Tag: anxiety

First Autumn Semester

EmileeLeave a comment

At this point, we’re fully a month and change into the autumn semester of college. I’m only taking two classes this semester, which is by design as I’m currently still working two different jobs. The other classes I could have added in don’t have to be done in any particular order, so it’s easy enough to delay them to next year when I’ll have less on my metaphorical plate.

Everything started off well enough, and then as I tend to do I started to really begin to doubt myself. It wasn’t absolutely glaring and weighty; more of a sort of still, small voice creeping in, asking me things I didn’t dare voice out loud. “Who do you think you are?” “What makes you think you’ve going to be good enough to be an interpreter?” “Honestly, this isn’t going to be everything you expect it to be. Might as well just get used to disappointment now.”

So much is riding on my success, but in different ways than people might assume reading this sentence. It’s not like a typical-college-aged-person’s set of pressures, my parents don’t have any set opinion of me on this, honestly I don’t think they ever expected me to go to college but that’s a whole other post. My pressures are wholly personal. If this doesn’t work out, I can’t afford to move into town in a house that is mine and not in my parents back yard. If this doesn’t work out, I won’t make enough to do more than just survive with the way the economy is going. All the hopes and grand visions I have of living entirely on my own that would have seemed impossible even just 5 years ago are just waiting on my finances to catch up, but without this degree and the possibilities it allows, they will remain out of reach. And while I’m grateful for the tiny house on my parents land, mentally this isn’t the best situation for me. I’m trying to make the most of it, but there’s only so much optimism can do for a person, especially one who seems to be living an existence that could inspire many different plot lines of quite intriguing books such as mine.

In all this, I told myself to just keep going. You’re already here, you’re doing the thing, you might as well keep going unless or until it gives you a reason to stop. You’ve barely begun and there’s so much left to experience that could surprise you. Do your best and see what happens and take it all in stride.

No sooner I did, I had a week where two of my three classes left me feeling like I’ve made the right decision. The first happened on Monday’s ASL 3 class when I walked in and my teacher asked me if I could help her. She had a call she had to take at 9am, which is the same time our class starts, and she asked if I could lead the class in reviewing the unit we were on. She said it shouldn’t take long, but if we get through all of that, she gave me the papers for the project we were to work on afterwards. Now I’m not sure why she asked me. I’m typically the first or second person in class, so it’s possible it was simply because I was available. Whatever the reason, she knew she could trust me to do what she asked and also that I was capable enough to handle doing such. I was nervous not so much for the task—the program we use has videos of Deaf people showing the proper ways to do each of the signs—but mores of my fellow classmates opinions. I don’t know many of them enough to recall their names (I’m trying!) and I think I’m the only (or one of the only) one(s) without a connection to the Deaf community already. I tried to keep my brain quiet, and everyone was kind and attentive, asking good questions and pointing out if I had my hand wrong (thanks, Roland!) When our teacher finished her call, she let me keep going, until she had stories she was telling which had her going to the front of the class to be seen by everyone and then she went ahead and took over as it was most logical. When I sat down, one of my new friends, Taylor, gave me the sign for cheering, which was really nice. When we left class, my other friend Drea told me that I did a really great job and my signs were very clear and understandable. It was really nice to hear, especially as that’s something I’m typically concerned about internally—that my signs aren’t clear or don’t make sense. Leading the class in the review made me feel similar to how I felt when I first started teaching ballet classes. I noticed then that it made me a better dancer as I was having to think more critically about each step I was doing in order to properly teach it to my students. With this, I was having to think more critically, paying attention to the NMM’s (Non-Manual Markers) and hand orientation than I may have typically. Really, I was grateful to have been given the opportunity to challenge my thinking in a way I hadn’t attempted yet.

In Thursday’s Intro to the Interpreting Profession class, I was the second one there and again my teach came up to me shortly upon arrival. She asked me where I worked and I told her I worked at the Courthouse and the Ballet Studio. She asked me if I’d be interested in volunteering the following Thursday (this week) at the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Center’s annual fundraiser event. I’d need to be there from 3-9pm and wear all black. I told her yes, that would be great! I get off work at the Courthouse at 3 but I could leave a little early and my ballet job is only on the weekends right now. She was so relieved. Again, I’m not sure why she asked me and my brain can come up with numerous conclusions, but the fact remains that in asking me she is giving me a vote of confidence in my abilities to be successful in volunteering at such an important event to our local Center. This will also be my first real time among our local Deaf community, having missed out on the previous Friday’s “Deaf Chat” event I was hoping to go to.

Now that the event is two days away, I’m nervous as hell. I don’t have too many details about what to expect, only where to be, at what time, and what to wear—which, arguably, are the most important details. I’m sure I can figure out where to go and who to report to once I get there, but the childhood version of me that was too afraid to ask an adult I was familiar with for a glass of water when I was thirsty has made herself known again. There’s also the added uncertainty of if the person I will figure out I need to report to will be Deaf or hearing; I’m going to err on the side of signing as that makes the most sense in regards to respect.

I know one day I’ll look back on all of this with a completely different view that can only come with experience. Just knowing that that version of myself is possible for me to imagine gives me the bit of courage I need to face all of the anxieties that scream at me and would normally result in me cowering under the covers safely in my bed instead of facing whatever it is. I want this more than I’m scared of it.

Stay tuned, y’all.

words.

EmileeLeave a comment

I’m in a Public Speaking class for the Summer II session at a community college and today I gave my second speech.

My first speech last week had me nervous. I was on the Speech and Debate team in high school, but I wasn’t one of the “good ones” even though our coach is a completely unironic legend. She tried with me, but I was busy trying to merely survive and wasn’t able to commit to the effort as much as is required to be good. Going into this, I found myself reverting back into old ways like a perfectly fitting vintage coat and even though my hands were shaking uncontrollably when I finished that first speech, our teacher told the whole class, “if you want to know what a 100 looks like, that’s it.”

I prepared for this second speech, a “how-to”, almost as much as I did for the first, only foregoing the practice in the speech lab for extra credit as I found it clunky navigating a powerpoint and demonstrating, and remembering what to say. I was not confident going into this one regardless, and I secretly felt that no amount of practice or preparation was going to help me feel any differently in the time we had to prepare this.

Last night as I left the ballet studio after teaching a private lesson, I noticed how much more pronounced my OCD tendencies have gotten, and that evening as well as this morning it was all the more glaring, along with my social anxiety. I tried to keep my self calm, give myself pep talks, listen to those offering me words of encouragement going into it (though they didn’t know the internal scope of what I was up against), and go into this with enough fake confidence that no one would be the wiser as to what was actually going on internally. Maybe in doing so I could squeak out a passable speech (for my standards and the standard i’m assuming my first speech set for me) The day as a whole was a bit disjointed for a bunch of us and as i’m speaking I can feel myself falling apart, missing my points, and at the end completely forgot my power point was a thing. I sat down and pretended I was fine and it was whatever, helped my classmates when it was needed, made small talk, and walked back to my car after class was done with one more speech under my belt.

As I turned the key in the ignition and my mind started going over everything that just happened, all the feigned confidence began to wane. I drove back to work and opened up my laptop so I could get my self critique portion of the grade over. there’s a part of this that has questions you answer before watching your speech and a portion you answer after. and I was honest. scale of 1-10? No higher than a 6, and even that is pushing it. How did you feel after? Not great, this wasn’t my best work. after viewing it, what did you feel you can improve on? Everything. My speed was too fast, my power point was lacking, I didn’t feel I demonstrated it quite well enough, etc. What are you most proud of? That I actually did it and didn’t avoid it like everything inside me was telling me to do. I knew inside—and not just out of pessimism—that this wasn’t going to go well and that fact made me want to avoid. I pretended like it wouldn’t be right, but I knew it would be, and it was. I started looking ahead to the next speech in hopes I can get a head start so I don’t feel like this again, but any topic I thought of made me feel dejected and like I was setting myself up for a repeat of this experience. I hate how this feels and I don’t want to keep going in, but I need the grade, and i’m sure it’s not as bad as my brain is telling me it is. I felt panic coming on as I had to find words to talk about how I felt with this damn speech, and opted to do the extra credit on “10 rookie mistakes” where I was to identify at least 10 of them I felt I could improve upon and write a 1-2 page paper on it. The creativity options that held for someone who was basically turning in a blog post for extra credit helped me keep the panic at bay, but I still couldn’t shake that feeling of wanting to cry and, worse, I couldn’t actually cry. It’s as though my body wouldn’t allow me; it wouldn’t do me that solid.

Each of our classmates is supposed to also do a Peer Critique. it’s anonymous and they collect them all by person and we take them home to see what our audience thinks we did well and can improve on. I almost didn’t look at mine. I was so dejected that I couldn’t even remember where I put them, though I did remember picking them up like we’re supposed to. When I got to my second job, I pulled out my laptop to print out a few things for class and found them in my folder that sits in my backpack next to my laptop. I figured, if i’m ever going to read these, now is the time so I can get everything over with now and can move on and never think about this again. Most of the notes said nice things, only one actually did the part of providing two things upon which I can improve. (better power point and not moving my head side to side so much. both I found to be helpful, and I was moving my head side to side to try and look at everyone more since I was told last time I didn’t do it enough.) The rest were helpful with their things they thought I did great, saying they enjoyed the topic—which I was concerned about—and my speaking speed was good (are we sure?), and that my directions were easy to follow. I was grateful.

One of the last ones I read became my undoing. It read,

“You’re a great speaker. I admire you!”

That did it. Those seven words pulled the thread that unraveled the entire sweater of my emotions. I sat there, papers in hand, crying without even trying, that one line speaking straight to my heart. I stopped crying a few moments later, looked at it again, and started up all over again.

These peer critiques are anonymous, so I don’t even know who feels this way about me. I have a couple guesses of who it might be, but I don’t know everyone’s handwriting to be sure. Regardless, whoever it was held the pen that ended up being the key that opened the lock leading to the release and relief I had been desperate for. They likely have absolutely no idea how much their words would mean, and they didn’t have to write them, but they did anyway. A simple gesture of encouragement that was the hand reaching out to pull me out of the spiraling pit in which I had found myself.

And as I sat there, I realized I knew what my next speech topic would be. Our next speech is an Informative, where we have to have a powerpoint (ugh), an introduction, three clear points, and a conclusion to tie it all together. We also have to have a clear outline, at least 3 but preferable 5 citations properly mentioned in our speech, a works cited page in proper format, and probably other things I can’t remember off the top of my head. i’ve been mulling over ideas; The history of quilting, this history of barn quilts specifically, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, my favorite members of my family tree, SPAM the canned food product, etc. Still, none of these felt right. None of these felt like something I would be confident picking and able to do what was asked of me well. I feared if I didn’t feel confident at the start, if I didn’t feel that sensation of peace i’ve come to shape my life around, that I would be doomed to repeat today’s situation and subsequent sensations.

Reading that anonymous peer critique I realized I wanted to do my next speech on how our words have power. They can influence, they can hurt, or they can heal.

now I don’t know if i’m allowed to use this class as an example in this speech, but if I am you bet your buttons i’m going to somehow weave in this situation to prove how words can heal. If not, i’ll find other ways to do so. Maybe even sneak in a photographic example of healing words, perhaps even one of the critique itself.

I’m so glad I decided to read those forms, and beyond grateful that whoever that was wrote those words to me. I plan to hold on to this little piece of paper and keep it in a place to serve as a reminder when my world starts closing in on me again, as is bound to happen.

(photo of the peer speech critique form giving me the mentioned compliments that meant so much to me. an expert flower—my symbol—is drawn in the top right hand corner)

The weirdest thing my therapist has said to me

EmileeLeave a comment

15 May 2025

I’ve been in therapy for a little over a year now and today’s session included me admitting that I realize I have abandonment issues. So original.

If you knew me in real life, that’s not something you would expect to be my reality, and if you knew me in real life you might be tempted to mansplain my own experiences to me. If you did either of these things you’d be shit and I’d either not have spoken to you in enough years that you don’t *actually* know me anymore and/or are family and I can’t write you off. (I can, technically, but it’s not something I know I can do without having regrets. Damn my bleeding heart.)

One of the places I’ve known abandonment is through previous therapists who somehow heard what I told them and thought, actually you’re doing just fine. What she told me was, “You have really good instincts. I don’t think you need me anymore.” When I heard that I just said, “okay, thank you” because I’m not one for challenging authority. I’m more of the working-really-hard-to-make-sure-you-like-me-and-don’t-dread-when-you-see-my-name-come-up-on-your-calender type. What I was thinking was, “you just diagnosed me with OCD during a global pandemic two sessions ago and also, is there any hope if you’re saying I have good instincts and no longer need therapy after three months while I’m also still trying to convince myself life is worth living?”

Ironically, what got me to give therapy another try was a guy. It’s ironic because if you knew me, truly or not, you’d know I’ve never had a boyfriend. *gasp* So when there was this perfectly lovely guy who was interested in me and vetted by a dear friend, I didn’t feel I really had any reason not to date him except that my scalp felt tingly? I don’t know how else to explain it. Anyway, I found my current therapist based off vibes and its seemed to work out. I’m still low key afraid she’ll decide I’m fine and we’re finished, even though the last time I expressed this she said, “Well, you are fine, and we’re not finished.” Bless her.

There’s been less than a handful of sessions that have caused her to make a comment in the realm of, “I’ve never seen you like this before” which I take to mean she’s worried about me in that moment and can tell I am in the thick of the darkness. Today’s choice of words was, “I don’t often see you like this”, because we have been here before, but it is indeed a rare state of being. I tend to err on the side of optimism, yet if you know me you know I’m a walking oxymoron and my life is full of juxtapositions. 

Today, I started the session convinced this would be the time I signed off and felt no better than when we began. I knew there would be nothing she would be able to do for me—there’s nothing anyone can do for me and that’s pretty much the whole reason I’m in this mess—and I was certain I would feel nothing but defeated. I’d been working for an entire week to try and find any sort of optimism, a sliver of hope to hold onto and time and time again my hands came up empty. 

At one point, I equated my experience to toilet paper, because if you’re not laughing you’re crying, right? And she saw right through my facade and made the most incredible comment that I swear will be the title of my memoir if I were ever interesting enough to actually write a memoir people would read. At the end as we recapped, and I joked that she won’t be able to look at toilet paper without thinking of me now and she’s welcome and also I’m sorry, she said, “That [the potential memoir name] is definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever said in a session.”

Reader, this felt like a badge of honor.

I don’t know if she had any clue what she was getting herself into when she took me on as a client 16 months ago, she certainly had no way of knowing it would go to the depths it has in that time frame though she’s so good at her job I wouldn’t be surprised if she expected more than meets the eye to a degree most may not. I’ve made every therapist I’ve worked with cry, and it took her a while to join that club (a testament to her wonderful boundaries and also her way of knowing what is appropriate when) but one of my favorite moments was making her laugh out loud in such an unexpected way that she immediately covered her mouth. My other favorite is knowing the weirdest thing she’s ever said in a session was in my session. Heck yes. Welcome to my weird little brain, make yourself comfortable, it’s bound to get weirder.

Truly, every time we meet I’m amazed at how good she is at her job. She seems to know exactly what to say or not say or do or whatever at the perfect time. There are little specific moments that are ones I reflect back on to remind myself of reality when my brain gets all doubt-y about things. I don’t know that I have ever felt so seen or heard or known by any one person before, and even as a self proclaimed “open book”, that’s a rare feat indeed. It’s not often I feel safe enough to truly be seen, but she manages to create that space and hold it for me, no matter how much I try to sabotage my progress.

What’s the point of this post? Not much, really, other than to say that a good therapist is worth more than anything else I can conjure. I don’t know what I did to deserve finding such a wonderful one, but I’m forever grateful.

I hope if you find yourself in need of help, you’re brave enough to seek it out. And that if the first time isn’t a good fit, that you’re bold enough to try again. And I hope that you find in someone the safety it takes to truly be able to show up authentically and work through the darker parts of yourself. We all have dark and light inside of us. It’s up to us to take responsibility to learn how to manage them in productive ways for ourselves. Some of us have more privilege in the resources to cultivate this management and balance between the two, as well as the grey area in between, and we won’t all have it figured out and perfect no matter what we do. But we can start where we are, with what we have, and we can begin to see life open up for us. 

I truly believe what’s meant for me will find me, and the same for you, if we’re brave enough to live authentically. It’s difficult and ugly and painful sometimes, but it’s also beautiful and peaceful and safe. Both can be true.

(I learned that from my therapist)

If I ever do end up physically publishing anything, a lifelong dream of mine, you can bet your buttons she’ll have a dedication at the front of the book. Its the least I can do.

I’m back, here.

EmileeLeave a comment

For a moment, I had entertained the idea of moving over to Substack from WordPress. It seemed the thing everyone else was doing, so maybe I should see what all the fuss is about, right? And then someone I follow pointed out how Substack allows Nazi’s to post on their platform, so I’ve decided that’s not for me, and I’m going to bring back here what I had taken there.

There are a few posts I made that I will post in order, then post new ones from there. I debated deleting my old posts and “starting fresh”, but I don’t really think that’s necessary. I’ve lived a lot of life since my last post on this blog almost 2 years ago, but a simple post can help catch everyone up, and then we can move forward.

The end of 2023/beginning of 2024 really felt like (another) turning point. There was so much I was feeling and couldn’t quite explain. I’d survived my first season working for the Ballet, which was intense to say the least, and I was finding new layers of myself I hadn’t known before and trying to sort out where everything belongs in the grand scheme of things.

In January 2024, I started therapy.
My insurance through work covers therapy, but you have to choose from their list of approved people for them to cover it. I was apprehensive, to say the least, given the town I live in. I’m born and raised here. I don’t know everyone, but everyone seems to know someone I know and word gets around fast. What’s more, the people who knew be in my “great before” seem to have missed the memo of who I am now, whether that be intentional omission, not paying attention, or the people in my life now having more discretion, I’m not sure, but I don’t mind it. It can just get a little awkward when people expect a certain version of me to be met with someone who is staunchly Not That. Not one to rock the boat, I don’t make a big song and pony show about it all, so it can be easy to miss if you’re not looking for more than what I can add to your life (versus actually knowing me as a person) and if you’re not safe I’m not about to go into any sort of detail of “How are you? How’s life?” more than I’d give to anyone else. Ironic for someone with a blog, but still. If you’re reading this, you’re either open minded or genuinely curious, and the nature of your curiosity is none of my business. No one’s forcing you to read this. You can click away and carry on with your life at any time. All this to say, I didn’t want a therapist that would either know the players in my story, nor would bring a certain religious opinion in to the session.

What I have found is the most perfect therapist for me. I didn’t really know going into it, based on some past experiences, that therapy was supposed to feel this safe. I knew it was supposed to be where you could say the things and receive the help or whatever. I have had one counselor before, ironically attached to a religious organization, who was the first to really make me feel like I wasn’t some hopeless lost cause that couldn’t amount to anything more than I was. She was wonderful, and I’m grateful for the work we did. Still, it wasn’t what I have found therapy to be this time. The person that I had seen (unintentionally) during Covid lockdown meant well, but wasn’t good for me. She brought in a lot of her own stuff and me, being an empathetic person who wants to make sure everyone is taken care of, ended up holding space for her as much as she for me. It wasn’t any big unloading on her part, but I can feel everything she was carrying, and that made it difficult for me to feel safe to give her my burden as well, even if it was her job. After three months she told me, “you have really good instincts, I don’t think there’s anything else I can do for you.” and what I wanted to reply with was, “okay, but I still want to die more often than I think a person should” but what I said was, “Okay, thank you.”

My therapist now is the boundary poster child, while still managing to be relatable. She is the safest person I’ve ever been around and is so damn good at her job I make sure to tell her as often as I can because I’m sure not everyone feels that way. People are people, after all. She’ll reassure me if and when I need it, but also won’t hesitate to call me out on my bullshit when necessary. I’ve seen exactly one tear fall from her eye, and that was the session after Honey died. Her expression of emotion and the radiating empathy showed me that I’m actually allowed to feel this loss. That dogs matter, sometimes more than people, and this wasn’t any small matter to be facing. After seeing that one tear, I went into, “oh gosh, are you okay?” mode and she promptly shut that down with, “This isn’t about me” and we carried on. I did ask the next session if she was okay, or if that was for me because I didn’t want to be presumptuous. She thanked me for asking, and said it was for me, and I told her how that made me realize all the things I’d realized about being allowed to feel because if my loss was enough to make my therapist cry, surely I was allowed to as well. Another layer peeled back on myself, revealing more things I didn’t know were there the whole time.

Recently, I’ve found myself keeping to myself more, which would have felt counterintuitive or even illegal to the me who was last writing here. Instead, I’m learning it’s not only allowed but encouraged. It’s a good thing to me to feel safe enough to keep to myself and know my world isn’t going to fall apart with my sadness. Emotions happen, and they’re allowed to, I’m going to be okay. I don’t have to tell other people about it to be safe. I’m safe with myself. I’m not a danger.

I, of course, am also not an island, and this doesn’t mean I don’t need people, on the contrary. We are such social beings we’re hardwired to need others. I still vent to friends or whatever, keeping them in the loop of the things that matter. It just means I don’t have to look to them to carry everything. I have my own two shoulders, and they’re strong, and some of this is stuff only I can carry. This is all done, thankfully, under the guise of my therapist and I am grateful every day for the privilege of knowing and working with her. How did I get so lucky to find her, first try even? All I did was look on our list of approved providers, paid attention to how each name made me feel, looked up websites, and called (after hours so I wouldn’t get an actual person, that’s too much). She actually lives about 4 hours from me, though she has an office here locally, but all the clients local to me are virtual. The best of both worlds–not here, but from here enough to know the places I’m talking about but not enough to know everyone I’m talking about. And even if she did know everyone I’m talking about she’s so good with boundaries that she won’t let on one bit. I’m learning this is how it’s supposed to be; who knew?

Now that it’s been a year and a half, I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can start writing again. I mean, I’ve never stopped. I journal and slap together stanzas I call “poetry” and what have you, but now I feel I’m in a place where I can write here again, in a more public setting and in a way that’s authentic without worrying about saying too much, or whatever. I don’t need this to be what holds the space for me; I’ve learned how to hold space for myself.

The next few posts will be from my Substack. I’ll put the publish date on them, so you can keep up with the timeline or whatever.

Thanks for coming along for the ride, I’m glad you’re here.