So, I’ve become someone I do not want to be

When I was a child, I would put on my overalls, slide a screwdriver and socket wrench into the right tool pocket, and hitch a hammer into the left side strap. I would go out to my squeaky swing set and “fix it.” I would turn the screws, loosen and tighten the bolts, then hammer things that look like they needed to be hammered. I was much older when I learned about stripped screws, rusty washers, and hammers are for both creation and destruction.

When we put Sam, my childhood dog, down, I held her and cried for an hour, trying to hold onto some semblance of soul I knew that she had. I didn’t look at, talk to, or like dogs for ten years after that. I wanted to “fix her.” I wanted to fix her cancer. I wanted to fix her bones. I wanted her whole.

When I was in high school, I had so much emotion inside of me. I didn’t know what or who I was. I wanted to “fix me.” I drove down a scary path of self-hatred. I wanted to fix my external self in hopes that my internal self would calm the hell down. I wanted to fix how I loved. I wanted to fix the world around me, so I could feel safe in my own skin.

I want to “fix” things. I want to fix how the world treats my Trans* brothers and sisters. I want to fix the healthcare system. I want to fix systemic oppression. I want to fix hatred. I want to fix.

A human being walked into a synagogue and killed eleven people. Eleven. Eleven souls were on Friday morning and were not on Saturday. As Shabbat came to a close, so did the lives—no, the light—of eleven people.

I haven’t read a single article on this. I can’t. There is too much. There have been too many lives lost and too little action on the part of our leaders. This is not to say that I do not grieve for the fallen. This is not to say I do not hold their families in my heart. Because I am a gentile, I cannot sit shiva for these eleven people. But, Lord, I can mourn.

I am so sad. I am mad. I am…apathetic. I am smapathetic. There are CLEAR ways to prevent this kind of thing from happening. The second amendment as it is currently interpreted should not be a right; it is a fucking privilege. You know what is a right? Being able to go into your house of worship and not get shot. You know what is a right? Feeling safe in schools. You know what is a right? Life. I am pro-life, by which I mean pro-living—living for myself, living for others, living for a greater good.

I cannot fix this. I care too deeply. I love too fiercely. I have nothing left with which to mourn. All I can do is try to teach my young people that love is greater than hate. But, I am flagging. When hatred always seems to win, how can I look my young people in the eye and promise them a better world? How can I promise them that “it will get better?” How can I promise them anything, anything at all?

So, I know how to win battles but not wars

On Thursday, November 5^th, 2015, I wrote a blog post called, “So, it has been a year.” This detailed some of the things that lead to my anxiety and some of the things that triggered it. Each year that October 30^th passed, I put a little notch in my brain. Each year marked my ability to control my anxiety.

Battle: Being wholly honest with myself and the people I loved.

Battle: My last year of Korea.

Battle: The most difficult year of my academic life.

Battle: Three and a half years.

Every day a battle—a battle I was determined to win. It felt like I was winning. I was winning. The end of the war with anxiety sat on the horizon. Three and a half years.

However, this January, my sleep progressively worsened. I bit off more than I could chew. I had to give a presentation to my peers—people my age. I spend my life talking to children. Talking to adults is very, very different. I had ten thousand things racing through my mind to prepare.

Alysha and I got back from the store (buying snacks for my meeting the next morning). Alysha went inside while I moved my car from the street to the garage. I cut the angle too tight. My chest tightened. I screamed just to prove that I exist.

How will Alysha love me when I can’t even park a fucking car? How can I take care of a family? How can I be good enough? Why should I deserve happiness? I am not prepared to be a teacher. I am not qualified to teach the brilliant minds inside of my young people. How can I coach this passionate, vibrant team of Forensics kids when I hate feeling “looked at?”

I pulled a Y turn and parked the car in the garage. I stumbled inside and brushed by Alysha as she took out Gaia.

“Babe. Are you—?”

“I just need a minute.”

She walked out the door, respecting my wish.

My ribs closed in and my heart leapt out of the way. I breathed through the pain and remembered what Maizey Cakes used to tell me, her arms tightly binding me, willing me to feel safe. And, I felt calmer. I sent a wish of thanks through the winds. I hope she felt it.

Alysha returned with a quizzical look, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“So, that is what my panic attacks look like. Let me fold laundry while I tell you about it.”

She had known that I used to have anxiety attacks, but I never really divulged more than that. I guess, I was still ashamed and stupidly thought I had won the war.

I began folding the clothes. I still hadn’t fully calmed down, but I needed to do something to distract my mind. I picked up a towel. Now, Alysha and I fold towels differently. To keep things ordered in our linen closet, I have adopted her way. I looked at the towel and held it portrait, then landscape. Folded it in thirds and unfolded it. For the second time in as many minutes, I lost control of my body and mind. Air neither entered nor escaped my lungs. My legs forgot how to work. My arms caught my body before the floor did. I gulped tears and coughed out pride.  I was left with nothing but thoughts of iniquity and dread that I somehow deserved this. I panted, waiting for the world to end, for it to stop hurting, for something to happen, for peace.

Alysha stood up and walked to me. She wrapped her arms tightly around me. She held me. She didn’t tell me to relax. She didn’t tell me that it wasn’t real. She didn’t say anything. She held me and breathed deeply, helping my lungs remember how to inflate.

“It’s not about the towels,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m here.”

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

She’s there, arms wrapped tightly ‘round me—

She is a kite string, and I am a kite

who sometimes forgets how to fly.

Stay strong, soldiers. The war is long. But each battle we fight, remember that it’s temporary. If we can live through this one, we’ll be here to fight another day. And every day after. We are an army. I have your back. You have mine. I don’t care if we’ve not spoken in days, months, or years. I will be there to fight for you when you forget how. Take peace, my friend. Take peace.

For another person’s take on anxiety attacks, please listen to Andrea Gibson’s “Ode to the Public Panic Attack.” This poem gave me the courage to share this post that has been on my heart for three months.