On Being Human

Some days, I really hate my PTSD. Don't get me wrong, I never love it. For the most part, I have learned to live with it. I have learned to deal with the highly disturbing nightmares that happen more than I would like. I have learned to deal with the flashbacks, and the flood of emotions that I have become much more able to handle than I used to. But sometimes, it rears its ugly head in the most unexpected of places, and totally undoes me. Last night was one of those nights, and today, I'm suffering the consequences.

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail here for many reasons, so please forgive my vagueness. There is a certain person from my past who was extremely abusive towards me for a very long time. I have them blocked on Facebook, and have managed to live my life entirely removed from them for several years. This has exponentially improved my life, and allowed me to move forward and work on becoming a healthier person. But unfortunately, as is often the case, blocking a person and otherwise cutting them out of your life is not a 100% guarantee that they will not ever pop up in unexpected places since, most of the time, you have mutual acquaintances.

Last night, this person popped up on my newsfeed (no, there was no way for me to avoid that happening), and I almost dropped my phone. I physically startled, and found myself wanting to throw up. And here's the frustrating thing about mental illness: we often find ourselves reacting in irrational ways. I knew there was no way this person could hurt me. There was no way this person could actually get to me or do anything to me, just by virtue of them popping up on my newsfeed. Let me be clear, this is the only person in the world I am actually afraid of (more afraid because of potential emotional/mental damage than physical). Cutting them out as I have almost completely guarantees they can't ever hurt me again. Therefore, having such a severe reaction to seeing a picture of them in an unexpected place is rather irrational because they can't actually hurt me. But that's the thing about PTSD. Anything resembling the person or situation that caused it can trigger a severe reaction, even if no real threat is posed.

In the case of what happened last night, it triggered a panic attack. I've had more panic attacks than I can count. I've lived through them. I know they're not going to kill me. But last year, as a result of all of the breakup trauma, I decided to attack my issues with panic attacks. And I was extremely successful. I stopped avoiding things that caused the attacks, and faced them head on. Before last night, the last panic attack I had experienced was 368 days before, when I was in the hospital. A nurse who was behaving wildly inappropriately for the psych ward quite literally stood in my way while she verbally abused me and accused me of things I didn't do, causing, unsurprisingly, a panic attack. But that's another story for another time.

Having another panic attack, aside from the very real trauma of the attack itself and its aftermath, was frustrating for me. I still find it frustrating that I had one last night. I know it's not true, but I feel as though I should have been able to logic my way out of it. It feels like a colossal failure: I managed to keep panic attacks at bay for just over a year, in every situation, and a single picture undoes me. Psychologically, my reaction makes sense. It's part of the PTSD. And yet, I still feel that I should be able to control it. That, in itself, is irrational. If I could completely control it, I wouldn't have PTSD (yeah, I can't win with the cycle of irrationality- talk about INTJ hell...).

So today, as I try to recover from the lack of sleep, the headache, the muscle tension, the overall fatigue and emotional exhaustion, I also try to give myself some grace. I'm not perfect, after all. I'm not superhuman. Having a panic attack is not a sign of weakness. The reality is, it's hugely significant that I went over a year without one. It's not realistic to expect I will never have another panic attack again, as long as I live. Part of living a functional, healthy life is understanding and accepting that I will not always be able to avoid things like panic attacks. I'm only human. And that's okay. 

Trying

A year ago today, my parents came and picked me up, and took me home from the hospital. On August 25th, the second day of the Fall semester, my thesis advisor and general mentor, Dr. Hoffman, put his day aside, and took me to Southeast Hospital in Cape Girardeau. He spent hours with me in the ER, as doctors, nurses, and a social worker came in and out of the room. And then he went upstairs with me to the psych ward, and stayed with me until they made him leave. He called my parents, to tell them I was in the hospital, and he and his wife came back that night to visit, and bring me clothes, which I had not brought with me.

I was in the midst of a very deep, suicidal depression. The breakup I had been dealing with, and the way it had been handled by him, the lack of information and integrity and willingness to take responsibility (and funny enough, I didn't even know just how bad all that was for another few weeks, but it was already bad), the lies he had told his friends and our mutual friends...his refusal to work on things, or even talk them out, despite my complete willingness to do so...it had all taken its toll on me. This was the hardest thing I found myself ever having dealt with. Nothing- not my brother's death, not my loss of the ability to play the piano, not my years being kept in a cult- had been that awful for me. Absolutely nothing. I just didn't want to go on living. I was done.

The doctor and staff at the hospital kept telling me that my life had value. That I was worth something. That I would be missed if I died. In contrast to my previous depressions, I knew all that. Reading the Divergent series really did change my life. It showed me my worth and value as a person. And in the nearly 3 years since then, that hasn't wavered. I remember one day during a group discussion, expressing my frustration. The recreational therapist was asking us how we were going to prepare for success once we got out. How were we going to avoid going back into the hospital? Everyone else in the hospital, the whole time I was there, without exception, had all made destructive choices in their lives, that they were reaping the consequences of. I was the only one who had never had a substance abuse problem. I was the only one with any kind of college degree. I was one of the only ones who had never been in trouble with the law. I was the only person there who had never been in the psych ward before, and I was the only person who, in general, lived a functional life on a day-to-day basis. Even the doctor and therapists had told be that I was the exception to the people they saw go through the psych ward on a regular basis. They said that every once in a while, they got someone like me. And that I wasn't there because I was unhealthy, like everyone else. I was one of the few people who went through there precisely because I was healthy. I recognized a problem and got help in solving the problem. I wasn't there so people could patch me up and do damage control, so I could go out and keep being dysfunctional. I was there so I could get help getting better. One of the social workers told me, in our one on one, that she was actually really surprised and impressed by me. She said that she had encountered cult survivors before. And they're usually attention seeking and difficult to deal with. She said I was the most well-adjusted cult survivor she had ever met. And that I would do so well in life.

But all of that was part of my frustration. If I was in that deep depression and in the hospital because I had screwed up my life, then there would be something I could do to fix the problem. I remember when I had my bad car accident in October of 2014, I was upset more because I hadn't done anything wrong, than anything else. There had been literally nothing I could have done to avoid that accident. I was rear-ended by someone going above the speed limit while waiting for someone else to turn left. I was a sitting duck. I was frustrated, because there wasn't anything I could do to avoid that happening again. And I was feeling exactly the same way here again. I was born with Anxiety and Autism. I was given PTSD four times over, by siblings who tormented (no really, that's the correct word) me, classmates who tormented me because of my Autism, and by my parents who put me in a cult for 9 years and subjected me to abuse, and even abused me themselves. As a result of those three things, I wound up with Persistent Depressive Disorder, with an early onset. I was born with multiple health issues exacerbated by my traumatic early life. I was a good kid, I earnestly sought God, I (usually) happily obeyed my authorities, I did well in school, I tried to follow the social rules I could never quite figure out. When things at home and in the cult became so toxic I couldn't really function anymore, I took responsibility for my own well-being and left home against my parents' wishes. When my PTSD became disruptive, I took responsibility and got help. I fought through years of illness-both mental and physical- to get through college, even though I didn't think I could. When I got my Celiac diagnosis, I took responsibility for my health and changed my diet. I got through grad school, I took on lots of extra jobs to make more money because I didn't make much. I followed the rules. I took risks when I had to. Bottom line, I made good decisions. I remember being there in the hospital- and the months after- feeling so frustrated, because I was the epitome of the good girl. I didn't screw up. I had never in my life done anything to cause anything more than marginal inconveniences for myself or anyone else. Even my parents agree with this. And yet, I had PTSD four times over because of things other people had done to me. And here I was in the hospital, because of the horrible depression I was in because of what someone else had done.

And I was just done. What was the point? Why keep trying? Why keep doing everything I'm supposed to do, when it all gets screwed up anyway? Why keep fighting so hard? It didn't seem to be getting me far.

I still don't have much of an answer to that. I got out of the hospital, and kept doing what I do: making good choices. Surviving. Making my way. I was only in Cape that Fall as long as I absolutely had to be in order to do my job. I spent the weekends out of town. And as soon as I could, I got the hell out of Dodge. I left it all behind and moved a thousand miles away. Literally. I took responsibility for my own life. So far, it has worked out. Things are definitely better than they were. I made the right choices. But it's still rough. I still struggle with everything that happened. I still struggle with wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Because, in my experience, it always does.

I still have nightmares. I still find myself crying on occasion. I still find myself incredibly confused. But I keep going. Sometimes, I'm not even sure why. I think that's just who I am. Like it or not, I'm a fighter. I'm a survivor. I don't allow myself to be victimized. And above all, I'm Dauntless. That doesn't mean I don't get scared or discouraged or angry at things out of my control. What it does mean, though, is that I keep fighting through all of those things. It's how I have always been, and I suppose it's how I'll always be. Sometimes I wish it wasn't. Sometimes, it gets so tiring. Maybe there's a good reason for all of it, maybe that's just how the chips fell. Regardless, I'll keep going. And I hope, someday, I see it really pay off. For me, or for someone else. 

Joshua Alexander

One thing that many people don't know about me, is that I have a niece and nephew, and they are 19 and 16 years old. I was actually in the delivery room with my niece, and was the first person to hold her. My nephew was born three years later, but my sister and her family had moved to New Jersey by then. I was 16 when he was born, and I loved our visits to New Jersey and getting to spend time with Joshua and Gabriella. I looked forward to watching them grow up.

But sometimes, our plans don't pan out. Sometimes, life just happens.

I'm not going to go into this here, because I'm not interested in airing dirty laundry between my sister and myself. But we had a falling out nearly 6 years ago, and as a result, I had to give up my relationship with my niece and nephew, which I have absolutely hated. My parents still had a relationship with them, but I didn't. For years, I couldn't even listen to my parents talk about them. It was too hard; too painful. I felt awful about removing myself from their lives, but I really didn't have any other choice. It was what I had to do to survive.

In the last year or so, I've gotten to the point where I could handle having a relationship with them, and they're now old enough that I can have a relationship with them, without having anything to do with my sister. But I knew that I had, effectively, abandoned them. I didn't feel like it was right for me to just jump back into their lives because I wanted to. I'd thought about going to visit their dad, Johnny, and having a conversation with him about it. The best think I could think to do was to have someone else tell the kids that I was available and happy to have a relationship with them now, if they wanted one. But I was going to leave that up to them.

A few weeks ago, at the end of July, my parents went to Philadelphia to visit Joshua at his other grandmother's house. I asked my parents to tell Josh that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life, and that if he wanted a relationship, I'm available. I told them this the day they were flying up there. The very next day, I was sick, and I took a half day off of work. While I was driving home, I decided to call my parents and see if they could talk for a bit, to help keep me distracted from how crappy I felt, until I got home. As it so happened, when I called, they were  just finishing up lunch with Joshua. I was talking to my dad, and heard Josh say, "Tell her I said hi." I heard my dad reply, "Tell her yourself." Half a second later, I heard this deep, young man's voice saying, "Hello?" I hadn't talked to my nephew since he was 10, and hadn't seen him since he was 7 or 8. I suddenly changed from my usually fairly cool demeanor to a blubbering aunt who almost couldn't handle the fact that she was finally talking to her long-lost nephew, who was no longer a little boy.

"Joshua?" I barely choked out, "Oh my gosh, I'm sorry, I'm crying. I can't help myself."
"Well it's been a long time since we've talked. I was a little boy. How old was I?"
"You were 10. Oh my gosh, how are you?" We went back and forth a little, and I asked about his sister, who is now a Sophomore in college (can't even deal with that!). Then I spent some time telling him that I was sorry I just dropped out of his life; that I never meant to abandon him. It had nothing to do with him, it was all about my relationship with his mom, and because he was so young, I couldn't have a relationship with him and his sister, but not with his mom. He said he knew, and he understood. I told him that the door to me is open now. If he wants to be FB friends, if he wants to talk to me ever, whatever he wants, I'm here.

We didn't talk terribly long, just a few minutes. And I cried the WHOLE time. I wish we'd had more time. But I do know that we'll talk again. And I hope I get to see him sometime soon.

I still felt sick the rest of the day, but I was kind of on Cloud 9 for the next two days. Finally getting to talk to him, hearing how he's turned out to be more or less the strong, level-headed young man I always thought he'd be, was amazing. And, knowing he understands, and he doesn't hate me.

I don't know how long it will be before I get to see him. I don't know when or if I'll get to talk to his sister. There are a lot of things I don't know. But for now, I'm just SO happy that after so many years, I finally got to talk to my nephew again. That right there kind of made my summer. 

Summer Travels: Cincinnati, Part 4

Monday morning I awoke finding that the feels I had expected to strike all weekend, had finally hit me. Skip and Linda are in the process of selling their house, and moving full time to their Indiana property. While I know this is what they want, and they feel is the right thing for them to do, I'm personally really not thrilled by the idea. It's the only home I have left. I've never lived at my parents' house. Mole Manor (the name of their often mole-ridden property), has been my home for 10 years, and I have over 20 years of memories there. I've been through some amazingly good times there, and some pretty awful ones, too. I've had many birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and summer vacations there. I hate the idea of not having a home to go back to anymore. They're all gone now.

I packed up my things, and looked around my room for the last time. I thought about all the sleepless nights I spent in that room. All the days with deep depression. The nights with such bad anxiety I had to keep the lights on. The early mornings, hearing Jeff or Jason or Pennie or any of a number of other people getting ready in the bathroom on the other side of the wall from my bed. I remember Jenn helping me get ready for my 30th birthday party in that room. I spend a very long summer kicking early stage Lyme and a failing spleen (yes, it's a thing) in that room. I very nearly cried as I stood there, realizing, I would never be back. I said goodbye to the giant cedar closet in the upstairs hall, and regretted the fact that I'd never managed to find Narnia in it, even though I'm positive it's in there somewhere. I went downstairs and looked at the dining room, where I'd had many birthday and holiday meals, and thought of all the time I'd spent in front of the fireplace in the living room. We packed up the car, and I have no idea how we pulled out of the driveway without me bursting into tears, but somehow, I managed it.

We went to lunch with my parents, and then came back and played poker with them for a little while,  before heading to the airport. We used my Jelly Bellies as chips, and Andy kept eating them! I came out of the game with a LOT fewer Jelly Bellies than I went in with. Yes, I'm dating a gourmet jelly bean thief.

Despite some close calls and a few bumps along the way (and a bag that stayed in Cincinnati!), we got home in one piece. It was about 8:30 before Andy dropped me off at my place, and I definitely slept well that night, and regretted having to go back to work the next morning.

This was my first trip home in a year, it was my last stay in my house, it was my first trip with Andy. Most of what happened between August and December of last year is a pretty big blur. I'll delve more into this in future posts, but it's not that I didn't think I could survive. It's not that I didn't think my life had value. I knew I could and I knew it did. I was just...done. Tired of struggling so hard with life, and trying so hard to make good choices, only to have the choices of other people (my brother and sister, my parents, various "friends," etc. cause me trauma and extreme distress. I still think that all sucks. But I've come out on the other side. Mostly, anyway. This trip was a reminder of how far I've come. And for that, I'm grateful.

Summer Travels: Cincinnati, Part 3

I woke up Sunday morning already in a decent mood (which is unusual for me!), because there was very little that could possibly happen to make this birthday worse than the last one. I mean, it could kinda suck, and it'd still be, hands down, way better than last year's. Last year, I spent my 32nd birthday in the car with my parents, driving from North Carolina to Cincinnati, taking as much Benadryl as I could to make me sleep, in more emotional pain than I had ever been in before in my life. And for someone who is a cult survivor with PTSD four times over, and who lost her brother at the age of 9 and is estranged from her sister, that's saying something. My ex had just told me the day before, after a month of agonizing waiting, that he was not planning on getting back together, and that he didn't even want to try and talk about things. We'd had such great plans for my birthday, and I had thought this was going to be the best birthday of my life. Instead, it was hands down, without any question, the absolute worst birthday of my life. And as Amanda pointed out to me on my birthday this year, I've had some pretty crappy birthdays. I spent my 32nd birthday in so much emotional pain that it physically hurt, and I wanted to die. I got so many texts and FB messages from people saying, "I really don't feel like I can wish you a happy birthday, but I didn't want the day to pass without acknowledging that I know it's your birthday."

This year, I was in a much better place. No, I'm not fully recovered, and as I have said before, I'm really not sure full recovery is actually possible from something like that. But I'm in a good place in life. I'm mostly happy with things. I live in an amazing city in a gorgeous state, with a ton of friends. I have this awesome boyfriend who loves me a lot, and whom I love a lot. I have a job which allows me to support myself for the first time in my life.

I got ready for the day, and met Andy, Skip, and Linda in the kitchen, waiting for me with birthday muffins. They sang "Happy Birthday," much to my chagrin, and Andy gave me my birthday present: this awesome reindeer leather and pewter bracelet! Seriously, guys. Does it get more Dauntless than this?

Andy and I headed to my cousin Anne's house, where my birthday party was being held. Anne was incredibly awesome and generous to offer to host my party so I could see a bunch of friends! Andy had already met my aunt Sandy and uncle Ron when they were in Colorado over Mother's Day, but he also got to meet my uncle Bob and aunt Judy (Anne's parents), and my cousin Jon's son, Nate, and Anne's 2 year old, Faye (who seriously looks just like a little elf, and is so freaking adorable). Faye liked Andy a bit, and kept telling everyone that she was going to share cake with Great Aunt (my mom- she calls my dad Great Uncle!). Amanda and Mike came with their girls, and my other bestie, Christi, drove all the way from Evansville, Indiana (3.5 hours!) for the party, and to meet Andy. Melissa and her husband, Jason, drove all the way from Indianapolis, as well- a solid 2 hour drive. Heather and Carrie also came, and I got to meet Heather's fiance, finally. They all got to talk to Andy for a while, and then all the guys at the table left, leaving me with five of my closest girlfriends, who of course then gave me a lot of straight talk about stuff with the ex, and how much better for me, and more mature, Andy is.

After the party, Andy and Christi and I went to Graeter's, since she had driven so far, and...why NOT?! We sat and ate our ice cream and chatted for a few hours, before Christi left for home, and Andy and I headed back to the house.

It was a good birthday. Not only was it a good birthday, but it was also so much better than the one before, and I loved getting to spend it with so many people I love, and with this amazing guy. I was able to receive birthday wishes and not feel devastated by them. Instead of holding on to hope that my next birthday will be better, in order to even live through the day, I was able to enjoy the day, and think, maybe next year will be better. But even if it's not, that's fine.

Summer Travels: Cincinnati: Part 2

Saturday morning, we both were feeling our day at King's Island a little bit, but not horribly. I had planned on lots of things for the morning, but our tiredness wound up overriding those plans. However, we did manage to stop at Jungle Jim's in Fairfield. I wish we'd had more time, and that I'd had more energy, but I at least somewhat managed to introduce Andy to the marvelous heavenly place that all Cincinnatians know and love. For those of you who don't know, Jungle Jim's is a pretty one-of-a-kind international market outside of Cincinnati. It has old animatronic animals from Show Biz Pizza and displays from Coney Island, way back in the day. They have the world's largest collection of Pez, and a whole wall of Jelly Bellies that you can put together to make your own mix. They have a giant selection of beer from every region of the nation, more wine than I see even in most liquor stores, and as many specialty liquors as you could possibly want. They also have a giant section just for cheese. What could be better than a great big selection of cheese? There's produce from all over the world, and you can even get fresh kangaroo meat there. The dry goods section of the floor is set up by country, including the more obscure ones, like Bulgaria and Macedonia. There's more varieties of olive oil there than I knew existed, and if your heart's desire is a 50lb bag of rice, you can get it at Jungle Jim's for all of $20. They even have different varieties of pop from every region of the country, including those that are really obscure. And the icing on the cake for me? They have the Midwest's largest gluten free section. Shopping there is an experience and a dream. We both walked out with, among other things, our own selections of Jelly Bellies.

Then, we headed up to Franklin, to visit the Smith family. Amanda and I have been friends for going on 18 years, ever since our ATI days. We've helped each other through a lot, and I was the maid of honor in her wedding, in 2009. Her 5 year old daughter, Katy, and I are bookends. Katy was born on July 1st, and I was born on the 31st. Katy always loves it when I come to visit, and thinks I don't come around nearly enough. It had actually been a year since I had seen her. When we got there, I picked her up and said, "Did you know it's been a year since I have seen you?" She laughed and said, in a very grown up tone, "I actually did know that." The girl is smart. She never ceases to amaze me. Ellie, who is 2, is a little (read a lot) less outgoing than Katy. It takes her a while to warm up to people, but she usually does, eventually. Andy and I sat and talked with Amanda and Mike, and somewhat played with the girls for a couple of hours. It was a good time, and by the time we had left, I managed to get the thumbs up on Andy from the bestie, which is always a good thing!

Before going home to get ready for dinner, I drove Andy around my old neighborhood, and showed him the house I grew up in, and the house my childhood best friend grew up in. I pointed out different landmarks and talked about different memories. Then, we went home, where Skip and Linda were finally waiting for us! It was good to see them, as I hadn't seen them in over a year. They took us to dinner at the Christian Moerlein Lager House, which is situated between Paul Brown Stadium and Great American Ballpark, right on the Ohio River, with a fabulous view of the Suspension Bridge. The Lager House was the location of my 30th birthday party, and both the food and environment are phenomenal. We had some great conversation with Skip and Linda, and had a lovely walk along the riverfront.

We got home, and Andy and I watched the last Harry Potter movie on tv, and still managed to get to bed long before midnight that night, which was pretty amazing after a few late nights in a row. I went to bed thinking about how that day had been infinitely better than the same day last year. 

Summer Travels: Cincinnati: Part 1

For my 33rd birthday, Andy and I took a long weekend and flew to Cincinnati to visit my family and friends. We managed to pack quite a lot into just a few days, and managed to maximize our time by flying in late Thursday night, and flying out Monday evening (flying from Eastern to Mountain time is amazing!). My parents picked us up at the airport about 11pm (bless their elderly hearts- this is well past their bedtime, especially for my mother!), and deposited us at my Cincinnati home in College Hill, where we had the house to ourselves, as my other parents, Skip and Linda, were at their other home in Indiana (if you followed that, kudos). It was after midnight Eastern time, and still after 10pm Mountain time, so we were getting tired. I set Andy up in his room, and kicked on the window A/C unit in my room, and we went to bed.

The next morning, we got up and headed out to King's Island, which I hadn't visited in 19 years, since the summer I turned 14. I brought my back brace with me, so I could ride some roller coasters. Yes, I have a loose piece of bone in my spine, and yes, I have chronic spasms as a result. Yes, the piece of bone can dislodge and make my spasms worse. It can also, potentially (though unlikely), hit my spine in such a way as to paralyze me. Should I go on roller coasters? Probably not. But here's the thing. If I didn't do everything I wasn't supposed to do, my life would suck. So I weigh the risks with the benefits, and make my decision. I happen to have a back brace that is extremely effective, and cinches up so tightly, it makes it hard to breathe. If I'm having issues breathing because of how tight my brace is, ain't nothin' movin' in there.

We got to King's Island around 11, and while the heat wasn't oppressive, the humidity was. I was amused by the fact that I was sweating like crazy, but I could also breathe. In Colorado, I have moderate to severe asthma, depending on the day. But in the Midwest, where oxygen is abundant, I can breathe like a champ. I found myself taking unnecessarily deep breaths all weekend, just because I could. I was walking and running all over King's Island, and not once did I have to stop, double over, and break out my inhaler. It was amazing.

The first thing we did, was take the elevator up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, which is a 1/3 scale model of the actual tower, and looked out over the park and over Mason. The roller coasters looked little from way up there! After heading back down, we started on the rides: the Viking swing, the Spider, the Scrambler, etc. I'm sorry, no matter how old I get, giant swings, and spinning rides will always just be FUN. We kept looking at the roller coasters, trying to decide which ones we wanted to go on, and which ones I thought might not ruin my back, and the one I kept wanting to go on was The Diamondback. This one has been around King's Island for most of my life, and looking at it, and its extreme ups and downs, I kept trying to convince Andy to go on it with me. He kept hedging, but after a while, he finally said a solid, "HELL no."

Instead, we went on the Tower Drop. In case you don't know, this is a ride that takes you straight up about 26 stories, and then just...DROPS. We got on, and as it went up, I asked Andy if I had ever told him I'm scared of heights, which made him laugh. I actually am terrified of heights. But I have also decided not to let that fear dictate anything I do in life. So I deal. We got up to the top, and the waiting began. The thing about this ride is not the drop. It's the waiting. We have no idea when it's actually going to drop, and that's more terrifying than anything else. I'm sure the wait was only about 60 seconds, but it felt like several minutes. After a few seconds, I suddenly realized I had made a horrible mistake. Oops. I wanted nothing more than to get out of that ride. NOTHING. In all seriousness, I wanted to DIE. I actually wanted to die right then, right there. Because the only way I was going to get out of that ride, was to actually drop dead. Suddenly, the ride dropped, and then stopped, and I went, "Huh. That was like...nothing." I realized two things: 1. The game was more of a cruel psychological joke than anything else (followed by an awesome thrill!). The real terror is not the drop, it's the anticipation (there's actually some really deep philosophical stuff to delve into there, but maybe another time). 2. I have actually been through worse in life. We all have been on our share of sketchy elevators in our lives (especially if you've spent any time at ATI's Indianapolis Training Center). But I have never been afraid of any issue on any elevator after surviving the elevators of the Cosmos Hotel in Moscow. While there in 1998 with about 400 other Americans on a mission trip, my mom and I were staying on about the 24th floor, along with a bunch of others in our group. We got on the elevator one afternoon, to go up to our floor. We got to between the 23rd and 24th floors, and our elevator got stuck. Not only did it get stuck, but it suddenly began shaking violently. Then suddenly, it dropped. Several floors. Then suddenly stopped again. Well, we just wanted out at that point. But after a few minutes, it started shaking again, and then, again, free fell. I was pretty sure I was going to die at 14. Well, we finally made it to the lobby in one piece, and we couldn't get out of that elevator fast enough. None of us went near that elevator the rest of our time in Moscow. Going through that very unplanned freefall has a way of putting regulated and safety-tested rides that are supposed to drop in perspective.

After the Tower Drop, we went to the other side of the park to ride The Beast. This is a wooden roller coaster with a number of tunnels, and is older than I am. The Beast is one of King's Island's classic rides. I had never been on it before, though that's hardly believable for someone from Cincinnati. The ride is freaking awesome. It's the perfect level of scary and thrilling, to maximize the fun without getting to the "Oh dear God we're going to die, get me out of here" stage. Andy's experience was slightly more terrifying, as tunnels make him fear for his life, as he's 6'1". But the ride was fantastic, and I was so excited to actually be riding a legit roller coaster, despite my back. Andy loved it so much, and got such an adrenaline high from it, that he decided he wanted to go on the Diamondback. About the time we got off The Beast, I hit my wall. 5 hours of rides and crowds and walking and humidity were taking their toll. I looked at him and said, "No! You had hours to go on this ride, and you gave me a solid no, and I'm done." He admitted this was the case, and we started to leave. On our way out, he said, "I'm going to tell everyone I wanted to ride the Diamondback and you didn't want to." Which got a smack and a tongue lashing from me, which only made him laugh. Men.

Our day at King's Island was tons of fun, and we ended it by having dinner with my friends Kevin and Joe. Other than the fact that Kevin and Andy kept riffing puns back and forth all night, it was mostly fun. After dinner, we went back to Kevin's to watch the extended version of Batman vs. Superman (omg, so much better than the original cut), and ate UDF ice cream. It was again after midnight before we got home, but we definitely slept well, since we were absolutely exhausted. We had more going on the next day, but that story will come in part 2.

Poker Face

No, I'm not quoting Lady Gaga. I'm actually working on my poker face- and my poker game. As I have mentioned in earlier blog posts, Andy and his family love poker. I'm not exaggerating. Guys, they love it. While none are professionals, Andy and his brothers have all gone to Las Vegas at times to participate in the World Series of Poker (otherwise known as WSOP). I've long wanted to learn how to play poker- not as much for the game, as for a greater understanding of various metaphors in everyday speech, as well as poker references in movies. But Andy has been teaching me now, and I'd actually like to be able to play in some tournaments with him at some point.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, a bunch of people (mainly men), get together at the little restaurant in Andy's community and play Texas Hold'Em. A couple weeks, ago, Andy and I went on a Tuesday night to join in. I was thinking...just a handful of people, a couple hours, no worries. Nope. There were three tables, with 22 people total. I was the only female playing. Yaaaaaay.

Andy bought us both in (I gave him the literally $5 I had to spare- being out of work for months has a way of catching up with you!), and I informed the table that I had played before, but not much. I asked a lot of questions, and mostly did okay. I wasn't the first person out, and Andy did the second allowed buy-in for me. I picked up a few more things along the way that I hadn't known before, and just overall got stronger in my understanding and playing ability.

While poker is just...poker to a lot of people, it's not just a game to me. It's scary as hell, and takes a LOT of courage for me to really work on getting good enough to play with strangers and in real tournaments. And there are a lot of reasons for that.

First, my parents have loosened up a LOT since I was a kid. No, they weren't anywhere near ATI level when I was little (pre-13), but they were still on the more conservative side of the Catholics and Evangelicals we spent time around. While they don't seem to have issues with non-compulsive gambling anymore (just like they have no issues with non-compulsive drinking, etc.), when I was a kid, they presented gambling as always a bad thing. It was a waste of money; an unwise chance to take with your resources. I remember once when one of my classmates at Little Flower brought in something for Show and Tell that her dad had brought her from one of his gambling trips to Las Vegas. I didn't have any idea what gambling was, but I remembered the word. I also have zero memory of what it was that Sarah was showing, but I remember I thought it was cool. When I got home, I talked to my mom about it, and she said, very seriously, "Oh dear. Gambling isn't good. It's very dangerous." Living with that kind of mindset for most of my life, well...it's hard to break away from.

Second, I'm an INTJ. Which means I loathe being bad at something. Even if I'm just starting. I hate it when people know I don't know what I'm doing. I hate being the worst at something. It's okay if I'm not the best (though I would prefer to be, of course), but as long as there's at least a person or two or three who end up being worse. While I'm usually not the first person out, and I have been told by a few people I definitely don't suck for being a beginner, I still don't like not being at least...decent. Yes, I realize this is an ego thing. But it's an ego thing that goes all the way back to my identity and sense of self worth. More than love, I need respect, and to know I am respected. I don't like it when people don't think I know what I'm doing. There was a guy at the poker table who was ragging on me because he knew I had little to no idea what I was doing. Sure, it's part of the game, and I need to have a thick skin. The better I get, the less it'll bother me. But for now, putting myself out there is incredibly uncomfortable and scary.

Third, I may be high functioning, I'm still Autistic. That means I'm more uncomfortable around people I don't know than your average person. It also means that picking up on social cues is incredibly hard. Trying to play a new game that requires a lot of thought and strategy, as well as actually being able to read the people around me, is even harder and scarier.

Putting myself out there as a poker player is scary as hell. But I'm not going to shy away from it. I think I can really enjoy it as I get better. Moving here has been all about challenging my comfort zones and becoming more Dauntless. Silly as it might sound, learning to play poker is part of that. So as uncomfortable as it is for the time being, I'm going to continue going, learning, and developing my skills. Hopefully, I'll end up being halfway decent. Time will tell, I suppose.