On Being Known (Or, Korra Feelings Forever)

I had to write about this.

I had to.

Before we begin, let me post an appropriate warning: this post will contain spoilers for the series finale of The Legend of Korra. Just one, really, but that "one" does happen to be the very last scene of the show. Now, here's the thing: I never spoil people with stuff. Not even when they ask me to. But this is too big. It's too important to me for me to be politely vague about the details.

I don't think your viewing experience will be ruined if you keep reading. But I understand wanting to stay 100% in the dark about something, so jump off now, if that's how you feel.

Okay.

So.

If you know me, then it's no secret that I love The Legend of Korra. Love it. I give it top priority at Comic-Con. I got up early every morning for a week to play the video game before work because that was the only time I could - and I am neither a huge gamer nor a morning person. My third tattoo is Naga, Korra's polar bear dog (also named my bike after her). I love it.

Korra is a character I felt a kinship with immediately. I would've killed to have had her around when I was growing up. As a kid, I had a very hard time connecting with the girls on the shows I watched. They were often outnumbered and overshadowed by the boys - boys who got to be the team leaders, the fiercest fighters, the most completely and complexly developed. I loved losing myself in fiction, but I resented being a girl for a very long time because none of the characters in the stuff I was consuming felt like me.

That changed, albeit gradually. For me, it started with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and kept going. It's still a process, though. I still have trouble fully finding myself in characters, and I still want to - that's not something that has changed for me between the ages of 8 and 28.

And that's part of why I connected with Korra so hard. Since the series began, she has been fierce and flawed and full of heart. She has defined her own femininity. She has grown and matured and struggled, and I could relate to it all, in my own way. It meant, and will forever mean, so much. As the end of the series approached, I was profoundly sad - while I knew I'd always have my Blu-rays (all the special features, guys), it felt like I was about to lose a friend. A kindred spirit.

But then the finale arrived. And whatever I was expecting, it was wildly eclipsed by what I actually got.

Korra began the series with a friendship that turned into a romance with a male character. She ended it with a friendship that turned into a romance with a female character.

I'm not a big, "shipper," - that is to say, I don't really attach myself to specific romantic couplings if I can help it. I try to surrender to the narrative when I watch or read something, at least on the first go around. But I had to admit, this particular lady-pairing (I'm standing by my use of this term, you're welcome) - initially something of a dark horse in the fandom, especially given that heterosexuality is pretty pervasive in American children's programming - was really fun to think about. As the series progressed, "dark horse," evolved into, "Wait...this seems like a legitimate thing." Just seeing two women with a close, healthy friendship was refreshing and wonderful, and possibility of getting more suddenly felt much closer than ever before.

Then, it happened. And it meant everything to me. It means everything to me. When people say, "Media representation matters," they are not lying. There is no denying it. I have not been able to stop smiling, to stop feeling so full and happy and...acknowledged...since watching. I was already pretty emotional about Korra's recent PTSD struggles, but this...this...I could never have imagined, when I started, that I would get this.

That series co-creators Bryan Konietzko and Michael Dante DiMartino both released statements obliterating any argument for a platonic or ambiguous reading of their final scenes by declaring that they were 100% romantic and that this end result had been their intent for quite some time, made a great thing even greater. That Konietzko included the line, "Despite what you might have heard, bisexual people are real!" in his statement, for me, made a greater thing the greatest.

As it happens, it was a similar feeling of acknowledgement that helped me finally come out at the beginning of this year. That came from The JV Club podcast (again, I will never shut up about it), which happens to be hosted by the voice of Korra, Janet Varney. She often acknowledges that some situations that arise in discussions would be similar (or different, depending) if the parties involved were gay or trans or bisexual, etc. To have my orientation, which is often erased or ridiculed (and we're not the only ones, I'm well aware), acknowledged and included so naturally and automatically finally helped me feel safe and ready.

To begin the year with a moment like that, and to end it with a moment like this - with a character I love on a show that I adore challenging heteronormativity in such a beautiful and authentic way just. Means. Everything. I feel known. I feel like this is an opportunity for so many people - older than me, younger than me, whatever - to see themselves or their friends or their families reflected back at them in the characters they love and identify with.

I'm so happy and hopeful and proud.

Note: I am not the boss of you, but Mike and Bryan's names in the body of this post link directly to their statements on their Tumblr pages, both of which are really quite incredible and which I highly recommend reading.

On High School, Kind Of (Or, Ten Years Later...)

Last night was my 10 year high school reunion.

I didn't go.

That I did not go was no statement on my part. In all honesty, 10 years just didn't feel like enough time or distance to make me want to pay to hang out with people I didn't know very well then and don't know very well now. Small talk makes me anxious, I had no revenge fantasy or need to prove how awesome I turned out to anybody, and I still see and/or keep in touch with a lot of the people I was close to in high school (for free). Most of them weren't going to be there anyway.

So yeah, I didn't go. I hope everyone who did had a great time. Maybe I'll catch you at the next one.

Thanks to the magic of Facebook, however, I did get to read a lot of people's thoughts about our 10 year reunion, about why they were or were not going, and what high school did (or, I guess, did not) mean to them. It got me thinking about my own experience, about who I was then and who I am now.

I had a pretty good time in high school. They weren't the best years of my life, but they certainly were not the worst. I met great people who became friends, both casual and close. I met awful people who I did not care to keep on knowing. I like to think they're doing better now, if I think of them at all.

None of this is terribly unique to the high school experience. It's life, you know?

My time in high school would've made for a boring after school special - I was pretty well-liked, neither traditionally popular nor unpopular, I don't think. I didn't get bullied or picked on, and if I was getting made fun of, it wasn't happening to my face. I was just there, being me, and spending my time with the people who were on board with that. Most of them did theatre with me.

As I've mentioned before, I was born and raised Catholic. I went to a Catholic high school, and I was pretty involved in religion at the time. I'm not anymore - on a human level, the politics and a lot of church doctrine did a fantastic job of alienating me, but on a personal and spiritual level, I don't connect with Catholicism. Letting go of that was hard - it was a big part of my life for a very long time - but I'm much more at peace now. To clarify, as I have before: I'm not saying what I believe is right or wrong, nor do I have any disrespect for religion or religious people, but I expect the same respect in return. And it should be on record that I was respected, in every possible way, by the Campus Ministry staff at my high school. I could not have asked for more inclusive, loving, and welcoming people to work with and learn from.

In addition to the friends I made, I think the best part of high school (for me) was probably my teachers. Across the board, with very few exceptions that aren't worth mentioning, I had fantastic teachers. They not only educated me, they supported me and encouraged me to think for myself. My English and History teachers, in particular, helped foster my interest in the world around me - in the stories of others and my own ability to create and record them. My director/acting teacher found things in me that I didn't even know existed - she changed my life. To be so seen by my teachers was the greatest gift. If I've given even a small part of that back to the students I've had, then I'm doing okay.

There were rough times full of challenging, painful stuff too. Those aren't the first things I think of, though, and I don't even feel like mentioning them right now, except to say that the people in my life stepped up so much to help me get through it all.

High school is...high school, you know? It's a structured place to be during one of the weirdest, messiest times of your life. It brings with it good stuff and bad stuff - hopefully the bad outweighs the good, but it doesn't always. Either way, it happens, and then you keep going. You take that momentum and you keep changing and growing.

I've been working on myself a lot recently, as several of my posts here can attest, and I've been thinking about high school me a lot. I think I can be kinder to her now than I was before, and I think I can appreciate more of what she had going for her. I was talking to a friend recently about how much we end up becoming the stories we tell ourselves. I wonder what this story will look like another 10 years down the line?

On Pop Tarts (Or, I Assembled These and They Weren't Poison)

So, full disclosure: I love Pop Tarts.

Not all of them - the fruit ones never really did it for me. Did this preclude me from eating them? No. When you're bouncing from vending machine to vending machine, you're forced to accept very quickly that you'll have to settle for strawberry. Such is life.

But when I had a choice? Three words: Brown. Sugar. Cinnamon. S'mores were a fair back-up, but it was all about the BSC (nobody called them that)(that's what we called the Baby-Sitters Club)(parentheticals).

I didn't even toast them, you guys. Didn't need it. I'd just tear open that silver plastic and live the dream. Hot or cold, that brown sugary goo in the middle with its hint of cinammony goodness evoked a feeling of warmth. Maybe that's why it felt so appropriate to have them in autumn. Or winter. Or all the time.

Now, when I made the transition to a predominately vegan lifestyle, these rectangles of frosted glory quietly exited my life. Over four years later, I'd largely forgotten about them, until - without warning - they came up on an episode of my beloved JV Club podcast.

Would that I could describe the sense memory that came rushing back. The craving took hold, so hard that it made my blood hurt.

Could I have satisfied it the easy way and shelled out $3 for a box of my old guilty pleasure (it's possible I don't know what things actually cost)? Yes. But I chose a different path, my friends. Surely there was a way to craft a satisfying vegan substitute that would retain all the deliciousness while ditching the ingredients that I couldn't pronounce and thus could not really recognize as being food?

After much research and hours of baking and baseball (Go Giants!), I can now say, with confidence: yes. Yes, there is a way, and I have found it. Behold, my recipe for vegan brown sugar cinnamon "pop tarts" - just as good as, and dare I say better than, the real thing.

On the Run (Or, All of the Pasta...)

I've been running.

Literally. I run now. It's a key component of a couple items on my list - "Finish a race," and, "Finish a half-marathon." Wait, you don't know about The List? Don't worry, it's only one post back. Check it out. I'll wait.

...

Anyway, I know what you're thinking: running is a weird thing to be afraid of. It's not that simple. The thing is, I'm not a great runner. Never have been. I have just enough form to not hurt myself, but not quite enough to look functional. I was always the last one picked for relay teams in grade school. "We like you," the other kids assured me, "But you're slow." I almost - almost - would've preferred that they just not like me.

So the running stuff...it got onto The List not so much because I was too afraid to try it, but because I had told myself I couldn't do it. Sometimes moving past your fears means reminding yourself that you are, in fact, capable - even if you'll never be anywhere near the best.

Which is all well and good, except that I do not like running. The joy that I find in cycling, that I've started to find in hiking and (indoor) rock climbing, isn't there. I get bored. Sometimes I get angry. Turns out, when I'm around other people, I get competitive. Kind of viciously. Only in my mind, of course, but I discovered during my first 10K that Mind Me can get mean. Please forgive me - it's the Call of the Wild, guys. We do what we must to survive.

I'm trying to learn to love it. Well, I say, "love"...I probably mean, "like." Well, I say, "like"...I probably mean, "mostly not hate." Because 13.1 is a lot of miles, and I've got a little over a month of training left.

Let's transition into the kitchen-y bit. A side effect of training for the race I've committed to running in the nearish future that it's way too late to back out of now what was I even thinking has been a change in metabolism. Or something. Look, I'm not a doctor, I just know that now I'm hungry basically all the time. Which is fine - I've hit a point where I'm more active now than I've been since I played sports. I'm trying to respond by staying nutritionally balanced and surrounding myself with a myriad of healthy but exciting snacks so that I don't end up hangry and confused and eating pizza all day, everyday for a week. Note: That actually kind of happened once, though, and you know what? The world didn't end. 

Sometimes, though, all your life force wants is something quick and cheap and filling. "Pasta," the wind whispers to you, "Make pasta."

On Touring Fears (Or, What Do I Call This List?)

I didn't always want to ride a bike.

I mean, I don't think I did. That's certainly what I told myself for a very long time, so long that I can't remember if it was ever really the truth or just a convenient excuse. Likely, it was a little bit of both. However, for the purposes of this story, let's just go ahead and assume that it was (mostly) true.

Attempts were made to teach me. They did not go well. Even now, in my mind, I can very clearly see the white seat and long handlebars of my sister's bicycle and remember the instant dread. I didn't like the sensation of going over - the second I started to list or tip, my stomach dropped and my feet went down. Every. Time. There was no self-confidence that kicked in, no trust that I could exert any control over the foreign object upon which I was seated - just the extremely uncomfortable feeling that it was controlling me.

My parents - my dad, in particular - were determined. I was the youngest of three, after all, and the other two had learned. Eventually, I wore them down. In one last-ditch effort, when I was maybe eleven or twelve, they tossed some training wheels on the bike with the hope of tricking me into relaxing long enough to find my balance and sent my teenaged sister and me up to my grandma's house. But I'd almost hit my full height by then, and $5 training wheels were not meant for 5'9" kids. They bent, I started to tip, and my feet went down. Again and again and again until I lost it and started to cry. My aunt was visiting that afternoon, and she came out to save both me and my poor frustrated sister.

"Honey," she said, "This is supposed to be fun. Are you having fun?"

Tearfully, I shook my head.

"Then get off the bike."

And I got off the bike. For fifteen years.

I never had the sense that I was missing out on anything, but every once in awhile, I'd feel a little bit of shame about it - a sense that I had failed at doing something I should've been able to do, and was thus less of a functional person. Which, by the way, is ridiculous. Plenty of people can't ride bikes - I know, because every time I met one, I was thrilled - and they're every bit as awesome as people who can.

What started to bother me was the feeling that I hadn't even really failed properly. It wasn't that I straight up could not ride a bike, it was that I was afraid to really try. That didn't sit right.

"But," I reasoned, "It's a moot point now. You're too old. You've missed your window to learn."

Yeah, I know. It's one of the worst excuses ever, right up there with, "I'm just too busy." And it's so easy to lean on, because science and psychology and stuff.

In spite of all that, a few years ago, something major changed: I started to want to learn. Unfortunately, the little bits of shame I'd been feeling had joined forces to become a Great Big Shame, which not all people were sensitive to (pro tip: If somebody asks you for advice on learning something - anything - maybe don't respond with, "You seriously can't do that?" Jackass.). My cause, though noble, was in danger of being relegated to the land of Unrealized Dreams.

Then my Big Life Renaissance started. I've written about it a bunch here, so dig through the archives if this is your first visit. Long story short, I started working through some stuff, and one of the byproducts of the whole process (which is ongoing, by the way - this is not my announcement that I've figured life out and have become the Perfect Person) has been an absolute unwillingness to be owned by my fears anymore.

So I did some research. I found a learn-to-ride class for adults through the ridiculously amazing  SF Bicycle Coalition. I signed up. I lost my nerve and missed out. I got it together and signed up again. I showed up.

The first step? Gliding down an incline with no pedals. Heart in my throat, I got myself going, started to tip and...turned into it, as my instructor had suggested. I didn't get far, but I didn't go over. On the walk back to my starting point, I felt something new. Self-confidence. On the next go, I lifted my feet and told myself that I would keep them up and that everything would be okay. I trusted myself. I found my balance.

An hour later, I had earned both pedals back. I was riding a bike.

That was a little over four months ago. Not only can I ride a bike now, it's become one of my favorite things. It's also got me thinking long and hard about all of the things I've avoided doing or, worse, convinced myself that I couldn't do because I've been too afraid. I've tried a couple - rock climbing, donating platelets at the blood center. Driving is still an ongoing process, but I haven't given up. I started calling this series of mini-adventures my, "Fear Tour." After awhile, it occurred to me that I should start making a list of things I've been too afraid to do but would like to - big, small, realistic or otherwise. So I pulled out the fabulous Hobbit Moleskine notebook that I received for my birthday last year, happy that it finally had a glorious purpose, and I started writing.

I keep that notebook with me all the time now, just in case I think of something new (latest addition: "Ride a ferris wheel every chance you get"). Now, when I refer to something being, "on the list," I can back it up. "Like a Bucket List," a few people have asked. Not really. That's no slight on Bucket Lists, and I guess it is a similar concept, but...it doesn't feel like the right sentiment. This is not a list of things that I want to do before the looming specter of death robs me of the chance. It's a list of things that I think will help me feel like I'm finally taking proper advantage of living.

It's a list of things I might love or loathe. Either way, I'm not going to let fear keep me from finding out.

I'll keep you posted.

On Quick and Easy Dishes (Or, Sorry, I Was Supposed to Do This Weeks Ago...)

I'm a jerk.

Having a multipurpose blog means that when someone says, "Hey, saw your Instagram photo of your dinner 'cause you're one of those people, can I get the recipe," I tend to answer with, "Sure! I'm going to put it up on my blog this week." Which is a great response, in theory, because then I can direct anybody else who asks to one place and hey, new blog post!

However, sometimes, "I'll put it up on my blog this week," really means, "Next week," or, "In a couple months," or, "Never."

Sorry. If you're one of the people I've inadvertently fibbed to, do know that I always start with honest intentions.

As penance, I'm finally providing you with one of my favorite recipes, and I've another post in the works that will feature a new summer favorite. I hope we can still be friends.

Cooking is my favorite. I genuinely enjoy it, and on the health front, the best way to know exactly where your food came from and what went into it is to make it yourself.

However, cooking can also be a major time suck, especially if you're working late or if you have a long commute. I try to plan for the week and reserve some time on Sundays to prep things so that I can just reheat when I get home, but it doesn't always work out that way. This is when it helps to have a couple of super quick and filling dishes in your back pocket - they'll keep you from leaning on takeout, which will rob you blind and probably leave you nutritionally unsatisfied, while still allowing you to eat dinner before 10:00.

After the jump, you'll find one of my go-to's.

On Driving, Part 3 (Or, Smash...)

Well. Took a bit of a break, didn't I?

It's my own fault that it's taken so long for me to get this out and up. You see, I cheated - instead of keeping the story going in spite of hitting a few rough spots, I tried to hold out for a happier end point. And I got one, but then I lost it. Serves me right.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

On Secrets (Or, I Am Not In The Illuminati...)

So a new post about the ongoing saga of CDog vs. Raging Driving Anxiety is in the works. It's very thrilling. There are jaywalking old ladies and billions of cyclists and lots of hills. And bison. Seriously. Golden Gate Park's bison have been weaving their way into my life with startling regularity lately.

But all that's going to have to wait, because I have a thing to say.

I began the month with a deeply personal post, and I'm going to end it the same way. There's no significance to the day outside of that. Just...I'm feeling determined, and I'm wearing a fabulous bow tie, so why not sit down and let you in on my last big secret?

That was a big set-up. It shouldn't have been. I'm not about to drop some Illuminati surprises on you or anything. Look, if you know me personally, you know I kind of just put it all out there. I do my best to live a good life in a way that feels right and authentic to me, and I don't really make space for anyone who feels like telling me I'm doing it wrong. That was one of the best pieces of advice I ever picked up at a comic book convention - the panelist, without malice, said, "If there's anybody in your life who doubts you, who tries to convince you that you should  give up and do something else, you need to cut them out, because that's not going to work." It was a response to a question about writing, but it kind of applies to everything.

I haven't been living authentically, though. Not completely - not the way I want and need to, and it feels like the only reason is because I've been worried about what other people would think. I don't like that. It's a bad habit to get into, and I'm not going to let that be a thing.

So let's not have it be a thing: I'm bisexual.

Right? It really didn't need a big set-up. It's probably not even that surprising - I've known for a long time. I've even sort of said it to a few people, but in a pretend, non-committal, I-didn't-really-say-it-so-what-just-happened-probably-nothing kind of way. All of that amounted to just building a custom closet for myself to hide this piece of my identity in - roomy, sure, and full of fun stuff, but a closet nonetheless.

It wasn't an earth-shattering revelation when I figured it out. I was irritated, more than anything, because I felt like I was suddenly in a category that didn't fit anywhere - not straight, not gay, just there. Growing up, even in San Francisco, I remember the idea of bisexuality being met with derision and scorn - at best, you were in denial; at worst, you were hypersexual and untrustworthy. I absorbed these things that eventually turned into the message that who I was - who I knew myself to be - was not real and would not be accepted.

Instead of saying, "Whatever. That's not me, and if people don't realize that's not me, that's their problem," I got scared. And I stayed scared, and silent, for a very long time. Friends in situations similar to mine came to me for advice, and I told them exactly what I myself would've wanted to hear - you're you, and that's 100% rad, fuck anybody who says otherwise, and tell them I said so. But I couldn't find a way to apply that to my own life.

I didn't want to be the bi, vegan writer from San Francisco who dresses like a hipster professor and is in therapy for chronic anxiety and depression. Say all those things together and tell me it doesn't feel just a little bit ridiculous.

But the longer I sat with those things, feeling like a raging stereotype of the west coast lifestyle, the more it occurred to me that I was absolutely unwilling to change any of them. I love my bow ties and cardigans - wearing them makes me feel fantastic. Going veg is one of the best decisions I ever could have made for my life. Writing is the only thing that has always made sense to me. And I can't change who I'm attracted to any more than I can change the way my brain is wired or where I was born.

I've spent far too much time being a hypocrite over the past few years, encouraging the people around me to live fully while refusing to do so myself.

This is me undoing that, the only way I know how: clumsily, via the written word, in a vaguely public way. It's one of those things that changes nothing and everything - it's already who I was, but I'm finally free from the silence of it.

I'm not in denial. I'm not confused. I like guys. I like girls. That's it. That's my truth.

I'm me, and that's 100% rad. Fuck anybody who says otherwise, and tell them I said so.

On Driving, Part 2 (Or, Step One All Over Again...)

Welcome back.

When last I left you, the exploratory period had ended. All non-practical steps forward had been taken: a driving school had been found, an inquiry was sent, an instructor contacted me, and (far more quickly than I intended) an appointment was made. I already had a permit that had been sitting quite uselessly in my desk for the better part of six months. There was nothing left to do in the matter but drive.

And drive I did.

I promised that I would be candid about this process - the good, the bad, the whatever - and I intend to keep that promise, whether the end result is me gaining a license or lighting the aforementioned permit on fire and dancing on its ashes while loudly and ritualistically forswearing automobiles forever. I'm starting to get the sense that I may be more inclined toward the former, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

On Driving, Part 1 (Or, The Journey Begins...)

I feel like we're really getting to know each other, guys.

When I fired this bad boy up a couple years ago, I had no real directive. My earliest posts are certainly indicative of that, full of deliciously self-aware meandering toward sort-of-maybe-conclusions. And let's be real - there's still no theme here. Posts about making vegan banana bread or whatever will follow ruminations on religion, and that's kind of how I like it. But I feel like I've settled in now - getting personal feels more comfortable than it did before.

In the spirit of that comfort, I'm going to tell you a thing.

I can't drive.

I know, it's not really a secret. I've mentioned it before - in my last post, as a matter of fact. However, I've never really gotten into why I don't know how to drive, and as I **spoiler alert** start the process of learning, I feel like it's important to get a grip on what exactly has been holding me back.

Let me give you a hint: starts with "a," ends with, "nxiety."


Here's the thing: life as a chronically anxious person isn't all panic attacks, all the time. That's the limit, the extreme (at least for me). Mostly, it's a daily practice of facing situations and deciding not to be afraid of them. It's a learned skill that I've come to really value, and even pride myself on - the ability to actively decide that I can do things that terrify me. As awesome as it is to do things you know you love and are good at, there's nothing quite like the feeling of empowerment and accomplishment that comes from doing (and perhaps discovering that you love) a regular, not at all threatening activity that once made you feel as though you were marching toward your doom. I've lived a better life since acquiring this ability.

But I can't drive.

It never felt like something I was actively avoiding. I grew up in San Francisco - public transportation takes time, but it can get you everywhere and you don't have to worry about gas or parking. Done. My parents offered to give me a car if I stayed in state for college, but I wanted to go to Seattle, so forget that. Then it was back to San Francisco, where my first rule still applied. Never mind that, as an adult, I was starting to feel confined by the borders of my city and the limited reach of buses and trains and ferries to points beyond.

There was always an excuse, a reason to put off or delay, until finally - under pressure from my parents - I got my learner's permit. My aunt took me out to an empty parking lot to practice for the first time, and on the way, I got to work with the self-talk: I told myself that I would let go of being nervous and listen to everything I was told. And that worked for a little while - until we tried moving from the parking lot onto the real people street. Instant, pervasive, muscle-obliterating panic.

After that, I suddenly didn't have time to practice. I let my permit expire. I got crazy defensive whenever the issue came up. All hardcore, giant-sized steps back.

Maybe a year ago, I was visiting my sister in L.A. We were having lunch, and she gently inquired about my driving progress. All my old standby excuses came pouring out, but instead of fighting with me about them, she said, "Okay. And do you think it might be something you maybe have some anxiety about?"

To my own surprise, I almost immediately said, "Yes."

She's a tricky one, my sister. It's starting to occur to me that I give her far too little credit when it comes to understanding me.

If you read my last post, you'll know that this came up when I was in the middle of getting my head around a lot of stuff, but I put a pin in it (I know, I'm sorry) so that it wouldn't get lost in the shuffle. When I finally started seeing a therapist, it was one of the things I brought up as really wanting to work on, and we started off great. I took my permit test again. I started exposure therapy - sitting in the driver's seat of a car, putting my hands on the wheel. But that's as far as I could get. The thought of actually driving ramped me up from zero to losing it in seconds.

That's where I am now. What started as a fear has taken on the additional burden of shame and frustration. I don't love being twenty-seven and still bumming rides from people without being able to return the favor. I don't love planning my life around bus and train and ferry schedules. Perhaps worst of all is the thought that I've found a fear that I can't conquer, that will control me and restrict my life while everyone around me passes me by.

A chance conversation with a friend on Saturday lit a fire underneath me. Some well-chosen words and shared experience busted through my self-doubt, and a little seed of excitement was planted. Because you know what? That's not me. I'm nervous and I'm phobic and I somehow always manage to very publicly spit out my breath mint while trying to have professional conversations, but I don't back down from challenges. So I took that feeling and researched driving instructors on Sunday. I found a school with specialists for adults with driving anxiety and panic disorders, and I contacted them on Monday.

An appointment has been made. The journey has begun. And I'm going to share it here, step-by-possibly-painful-step. You'll never know the specifics of my appointments or tests or anything else in advance, because I don't need the added pressure, but I'll for sure be coming by to fill you in after the fact.

And posting vegan banana bread recipes in between.

Buckle up.

On Getting Help (Or, Stuff That Can Happen in a Year...)

I don't talk about my feelings.

It's not the model I was raised with. That's not a slam on my parents, whom I love very much and who I know love me, just an observation. I was with my dad and one of my sisters recently, and he commented that my niece and nephew make him feel like he's on his death bed because of how much they say, "I love you." My sister turned to me and said, "Now we know why we're so uncomfortable expressing that." It's true: we're an emotionally reserved family.

I had my first panic attack just after my fifteenth birthday - 'cause, I mean, what do you get the girl who has everything? It was mid-November. I was a sophomore in high school and it was the night of one of the performances of our fall show. In a freak accident, a friend of mine had been injured during one of her scenes. Most of us had been down in the greenroom when it happened and didn't find out about it until we were about to go onstage for the finale. Adrenaline pushed me through the curtain call, but when I got back downstairs, the room felt like it was crushing me. I was hot, my heart was racing, everything sounded like I was underwater but I felt like I was on fire, and I couldn't breathe.

And I don't talk about this in detail. Really. Ever. I'll say, "I had a panic attack," and move on. Typing all of those words just now made me ridiculously uncomfortable. So forgive the lack of eloquence that may occur as we progress, because I don't know that I'll be able to go back and make adjustments.

The anxiety storm that led to this first explosion had been building since September, something that I touched upon here. My brain's inability to process that didn't absolve it of the need to do so, and I think that this incident - this chance occurrence of injury being done to someone in my life (obviously - and thankfully - with much less lethal stakes) pulled every thought and feeling and worry that had been spinning silently in my head for months together into a single ball of awfulness that I couldn't contain anymore.

It's not my friend's fault that it happened. I don't think I ever actually told her that. We're not really in touch anymore, and I'm sure she knows it, but it absolutely wasn't her fault. If it hadn't happened then, it would've happened another time for some other reason.

Fifteen. That was my introduction to my issues with anxiety and depression, but I didn't feel I was allowed to take ownership of those words. It wasn't because of the stigma that's so often and so unfairly attached to them. Naively, I thought that because I hadn't reached an extreme - because I wasn't suicidal or afraid to leave my house - I didn't have the right to say I was depressed or anxious. Which was dumb. But we're all dumb sometimes, and I didn't know how to ask for help yet.

I'm going to make a long story slightly shorter: it was a long, long time before I figured out how to ask for help.