Struggling with Anxiety

Every rose has its thorn, right?

 

If anyone were to ask me to describe myself, I’d probably include “perfectionist” in the mix of descriptors. I’ve been told I’m a bit Type A, whatever that really means, and I can get pretty wigged out if things are unorganized or disarrayed at a seemingly wrong moment in life. It never really took a toll on my pre-college life, and I never felt truly inhibited by my need to “succeed” and my over-achieving tendencies; I just always figured that it was a path to a strong future and happiness.

I guess this is why happiness can’t really be defined.

And I guess this is where my problem took root.

My problem was never really preparing for tests – I always felt relatively Joe cool while studying, and I’m proud to say that I’ve purposely never pulled an all-nighter. My problem was more of an after-effect.

This year, I wasn’t just getting a little over-stressed when times at school got tough. I was having physical pain. I’d skip full meals to save time while working, and I’d restrict myself from my favorite foods if I scored poorly on an exam. I started having all sorts of stomach problems and I just didn’t feel like myself. I could be reduced to tears at the slightest inkling, and this got to be regular. I felt unsure of everything and was just meh, always a bit disappointed in myself or feeling like others were silently disappointed in me, too.

In college, we’re bombarded with a gazillion and one expectations; we must be above the mean, we must have a stand-out GPA come recruitment time, we have to kick butt on our 50%-of-your-final-grade exams in order to get that GPA to get our dream jobs and to have a good life and ultimately be happy. This was my downward spiral.

So this year, I’d study, take a test, let momentary emotions come and go, vent to my mom about whatever I inevitably goofed on, and then just move on with my day. Then the test results would come – in the form of charts and graphs of grade distributions. Cue my anxiety.

Thoughts would race in record time (I’m talking 47 seconds flat) from Guess I need to study more next time to I’m a failure. I’ll never be successful – I’ll just be a laughing stock. What am I even doing here? I don’t belong here.

This year, I felt like I was being shown with statistical evidence that I am inferior to my classmates. That I’m unable to handle the stress to get to the top, wherever that may be. That I’m just not good enough. And that, worst of all, I no longer deserved happiness or love until I picked up my academic game.

This year, I realized I had a problem.

And I don’t think I’m alone.

I had never felt before like college derailed me. Never during my freshman year did I feel like I was in so far over my head, lost in a sea, or just lost in general. Never did my physical and emotional well-being take a toll – until this year.

Mom always helped me out, but her words of encouragement and her tough love were something that I was used to, and I felt it losing traction.

Boyfriend’s advice felt the most permeable, since he had that “I’ve been there, you’ll get through and here’s how” sortof approach.

But here’s the thing that really got me.

For as alone as I felt, I knew that other people – maybe some of you – had to be feeling the same way. It’s virtually taboo here to hint at insecurity or failure. If you’re not talking the talk or walking the walk of “success,” you can’t sit at the big boys’ metaphorical lunch table. People get the same bland comments any time “How are you?” or “What’s new?” is asked – everyone is ‘good,’ ‘tired’, or some derivative of the two, regardless of how they really are. It’s sad, isn’t it? Here, we have the chance to relate to our fellow Generation Y-ers on something beyond temporary physical ails. We can help each other out and boost each other up. But we face this barrier, this near-wall of fear and even more anxiety, that our own anxieties will inhibit our already limited chances to make friends, find our passions, and live life to the fullest. It’s such bullshit.

I could say that maybe I’m the only one with anxiety. Maybe I’m just failing at this whole college thing. Maybe I just need to step up my game and suck it up and not show emotion or feel pain. But that’s bull, too.

I’m not the only one. And neither are you.

So for that, please know a few things.

1. Your anxiety does not define you. It does not mean that you are weak or incompetent, or that you won’t be successful in life, and it sure as HECK does not mean that your life won’t be full and rich and happy. You may have anxiety, but it does NOT have to have you.
2. We’re surrounded by so many pressures that, most of the time, don’t even register as putting strain on our minds and selves. We see Jane Smith and she just seems so together in everything, and we wonder what we’re doing wrong that we don’t seem that together, too. What we fail to see is Jane’s feelings inside. And that’s something that we can never really see. She might be hurting, too, from the same feelings that hurt you, and the vicious cycle of self-hatred and pain and depression and anxiety begins. Know that the cycle can end, and know that you can be the one to end it.
3. It’s perfectly, completely, totally 100% OK to seek help. Outside help isn’t bad. You shouldn’t feel ashamed – there is no need for shame or guilt. It can help, and adding a new, fresh perspective can be so refreshing and much needed.

Late last semester, I cracked. I hit my lowest low, and I knew I needed something more to protect me from my own mind. I started going to counseling on-campus with a pro.

Before going, I was so ashamed and nervous. If a psychologist treated me like a case out of a textbook, I’d quit – I figured I’ll handle it on my own eventually, anyways. I felt weak and embarrassed, like I was admitting defeat by needing a stranger to talk to about my thoughts. No one knew about my appointments but my mom, Boyfriend, and my amazing friend Taylor, who went through a similar situation.

But now, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Therapy is showing me, in a plain-as-day sortof way, the power of thought in every capacity.

You can channel your thoughts to be however you want, really. If need be, you can stop them dead in their tracks and re-focus to the beautiful realities of your life. You can realize the beautiful realities of your life. You can enjoy them and cherish them and make more of them. And best of all – you can believe them.

Some days are hard – really hard. You can’t see things straight or clearly, and throwing in the towel feels like a good alternative.

But anxiety is only a part of you – a small part of you, no matter how big it seems.

And you’re not alone. You never have to be.

If you can relate to anything here, pleasepleaseplease comment below, message me through Facebook, or shoot me an email at erica.ligenza@gmail.com.

We’re in this together.

lovelovelove,

E

OABK: A Follow-up on Fear and Sensitivity

After an overwhelming response to this post’s predecessor (On almost being kidnapped), I figured I should follow up with something.

But first and foremost, a huge thank you to everyone who took the time to read my post. I guess commentary is good either way, right?

That being said, I wasn’t really expecting any negative feedback. Why? Because last week’s post was this: Me telling a story of something that happened to me over the summer and how it made me feel. Simple as that. My goal was certainly not to unleash a societal commentary on what is or is not “appropriate” to post about on a personal blog. It was merely “here’s something that happened to me and how it made me feel.” So I definitely didn’t expect so many people to have opinions on my opinionless post – and I definitely didn’t mean to insult anyone by my story.

This week, I’m doing something I didn’t think I would have to do. I’m defending my work.

Some negative responses seemed to carry similar themes.

1. My post was insensitive to actual victims of kidnapping.
2. The encounter was merely “harassment” or a joke, and it wasn’t actually a big deal – it happens all of the time. My post was “over-dramatic” and I should just “get over it already.”
3. I wasn’t actually almost kidnapped.

Let’s work from the bottom up on this one.

I know the hubbub of a response to my post was probably based on the post’s title. Calling a post “On almost being kidnapped” was bound to get views from the start – it’s just one of those clickable reads. Choosing that title, though, didn’t mean I was hung up on something and trying to create some dramatization of a life event.

What it actually was: A reflection of the fear I felt on that day.

On that day, at the time of the event (and as a disclaimer, last week’s disclaimer read, “This post was written in the week of August 12, shortly after the incident”), I feared that I could actually get kidnapped. The fear was real and raw and something I had never felt before. And that was the root of the title and post altogether. An expression of fear.

Fear is pretty individualistic, isn’t it? You might’ve thought I was overreacting. I’m sure some people think that fearing a dog or a spider is a bit of an overreaction, too, wouldn’t you agree? But to those people, the fear is real, and that’s all that matters.

Now, I can look back and say that my chances of getting “actually kidnapped” were probably pretty slim (thank God). But it doesn’t change my momentary feeling of “Oh my gosh, what do I do if the guys get out of the van? Do I run? Do I fight?”

On point numero dos, we can’t deduce people’s situations when we weren’t there ourselves. This is one of those times where you just gotta trust. Trust that when I said it was more than two guys driving by and cat-calling, it was actually more than that. And remember that disclaimer that started off the post? I literally penned that puppy nearly 2 months ago, right after it happened. No worries folks, I’m over it, living and loving life – I’m not sitting in Starbucks playing a “woe is me” card over something that happened in summer. I wrote a story about a moment in my life and thought it was worth sharing – simple as that.

Now the doozy – point #1. In saying my story is insensitive to actual kidnapping victims, I can just offer the following. I was in an unknown situation where I feared something worse could happen, but I ended up just fine. Consider this: A kidnapping victim escapes his/her attacker and describes a fear from captivity that the attacker would kill. A terrifying fear. Would the victim’s retelling of the story, including the fear of death, be “insensitive” to kidnapping victims who were tragically killed? Unrelated to kidnappings, is boasting a new job or promotion through Facebook insensitive to those who were just fired? Is talking about being lucky in love insensitive to those who are recovering from a breakup?

If anything, I’d like to think an actual kidnapping victim could best relate to a story about fear – they tragically lived fear.

 

I chose to live in a big city, in a way, because of its imperfections. And now, city life’s imperfections are allowing me to grow and strengthen as a person. I guess it’s all a part of this “blossoming” that this blog is all about.

I really appreciate all of the commentary that I got from that post. Because it means that people are taking the time out of their insanely busy schedules to read what I had to say. And thank you to the people who shared their own frightening encounters with me – it’s nice to share support with one another and offer a friendly boost.

Next hump day, stay tuned for something a little less heavy – some inspirational know-how or happiness booster or post about fashion or love.

For now, on a completely unrelated note, check out this ridiculously adorable kitten-gone-wrecking-ball. No worries – it’s G-rated and sledgehammer-free.

 

lovelovelove,

E

On almost being kidnapped.

Disclaimer: This post was written in the week of August 12th, shortly after the incident. 

My beautiful city at dusk. Not, however, the location of what follows.

This week I almost got kidnapped. If that didn’t grab your attention, you either live way too exhilarating of a life or you’re way too numb to the realities of city living. Either way, start your memoir now. But back to the hook. On this day of blogging, I’m counting my blessings that yesterday I wasn’t scooped away into a van to a very, very, scarily different life.

Let me explain…

 

My blog is subtitled “The life of a blossoming city girl.” It’s about time I give you a scoop on real city life. Which, ironically, I’m just beginning to discover. The real stuff. The hardcore real city life. Not the urban university lifestyle – that’s just living in a bubble within city walls. At school, we’re shielded by the realities of college life, and we get to venture out downtown for a night out MAYBE once a week. Probably once every two. And then exams come along and BAM you’re a caffeinated hermit for the next three.

But this summer, after taking a month-long European hiatus to study abroad, I started interning at a deliciously glamorous fashion boutique in Olde City (one of my personal Philly faves). The fun part? Instead of pulling a two-week sublet deal, I got to crash with Boyfriend for a bit while starting work. COOL, RIGHT?

Now this whole I-almost-got-taken situation. Boyfriend had just moved into this adorbs apartment complex in suburban Philadelphia. Awesome place. But the surrounding neighborhood? Let’s just say, you might want to invest in a good pepper spray and martial arts classes.

A free shuttle circles the complex, supposedly on the reg, to pick people up and take them to various hotspots nearby, like the Target (Heaven sent) or my destination – the train station. My plan was to shuttle to the train, train to a main station in Center City Philly, and then walk a few blocks to work in Olde City. Sounded perfect, until learning that the shuttle stops at 8 a.m.

First off, who the heck only goes places before 8 o’clock in the morning? WHAT GOOD DOES THAT DO? NONE. THAT’S WHAT GOOD IT DOES. IT DOES NONE.

My journey, chronologically:

11:09 a.m. – Get rejected by the shuttle driver to sympathetic looks from the Target-bound girls on the shuttle. Good thing I perfected the whole “but I just moved in and have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing please help” look in preparation for moments like this.

11:11 – I’m finagling my way with the driver, pulling that “but I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing please help I MIGHT DIE” look. A woman (probably Target-bound, I’m jealous) gives me the low down on exactly how to get to my destination. It includes the following: “Take the bus to the subway, subway one direction to ___ stop, transfer trains and get on another subway going the opposite direction, then arrive at your train station.” …At least she was nice.

11:13 – The shuttle driver who kicked me OFF the shuttle picks me back up and drives me down the street to the bus stop. At least he didn’t just drive alongside me like “Sucks to suck, #sorrynotsorry.”

11:15 – I’m waiting at the bus stop. At a big intersection in broad daylight. Safe, right?

11:21 – Two creeps in a van – a business van, mind you – are at the stoplight, waving. I’m waiting for my bus, oblivious to the fact that the two men are waving. At me.

11:22 – Said creeps pull up right IN FRONT OF ME with the window down. s*&@.

11:22.30 – “Where you tryna go sweetie? I’ll kick my friend out right now and we’ll take you there.” – Van driver. To the dude’s offer (tempting as it was…), I responded with a silent death glare, which I really wish would’ve severely burned a hole in his eye socket. Please, please, please dear Lord baby Jesus do not let these guys get out of the van. Stay in the van. Do not get out of the van. Please.

11:25 a.m. – The light turns green again, and the idiot creepers in a van are forced to carry on with their sick day. I’m shaken.

If their vehicle was anything but a van, it would have been a TAD less horror movie-esque. At first, I didn’t even realize what was happening. A numbing shock started to come over me as I entered fight or flight mode. I had had my guard up anyway, because I was well aware of the neighborhood and my surroundings, my alone-ness, and the attention I had placed upon myself by standing near the stoplight in cute work clothes (again, the fashion boutique). But this was unexpected. I didn’t think that my first day trying to fly public transportation solo, I’d be approached by people who would be willing to hurt me. People who, maybe if I’d have responded differently, would have actually tried to hurt me.

That hit me hard. My eyes swelled with tears. The sweat that had formed on my brow from the summer city heat felt like it just froze as I stood there numb and hot and cold and shaking and scared all at once. I just stood there in the same spot, praying that I didn’t look like a flustered easy target.

I didn’t want to wait for a dumb bus anymore. As much as I love my job, an unpaid internship isn’t worth risking my safety.

I’m standing there contemplating my next move – what if the guys come back and get out of the van? What if NEW creeps arrive? How can I defend myself against people who have height, strength, and numbers against me?

And then, what I’m sure was divine intervention arrives in the form of a lone taxi, waiting at the stoplight. I hadn’t seen a single one yet, and not a single one was in sight thereafter, but I didn’t need a lightning bolt from the sky to know that that was my new mode of transit to the train station. Sweaty and flustered, I booked it across the street to the taxi.

It cost me $20 in total to get to work that day.

Obviously, I made it SOMEWHERE with WiFi if I’m here to tell the tale. I made it to the train station, where I grabbed a cinnamon soft pretzel as food therapy, and walked to work, and at the end of the day, I trained home, and Boyfriend picked me up at the station (since the shuttle doesn’t run past 6 p.m. either, WHAT A SHOCK!).

In the end, I just have to thank the Lord for getting me home safely. For a taxi at the exact right time and place, for people who are kind enough to stop what they’re doing and give you a helping hand or a reassuring word. And for my beyond amazing Boyfriend, who had chocolate and a massage waiting for me after my rough day.

Here’s hoping this city girl continues to blossom on the scare-free side of city life.

If you have any crazy city stories, share them below!

lovelovelove,

E

Day 4: This one time, when we crossed a Philly gang…

Photo: knightdealers.com

Today’s prompt: “A story about a time you were very afraid.” 

This past summer, two dudes in a van almost tried to take me. But that long story merits an equally long blog post, so stay tuned on COMING UP ROSES for the full scoop on that fearful saga on a coming Wednesday.

That post will detail my all-too-brief summer stay with Boyfriend in a less-than-magical area of Philadelphia. But. That is not this post.

This “blossoming city girl” story is about that one time when Boyfriend and I encountered a Philadelphia gang. At a Sunoco. At 11:30 at night. (I know, I know, what could we POSSIBLY have needed that late to risk a dangerous neighborhood convenience store run? …We’re milk people. It’s our gasoline.)

Boyfriend had run into the Sunoco as I sat in the passenger seat, parked right in front of the main entrance – I could see him checking out aisles through the gunshot-impacted glass door. Everything was all fine and dandy until two less-than-stellar characters strolled up to the shop. Why “less-than-stellar,” you might ask? It was an educated guess based on the headgear choice of one: A black snapback hat with “HORNY” in bright, neon green across the front. A fine gentleman, I’m sure.

Before entering Sunoco, though, they made one of those all-too-long glances in my direction, and it dawned on me that I was sitting in an unlocked vehicle. And reaching over to the driver’s side to pop down the manual lock would be super obvious and probably not jive too well with the colorfully logo-d pals. Crap.

I put on my “I know how to mess S*&% up” face and tried to chill until they strolled inside Sunoco, and I popped down that lock like it was my job. Good thing, too, because then two more chums walked by.

Now I was thinking. “Hmm. The first two were clearly chummy, and they clearly know these chums who are about to make an entrance, too. What an odd coincidence…”

So I turn around to see where they’re all coming from.

Each gas pump was occupied by a full vehicle, and the vehicles’ occupants were chillin’ on top of their rides with their choice cigarettes and drinks in hand.

As I watched the growing parade into Sunoco, it dawned on me – Boyfriend was still getting milk. Alone. Probably a foot shorter than the fellows that were now in full view inside, at the counter, yelling at the cashier for who knows what. Their lone female accomplice had made it inside now too, and she seemed eager to get in on the yelling action. They’re all pointing and yelling and swearing up a storm.

But Boyfriend. Alone with what is CLEARLY some sort of ‘friend group.’ Please dear Lord Sweet Baby Jesus let this NOT be a gang. But alas, there was no denying.

If one of them would have laid a finger on Boyfriend, I knew I would’ve done the irrational. I would’ve ran into the store in a fleeting moment of misguided courage, desperately wanting to protect the one I love, probably regretting it the moment I would’ve realized I was in an impossible fight. I didn’t trust reason in that moment, because I was already prepped to get inside if need be and “save the day.” (No worries, folks, I would’ve called the police first.)

At least I fully realize and admit the stupidity of my almost plight. I see my taller, stronger guy under attack by even taller, stronger guys – that’s guys PLURAL – and I think I can go all Wonder Woman and beat them to a pulp? Who am I kidding? The only thing I can beat to a pulp is fruit for a hearty juice or smoothie. But you can’t blame me for wanting to play bodyguard; I couldn’t imagine sitting helplessly and watching something terrible potentially transpire.

Thankfully, Boyfriend is smart. Brilliant, actually. He steered clear of the tumult at the cigarette register and politely waited for the pack to move elsewhere – it was then time to buy the milk and skedaddle.

And BOY did he skedaddle.

Frazzled, he hopped in the car, locked the doors and turned the ignition with new intensity, and said, “They had teardrops.”

We made it home together and doing fine, just hoping what had just transpired would be a one-time thing. Lesson learned: Go milk shopping BEFORE the sun goes down in Philly.

And no, the Sunoco visitors weren’t upset about the argument with the cashier. For anyone unfamiliar with the stigma behind a teardrop tattoo, stay tuned for a soon-to-be post on COMING UP ROSES. I’d be remiss as a blossoming city girl if I failed to explain the stamp.

lovelovelove,

E