I'm exhausted and full of energy, almost manic, but I continue my day on the outside like nothing happened while I'm quietly seething because my mind and body attacked me. To me, it's ten times worse than being attacked or assaulted by another person because I couldn't do anything about it before, during, or after to prevent it, make it stop, or make sure it didn't happen to anyone else.

Panic attacks rarely have warning signs before they strike.  I could be at a conference, in a grocery store, at work, or at a party, but the circumstances seem to have no discernible pattern.   

Fantasy

Fantasy is a lot of different things.  Fantasy is the paranoia when people gossip (more than likely in my head).  It's the paranoia when someone gives me a "look" like I'm crazy, stupid, or immature(quite often in my head).  Fantasy is the thousands of "What If"s that go through my head.   It's every time I overthink or analyze a situation.  It's the stories I tell myself to get to sleep and the dreams I have at night.  It's everything in my life that isn't real or is bigger in my mind than it is in reality.  It's obsessing over a situation that happened, whether it happened last night or when I was five.  Fantasy is the bitch who started yelling at you or stopped talking to you because of something or another.

Like drugs and bipolar disorder was for the Beetles, Fantasy is a double-edged sword.  On one hand, everything above.  On the other hand, I'm great at anticipating a problem and solving it, getting organized (especially for groups), and adding details to projects that make them that much better.  Fantasy is great for my career because I can get the major stuff out of the way first and then I work on making the project better.  Fantasy is how I'm able to put together instructions for the beginningest of user and forms for universal use.  It's also how I can come up with metaphors and comparisons when I can't form a better thought.  It allows me to think about others, pushing me to do good deeds when I can, and it opens my mind to religion and spirituality that people find hard to understand when they meet me.  

Freedom

Another excerpt from something else I wrote: 

Fortunately, I finally found a doctor that doesn't dismiss my issues and we are now working to prevent my panic attacks because they are real and they were not under my control, but they will be. I am choosing the freedom to control my own mind and body, and even though it means taking pills for the rest of my life, it's worth it to know that I don't have to live with this horrible, debilitating problem.

Freedom means less attacks and lessened depressive episodes.  It includes drug therapy and now my dog as well.  With Brownie, even on my worst days, I have the ability to go to the store alone or hit up the mall with a friend.  

Freedom is also coming to grips with my mental instability.  I decided a short while ago that the anxiety is a blessing.  Granted, it is not a blessing I wanted, but it's there.  It has opened my mind to ideas that have been hard to grasp. It has taught me to understand myself a little better, and it is definitely a challenge that I must face. There are many lessons to be learned from this, and I might not always like the teaching method, but I will be a better person for it.  This revelation has allowed me to come to grips a little better with my reality.  

I'm still not at a point where I can accept the mental instability every day.  There are days when I just want to give up and fall asleep forever.  There are days where I berate myself endlessly for being too compliant or "babying" my mental condition.  It's hard to remember how much love and support I have and that it's not just me.  I am a stubborn, stubborn woman, highly independent and self-sufficient, and raised on the old-fashioned belief that you are either completely crazy or you just suck it up.  It's hard to shed the negative connotation of a mental disability, especially when it comes to your own.  I should be able to shake off the funks.  I should be able to control what goes through my head, and I definitely should be able to control my body's reactions.  I am a strong, confident woman with a great support system.  I am generous with my time and money when I can afford to be.  I am good at my job, I know more about adult shit than some, and I am pretty fucking intelligent.  Why can't I look most strangers in the eye or strike up a conversation just willy-nilly?  Why do I feel that asking for help (mental, emotional, or monetary) is a huge failure on my part?  Why do I doubt my ability to do anything when I rarely fail at things I set my mind to?  Why am I like this?  

Fear and doubt cloud my mind often, but with a lot of work, Freedom will be mine.  

Our Story (So Far)

It Begins

This is the day we met and fell in love

Brownie and I met in 2011.  She was a little over a year old and the absolute most adorable dog I had
ever seen in my life.  I suppose, technically, I had met her before, a few weeks after she had been born, but I wanted all the puppies, even though a dog was not on my mind at the time.  (They are a LOT of work, and I was still in party mode.)  She was the runt of an accidental litter (Jasper the Pibble broke down the bedroom door to reach Zaphira, and lovemaking ensued), chocolate brown (hence why the kids named her Brownie) with a few patches of white.

Anyway, I was visiting my friends Jamie and Tom, and the two teenagers and three of their dogs were vying for my attention every time I moved.  Not Brownie, though.  Brownie got over her initial excitement and laid down on the couch.  After the other dogs and children had chilled, I found myself covered in 50 lbs of chocolate cuddliness, not even realizing that I had been petting this dog in my lap for at least an hour.  I was so calm and happy and completely in love.  The evening was kind of a blur, mostly from the passage of time and the shortening of this story over and over and over.  Brownie, in my lap and contented, gave me kisses, and I told her how I loved her and wanted her to come home with me and be my snuggle bear forever and ever and ever.  And those were the words that changed my life forever.  

"You can have her if you want," Jamie said.  The statement took me by complete surprise.  Was she being serious?  Who would just give away a dog, especially one as cute and calm as this one?  I didn't even live in a place that allowed dogs, let alone was big enough to give her a good home.  But then Jamie said it again, "You can have her if you want.  She obviously likes you, and we know you would be a terrific dog mom."

The shock was wearing off, but still there.  It was all I could do to choke out, "Okay."  I couldn't take her home with me right then and there, as much as I wanted to, because I was in an efficiency at the time.  We talked about how we were going to go about everything before I left alone.  

A few months later, I was still patiently waiting out my lease, when I had the opportunity to visit Tom and Jamie again (they lived two hours away).  Immediately after sitting down, my baby girl jumped up on the couch and turned me into her sleeping pillow once more.  

"This is why we want you to have her.  Brownie doesn't even go on the couch when we have visitors," Jamie told me.  

"She's not an attention whore?" I asked.

"Not a whorish bone in her body."  

In August (two months later), I picked Brownie up.  She's been stuck to me ever since.  It was a very rough beginning too.

BFFs 

A New Life

Brownie's world was ripped apart the day I picked her up.  I wish I had known then what I know now.  Apparently, severing a dog from her pack later in life can do some emotional damage.  So can being overly cuddly in the first few days.  My poor girl started to suffer from separation anxiety, although, at the time, I thought it was just adjusting to the new life.  The neighbors (fortunately, very understanding young ladies) let me know that she cried every day when I left for work.  She was frightened my roommates, growling every time they went near her kennel.  She would visibly shake whenever I was leaving for anything but work and followed me around the house all day, every day.  

For a while, I tried to do whatever I could to "fix" my dog, reading books, watching YouTube videos, and taking in all the advice I could.  Early 2014, though, it was becoming unbearable.  My baby was suffering, so I contacted a few professional trainers.  I chose a great company with a reputation for helping dogs with severe anxiety.  For two weeks, Brownie was with the trainer, working on her manners and training.  It was difficult to live without her for that time, but it was worth it.  When I picked Brownie up, I learned how to continue her training and make her a happy, confident puppy.  We continued to go to group classes (part of the training program for the rest of Brownie's life) and work diligently.  Brownie and I found a nice, happy medium with the training and the cuddling and everything.

Going Crazy (Long, But History Often Is)

When I was about 21, I began having panic attacks.  I didn't know what they were at the time.
 Neither did the doctors at the ER.  They told me I was dehydrated.  I had about four panic attacks, and then they stopped.  I also suffered from depression, mild and manageable for the most part.  I spent four years struggling to do something.  I also "dated" a few guys who I knew weren't right for me, accidentally allowing them to move in with me or moving in with them less than a month after meeting them.  I worked at hotels, Wal-Mart, and restaurants, managing to barely keep my jobs through the depression, crazy events, and illness that I seemed to get often.

And that's another thing about me.  I get sick. A LOT.  We're not talking about a simple cold where your nose is a little stuffy or runny and a small cough.  I'm talking about upper respiratory infections, nausea that kept me on the couch and out of the fridge for weeks, the flu, and other crazy injuries (like straining the primary muscle in my lower back, forcing me to transfer departments) and illness that any normal person only has about 4.5 times a year.  I, on the other hand, have the immense pleasure of horrible illness/injury about once or twice a month.  If you follow this blog, you shall soon discover.

Brownie and Mom taking care of me, watching TV

Anyway, somewhere in the fuzz of illness, depression, injury, crappy jobs, and crappy boyfriends, I somehow managed to apply for college and actually go.  I saw a few therapists in training, but the depression got pretty bad, especially my sophomore year, barely passing two classes only by the good graces of professors who took pity on my not-so-great health.   I managed, though, and then I was done.

After college, I got a job at the front desk of a "resort".  The man who owned it acted like he owned the world.  No breaks, you had to call him to sell people tickets to local attractions, and he really liked to yell at and belittle people.  While I was there, a young woman began working with us, and she quit after a month, saying that she had been on one anxiety pill a day when she started and was taking more than four a day by the time her two week notice was up.  I found a job elsewhere after five months at another resort with a new department (timeshare type-dealio).  

BIG mistake.  The men who co-owned the new department were seriously abusive.  They would scream at customers and employees in public, trash talk behind everyone's back, and belittle everyone.  I have worked in a lot of different places (30+, if you really want to know), and this has been the worst job I have ever had.  The anxiety attacks began again, and my depression got so bad that I only went to work and went home.  Television, work, sleep.  That was my life, despite being 2 miles from two of my best friends and living with my mom, who is the best person in my life but more on her later.  To top it off, my bills were high enough to require full-time work, so quitting my job was out of the question.

I finally quit, though, and went to work for a flower company that supplied annuals for a large corporation.  It was the best job I could ever have had after the two abusive jobs.  I was doing a lot of manual labor mixed with some creativity, surrounded by flowers and showered in sunshine.  The customers who came in were usually very happy because they were doing something they loved (gardening), and I got to listen to my music.  It was a very therapeutic job, and I highly recommend to anyone with limiting mental health problems that they get a job like it.  Nature has a way of helping.


When my flower job started waning and went from full-time to part-time (part of the deal with this job), I began spending a LOT of days with friends at one of Wisconsin's most beautiful places, Devil's Lake.  Again, very therapeutic.  My mornings would be career position hunting and my afternoon would be filled with love and nature.  This allowed me to get one of the best jobs of my life working at a conference center.  Due to the fact that I still work here, a lot of details will not be a part of this.

Speedy version: When I started, I was still reeling from the abusive bosses, so every time my supervisor wanted to talk to me, I would FREAK out.  I would worry over and over and over because I didn't know if I was in trouble, if this mistake would be my last, if I did something terrible.  Of course, that was never the case.  If I did something wrong, she would tell me what I did, how to fix it, and how to prevent it from happening again.  My reviews were impeccable, and they genuinely liked me.  Yet, I would cry big, fat, ugly cries whenever this wonderful, gentle woman asked if she could "talk to me in five minutes".  Things got a lot better, and she could actually talk with me without it turning into a therapy session too.

How Brownie really likes to take care of me when I'm sick

After a year, I began getting restless.  The people were amazing, but the work was very cyclical.  You don't have a lot of things going on in December or June through August, plus, I was pretty fast at my job.  I attempted to transfer to a different department, but I found out that not all areas have the same attitude as others.  The department was angry and my depression made it worse.  I was grinding my teeth so much (awake and asleep) that I cracked a tooth and got sick more.  I also messed up my work a lot.  It was to the point where I thought I was actually being self-destructive on a subconscious level.  I transferred back as soon as I made sure the person replacing me had everything he or she needed.  It was not a welcome return, though.

With my horrible health and a few other personal habits (apparently singing is not appreciated in a professional office), my first department had been more resentful than I had thought.  They decided that I needed to be under the supervision of someone more authoritative.  We had a meeting my first day back, basically telling me that I needed to shape up or they would ship me out.  Then the anxiety attacks began happening.  Every day.  For weeks, I was scared, cried at the drop of a hat, made multiple mistakes, and walked around in a daze.  Panic attacks also happened.  I don't know how many I had, but I did know what they were.  Somehow, though, I got out of it, and life moved forward.

The next spring, my personal life went haywire, and I started seeing a therapist.  Sort of.  When you are mandated by your insurance to see their providers (just like everyone else), the providers are pretty difficult to make steady appointments with.   A few months later, anxiety started taking over my life once again, and I broke down and saw someone who prescribed me medication for Generalized Anxiety and Depression (although I denied the depression).  The meds helped a lot.  Until my horrible health got called into question.

I was told that I needed to start bringing in doctor's notes every time I got sick.  It was inconvenient, but I tried to look at it positively because seeing the doctor every time I got sick meant a better record of my health and maybe faster recovery.  The anxiety It ended up not being enough, though.   I got sick about six or seven times between October and February (about twice a month).  I was called into a meeting, this time with HR.  I was told to shape up once again, and my doctors were accused of writing bogus notes.  I was also told that this particular meeting was an investigative one, only to be mentioned in my file but not a formal reprimand.  A week later, after my body was attacked once again by chronic bronchitis, the meeting did turn into a formal, written reprimand.  At least they handed me FLMA and ADA paperwork to fill out, with a hint of a warning that filling out the ADA papers may result in unknown consequences because I needed to be physically in the office for certain job duties. And then the anxiety came back in full force, but I did manage to get the FLMA to go through for my chronic illness.  The ADA didn't need to happen, but it did set into motion something else.

Training 
I walked into a group class early one day, and my trainer was working with a new trainer for

One of Brownie's commands

OccuPaws, a service animal training organization.  That's when the light clicked that Brownie really could be a service dog.  She had the temperament, most of the training, and she loves me so much that training her is a breeze.  My mom had been trying to talk me into this for a while, with almost all of my panic attacks happening when I was not with family or friends and usually in public places.

My trainer asked me what I wanted to teach her in order to help me.  He suggested pulling me away from people, and I knew I wanted her to "hug" me.  He taught me how to teach her pulling and "hugging".  Pulling was quite easy since I had already established during our playtime that "Go" meant we were racing to somewhere.  It took about 5 treats for her to learn it.  The hug is still a work in progress, but it's actually almost part of doggie nature.  Dogs know when people are sad, and the natural instinct is to cuddle.  A doggie hug is a little more precise, though.  Basically, when I have an attack, she needs to put pressure on top of my chest about level with my heart.  This pressure and chest to chest contact grounds me to reality and allows for a faster recovery.  I have no idea why, but I almost never want to work on this.  If I were to venture a guess, it's because I still don't want to admit that the panic attacks are real.

The Man Who Gave Me Courage
We met a wonderful man in the Spring of 2015, shortly after the discussion with the trainer.  I'd like to reserve our story for another entry, though.  Suffice it to say, this man is perfect for me, understands my anxiety, loves my dog, and loves me.  Did I mention he's also a chef and I love food?

We flew to South Carolina and found the ocean

CJ (not his name) encouraged me to nail down the pulling command and get her into public.  After speaking to my therapist, who loved the idea, he was the one to hold my hand as I slipped on the service dog vest then walked into public places with my dog at my hip.  He is also trying to help me when I come upon stumbling blocks in my life like access disputes and high anxiety days.

Wrapping Up (For Now)
So there you have it.  My life so far in the context of my dog and my sanity.  Here's everything in short:

1. Brownie chose me, and she was 2 years old when she came to live with me.

2. Brownie has anxiety too, but training is the best way possible to help that, and we went with the best.

3. I'm crazy, officially labeled with Generalized Anxiety and Depression.

4. I'm chronically sick.

5. CJ's perfect.

6. Brownie is now officially my service dog.