The Anxiety Pirate and the Rainbow Doom-Brella

I should have known that buying this would be a mistake

The problem with anxiety is that, even when you've mostly got it under control, sometimes you still have a Bad Day. 

Anxious days turn me into an anxiety pirate.  This is my new favorite term, invented as of yesterday, so named because I spend my time going "argh argh arghity argh" and wishing I could make myself walk the plank (or head-desk, which, while distinctly un-piratelike, is more practical for everyday use.)

Marriage and the scientific method

To the happy newlyweds - my sister-in-law Kim and Jordan on the eve of their wedding. May your adventures be many, and may you not worry so much about statistical significance.

---

Before I got married, I spent a lot of time agonizing - how could I know with absolute certainty that I was making the right choice?  How, based on 3 years of data, could I definitively make a decision which would impact the next half-century (or longer!) of my life?

In statistics, the larger your sample size, the more confidence you can have that a pattern is emerging in your data.  When you have a statistically significant sample size, you can say with greater conviction that the trends you've observed actually support a particular hypothesis.

But in matters of love, how do you quantify data?  How do you know when you've got a large enough sample?  What even counts as a measurable data point - is it number of kisses and "I love yous"?  Number of breakfasts in bed times the average duration of snuggle time?  Something else entirely?

How could I ever support my own marriage hypothesis?

On taking up space

Somehow, over time, I've constructed an internal image of myself.  Like some kind of warped party trick, I can conjure it up anywhere.  I can imagine how I look to others from this angle or in that outfit.

Catching askance glances of myself in windows, I covertly scrutinize - seeking to validate whether my omnipresent mind-self is actually substantiated by reality.

This heightened awareness is like a sixth sense, except instead of granting me a useful ability, my only special skill is that I can visualize in sharp and vivid detail what I look like in yoga pants.

Ever-perceiving the space I occupy, I'm left with a nagging feeling of obtrusiveness.  I wonder if I'm taking up too much space.
---

Why I hate Coldplay

I hate Coldplay, but it's not really their fault.

If I met Chris or Jonny or Guy or Will, I'd say, "I'm sorry, guys.  I'm sure you're actually pretty awesome.  It's not you, it's me."

This is the problem with break-ups.  In their wake, they leave a memory minefield, but you don't figure it out until it's too late where the mines actually are.  Someone with the same cologne walks by and it's a visceral and immediate trip down memory lane.  The world is suddenly full of sights, sounds, and scents that take you back where you don't want to go.

Chuck out that perfume you wore every day, and forget about using that shampoo or tuning to that radio station.  Can't go to that restaurant anymore.  All the memorybanks must be wiped clean.

Unpacking gender essentialism

I originally posted a bit of a rant to Facebook regarding this Psychology Today article claiming that women need love, while men need respect.  Excerpt:

"Choice quotes:

• "we [women] are naturally physically affectionate and nurturing, and we just love signing emails and cards with lovey dovey phrases and long lines of xoxoxo’s."
  
  (We do? We are? Man. I am totally failing at being a woman.)

• "It was determined out of this research that a woman’s primary need is for love, and a man’s primary need is for respect."
  
  (It's all right guys; don't worry about respecting me anymore. All I need is your looooove.)

Acerbicness aside, I would love to point out all the flaws with this, but it's kind of making me too angry to really pick apart right now. Someone else is welcome to do it for me. [...]

I'm going to go run in circles, wave my arms around, and headdesk until I no longer feel ranty. Perhaps when I'm done I will no longer possess enough braincells to care about this kind of thing. Thank you and goodnight."

---

I was being tongue-in-cheek, sardonic, and probably a bit hyperbolic.  I wasn't really planning on going into a detailed analysis of why I found the article to be problematic.

Emoetry

Ready for a break from the doom-and-gloom? I sure am!

Finding my college application got me thinking about the past.  And when I start thinking about the past, my next step is to usually search my email.

My email goes back a long ways.  It's practically become an auxiliary memory bank.  When I can't find something, chances are it's in my email.  Old files, old essays, old friends... and old poetry.

But not just any poetry.  Angsty poetry.  Angsty teenage poetry.  Or, as I'd like to dub it from here on out, emoetry.

Don't Panic

I have this poster for a good reason

I'm really proud of this one, and am really enjoying writing lately.  This is about overcoming anxiety.  I'm hoping being open about this might help other people feel like it's okay to get help and also that they aren't alone.  As an added bonus, it certainly was cathartic.

---

It’s strange how you can be an inhabitant in your own mind for so long, and yet not notice when things have, slowly but surely, begun to go awry.

In my college admissions essay, I wrote about fear – that “it may drive, or inspire, or limit me, but with knowledge, and independence, and powerful motivation, I can conquer the things that strike dread into my soul.”

Little did I know that, sometimes, fear itself is what you have to conquer – and that you can’t always overcome it on your own. 

When I wrote that essay, was I beginning to realize?  Did I have any inkling whatsoever? Had I begun to look inside myself and see what was there for what it truly was?