Since I last adjusted my anxiety medication, the physical symptoms of it have subsided to manageable levels. However, my anxiety is far from cured. It’s just become less evident to the people around me. Which is great and all, as I don’t want other people to bother me about it. But the anxiety is still there, lying just below the surface. 

I remain perpetually hyper-aware of everything going on around me. Even when my conscious mind fails to recognize things, my subconscious never misses. There is always something going on around me that has me high-strung to a point it’s unhealthy, and my body is physically reacting to the stress. My heart palpitations and shakiness may be mostly cured, but my body is suffering in other ways. I currently have a cold sore that is, by far, the worst one I’ve ever had. My face, back, and chest often break out with severe acne. And, it’s once again hard to gain and keep weight. 

This all feels awfully familiar. Logically, I know it isn’t. Everything I’m currently experiencing is simply a result of anxiety. None of what I’m currently experiencing is life-threatening or indicative of anything deadly. With the help of medication, a decent diet, physical exercise, and a few things to look forward to and enjoy, I will improve (more than I already am). I will be my old self again. 

Emotionally, however, it’s hard for me to accept the facts. While I may be just fine, and will soon be back to my usual self, my anxiety would have me believe that I’m not actually okay, and I’ll soon end up in the hospital sick with a lung infection or malnutrition. None of those worries are out-of-the-blue either. 

To my anxious mind, they’re perfectly rational, as I’ve ended up in the hospital sick like that before. And I remember how scary and miserable those stays were, and the struggles I endured the months leading up to my admission, as well as the months following it. That fear of the hospital is so deeply ingrained in my mind, that I get overly freaked out when I’m not feeling so awesome. That anxiety makes even the most trivial cold seem like a life-ending Pneumonia infection, no matter what I say, do, or know about my (now irrational) fears. 

But, the medical anxiety I have merely scratches the surface of a much larger and worse problem. When it comes to things like socializing, weather, college, the pandemic, and pretty much everything else out of my control, my anxiety is constantly through the roof. For years, I’ve done all that I could to avoid my anxieties (or, for a better term, phobias), much like how I’ve done all that I could to avoid ending up in the hospital. It’s perfectly healthy and acceptable for me to not want to go to the hospital unless I absolutely have to. It’s good that I’ve taken such great care of myself, even if the main reason has always been avoiding the hospital. 

But, I can’t avoid everything that makes me anxious. It’s not healthy to be so shut-in. I can’t simply avoid people and places my entire life. I can’t just stay home and call off my day if the weather isn’t great or covid cases begin to rise again. I can’t avoid basic things like doctor’s appointments and routine medical tests, as scary as they can be. I must push through that anxiety to be productive, healthy, and happy. 

But, it’s sometimes nearly impossible for me to go out and face my fears, especially since I’m so good at hiding it. People often mistake my outward calmness as confidence, fearlessness, and/or even happiness. But, more often than not, I’m absolutely terrified. I just don’t want to express my emotions out of fear of being vulnerable. Essentially, because I’m afraid of basically everything and everyone, I’m afraid of being, well, afraid, which actually seems to hamper my ability to get actual help and guidance from the people around me. 

After all, many of my fears and phobias are rather ridiculous, and for my whole life, I’ve been surrounded by exuberant, adventurous, bravehearted people who have, at best, pitied me for being so skittish and cautious. I mean, it’s logical for people to assume that I’m the toughest, strongest, most fearless person in the room, given all that I’ve been through. But, precisely the opposite is true. I’m not any less afraid or skittish of things and situations than I was when I had much less control over my outward emotions as a little girl. I’m just much less likely to show that fear.

Although, at times, people can see a flicker of fear in my eyes if they look closely enough. When they notice it, most people either ignore it, or point it out for the world to see. Neither action is helpful. 

I don’t need pity. I don’t need someone to just tell me to “suck it up” and shove me into the situation for me to face alone. I don’t need someone to laugh at me or sneer at me for being afraid to shake hands with strangers. I don’t need someone equally afraid as me to "ride it out". All of these things only make my anxiety worse, and make my fears (both rational and irrational) even greater obstacles for me to overcome. Sadly, far too many people both close and distant from me understand this. They fail to realize that, as silly as it may often be, my anxiety is very, very real to me. 

To me, being forced into a room with a bunch of strangers is like forcing someone with a fear of snakes to jump into a pit of pythons. Even then, stubborn extroverts with snake phobias still can’t see things from my perspective. No wonder I’m not willing to show my emotions and vulnerabilities to most people, including those I know and trust the most. Because, even my own parents have unintentionally ridiculed me and made my social fears worse. They just don’t know it, because I neither show my fear or even really mention it, unless I am absolutely stricken with terror. 

People seem to only pay any meaningful attention to my anxiety when I’m absolutely crippled by it, and the physical symptoms bring me to my knees. For instance, a few years ago, Dad and I went on one of our many mountain adventures, which took us up on Loveland Pass on a very cold and windy day. I forget when exactly this was, but I do know it was around a holiday because there were lots of people on the pass with us. 

At some point, Dad wanted us to stretch our legs and grab a bite to eat. So, we stopped at an exceptionally busy visitor’s center. People were fucking everywhere. The parking lot was overflowing with people and cars, and the trail to the peak of one nearby mountain (which up there was basically a hill) was completely lined with people who wanted to experience the miserably cold and windy tundra weather. 

If it had just been the altitude, cold, and the wind, I would’ve been able to cope with it just fine. If it had just been the people, I would’ve been able to cope with it for a time (though much less gracefully). But, the large crowd, the wind that made it harder for me to breathe, the thinner air, and the cold all at once was simply too much for me. My senses were completely maxed out. Worst of all, I felt like I wasn't getting enough air. 

To my dad, it looked like I was on the brink of passing out due to altitude sickness. In reality, I was suffering from an all-out panic attack. There was just too much going on for me to handle it, and in an attempt to protect me from it all, my body essentially tried to shut down. 

Thankfully, we weren’t far from the car, so Dad pulled me into a side hug and brought my limping body back to the car. While I sat cold, nauseous, shivering, and hyperventilating in the passenger seat with the heat on full-blast, Dad brought us to lower ground as fast as he could. In the shelter of the car below the treeline, I was able to make a full recovery without any more problems. And we ended our day with a late lunch at a comfortable, quiet restaurant in Littleton. 

However, before any of that happened, I had expressed concern about the weather, traffic, altitude, and especially the crowds around that visitor’s center. In response, my dad essentially made fun of me for being a whiny little bitch, and pressured me to join the crowd with him anyway. Besides, we’d been in the car for two straight hours, and he’d drank a ton of coffee on the way to the pass. Hell, we hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet. But, when I nearly passed out from anxiety on the miserable walk to the visitor’s center building, only then did Dad realize how dire the situation was. 

All I can ask from people is for them to not downplay my anxieties, or push me so far beyond my limits that my body decides to attempt a hard-reset in the worst possible places. That doesn’t mean people should simply enable me by allowing me to turn tail the second I get even slightly nervous. Indeed, I do need a good push from time-to-time. But, there’s a right way and a wrong way to push me beyond my comfort zone.

I almost got comfortable skiing because of my dad. Every season, from the time I was five till high school, Dad would take me on at least one skiing trip to teach me how to ski. 

He didn’t start me off on the mountain or even the bunny hill at first. He put me on a snowdrift in the parking lot and had me slide down to the lawn below, all while he held me so I could get used to the feeling of skiing without risking injury. Eventually, we graduated to the bunny hill, and finally to an easy mountainside. Dad never let me out of arm’s reach, and was always there to guide and support me as I learned how to ski. With his guidance, I knew I was safe on the mountain, especially since he tested the runs for ice and traffic before he took me on any of them. 

However, two incidents scared me out of skiing, probably forever. When I was eleven years old, my grandpa Lyle and grandma Connie were involved in a horrific freak skiing accident. A snowboarder going way too fast for the mountain plowed into my grandparents (who were just finishing their final run of the day), shattering my grandpa’s leg in several places, and nearly putting my grandma into a coma. Thankfully, my grandparents survived, but not without permanent injuries. My grandpa will forever have a massive metal rod in his leg, and some of my grandma’s nerves were permanently damaged in her legs. Because of this incident (which happened early in the season), I refused to go to the mountain with my dad that year. 

The second time was when I went on a spring-break trip to Breckenridge with Clarke and my half-half siblings. Clarke’s way of teaching skiing was way different than my dad’s. He essentially slapped a helmet and a pair of skis on me and my little half-brother, Jack (who I live with and consider a full brother), stuck us on a lift, and shoved me onto the icy slope when I refused to move after getting off the lift. Jack was perfectly happy sliding down the slopes with his dad, because he never seemed to have an anxious bone in his body. Me, on the other hand? Well, I was fucking terrified. I remained in the “pizza” position the whole way down the mountain, dodging skiers and snowboarders left and right. When I miraculously survived the trip to the bottom, my leg muscles were so locked up that Clarke had to pick me up and carry me to the ski resort cafe, fireman-style, because I couldn’t walk. 

Just as I regained feeling in my legs, ski patrol called Clarke to inform them that Hannah (my little half-half sister, or Jack’s half-sister. Confusing, I know) had crashed into a tree going forty miles an hour. Her snowboard and phone were literally snapped in two. Thankfully, besides some bruises and a sprained foot, she was just fine. Her board had taken the brunt of the impact, and dispersed it elsewhere. But, I haven’t even touched a pair of skis since then. Even if my dad promised to tie a rope around my waist, wrap me in bubble-wrap, and only take me on bunny hills, I would be scared shitless the entire time. I just can’t do it. 

Trust me, learning how to ski would be great. In a way, I feel like I’m betraying my Colorado Native status by not skiing. But, I’ve just been traumatized out of it, and not even the most experienced, level-headed skiers can coax me back onto the slopes. It really sucks, but if I can’t even think about skiing without my stomach knotting up, how on God’s green earth can I even begin to overcome my skiing fear?

Logically, I know I can work on my fear of skiing if I really wanted to. But, truth is, skiing just isn’t on my list of things I want to do. Without that motivation to overcome my skiing phobia, it’s impossible for me to garner the courage to chip away at it. However, there are lots of things that, to me, are just as scary as skiing that I would love to do. It just takes a ton of effort. 

Besides outdoorsy stuff, like hunting, camping, and off-roading (all of which scare me to death, which is honestly part of the reason why I'm so drawn to those activities), I would love to be able to become much less socially anxious and timid around others. Unless there’s someone I know and trust around to break the ice for me, I can’t introduce myself to strangers without bringing myself to the brink of fight-or-flight. Hell, even when I’m with someone I know and trust who is willing to introduce me to other people, my blood pressure still skyrockets. Only, very few people realize it because I hide it so damn well.

My ability to hide my anxiety behind a facade of ease is both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing in the sense that it makes it possible for me to get shit done even when I'm scared, and makes the people around me think that I'm perfectly content and capable (which makes strangers feel more at-east with me). It's a curse in the sense that the few people I know and feel safest around often miss my anxiety, leaving me to sort of fend for myself unless I say something. However, it's incredibly hard for me to admit when I'm freaking the fuck out, mostly because I like to try to pretend that my anxiety doesn't exist in the first place. If I don't admit that I'm freaked out and could use a shoulder to lean on, then maybe the anxiety would just magically disappear. At least, that's what my pride and emotions would have me believe. 

But, the opposite actually happens. The longer I ignore my anxiety, the worse it gets. It's not something I can simply ignore or get over, as badly as I wish I could. The only way out of my anxiety is to go through it, allowing all the overwhelming emotions and physical manifestations of it to flow through me. Obviously, this takes time. I can't just rush through the things that terrify me. Doing so often just makes the anxieties and fears worse and harder to conquer. Instead, I have to expose myself to what scares me one tiny step at a time. More importantly, I have to admit that I'm having issues to other people. That's the hardest part. 

In the case of social anxiety, I began my journey to conquer it by ordering my own food at restaurants. But, even that was its own little ordeal. I first began by simply pointing to what I wanted on the menu. After some time, I felt confident enough to use my words as I pointed to what I wanted. Years passed, and only within the last few years or so have I managed to conquer my fear of ordering food. However, I still struggle if the servers get my order wrong. I would rather just not get the fries I ordered than go up and ask for them. That's a small though still upsetting challenge I face. One small challenge out of numerous. 

Again, it's incredibly hard for me to admit this. After all, I'm twenty years old. I'll be twenty one in the spring. Why am I so scared of doing something so trivial as asking for my fries? Why does my heartrate shoot up to 160 beats-per-minute whenever I have to make a two minute phone call? Why is it practically impossible for me to make eye-contact with anyone outside of my little circle of close friends and family? Why does every little thing startle me, or at the very least, grab my attention? Why must I be so watchful and alert all the damn time, and have a plan for pretty much every possible thing my imagination can conjure up? 

Anxiety, like all my other medical conditions, is a rather embarrassing thing to live with. People who have never dealt with anxiety, and even those who have, can't understand how it impacts me. I'm too high-functioning and good at hiding my anxiety that people don't notice it. And, on the rare occasion I feel safe enough to be vulnerable with someone about my anxiety, they often disbelieve and/or dismiss me. Because, how could I be so nervous after all I've been through? How can I be so nervous if, on the outside, I seem perfectly normal? I should have nerves of steel, right?  

I wish it were that simple. I wish I could just become fearless, and stop overthinking every little thing. But, as far as I'm aware, I really can't just "get over" whatever freaks me out. Trust me, I've been in intensive therapy since I was five years old. No amount of EMDR, meditation, or exposure therapy has done anything to help me. If anything, it may have actually made things worse. 

Knowing that, what do I do? Well, for the most part, I just do what I've always done: never let my anxiety/fear/discomfort show, no matter how scared or worried I become. While that may protect some of my pride, it doesn't do anything else beneficial. It just wreaks havoc within me in the moment, and comes out in sobs when I'm finally alone and in the safety of my house.

If I were to wear a heart-rate monitor for 24 hours (which I've actually done), it would show my heart-rate spiking up to 200 beats-per-minute many times per day. Not because I'm doing any rigorous exercising (when I'm doing cardio, my heart-rate rarely goes faster than 140 beats-per-minute), but because I'm experiencing something that is very distressing and scary for me. Which, to be entirely honest, is damn near everything at this point. 

I still get a major rush of adrenaline every time I sit down in the driver's seat, and I still exit my Xterra a little jittery once I reach my destination. My palms still get clammy whenever I approach my college campus. I get very jumpy when I'm hiking alone and the wind kicks up, making it harder for me to hear and see approaching wildlife (and if I'm hiking with other people, I stay very close to them and am constantly watching our backs). I will never sleep in a room with a porcelain doll in it. Every time I talk to someone new, even with a trusted friend or family member there to introduce me and get things going, I'm panicking on the inside. And, don't even get me started with flying in a commercial airplane!

Those things merely scratch the surface of everything that gives me some level of unreasonable anxiety. I understand that a certain level of anxiety and discomfort are normal and even good for people. But, it's not normal to get a stinging chill down your spine whenever your dad calls you (which happens to me, because half the time he's called me in the past, it was to deliver some crushing news, such as the loss of my grandparents). Nor is it normal to get exceptionally nervous at the sound of thunder or the doorbell, or to pull over on the side of the road to puke after giving a presentation to a small class. Yet, that's exactly what I go through, and I'm fucking sick of it!

Again, I wish I could just be like those who don't have a mile-long list of social and other phobias. I wish I could just get on an airplane, drive a random rental car downtown, and go to some fancy wine party, where I can confidently introduce myself to new people and finish off the night with a karaoke competition. Because, that's what I grew up with: a pack of highly extroverted, socially and emotionally intelligent, touchy-feely-huggy-squeezy, rambunctious city slickers full of overwhelming wanderlust and a desire to do everything that I absolutely hated.

Naturally, I grew up feeling like a total freak and irreparably broken. Only now am I learning that I'm not a freak or even slightly broken. I'm just different from most of the people I've lived with my entire life, which isn't just "not bad", but should be something I should celebrate and be proud of. The bulk of my anxiety, worries, and phobias all stem from a life of misdiagnoses and shitty life circumstances. Now that I've been properly diagnosed as Autistic (only took nineteen fucking years), and have my Cystic Fibrosis under control, I can now begin to dissect my life, and figure out what caused what. 

In the case of being Autistic, I'm highly sensitive to the world around me. It's why I've only worn jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, fluffy socks, and boots since I was old enough to choose my own clothes. It's why high-frequency noises (including pitches most human ears can't pick up, like dog whistles and that godforsaken ringing noise old TVs make), hurt my teeth the same way an ice cube hurts them (I can't even begin to explain how that's possible, but it is). It's why I hate all forms of touch that I don't consent to or control (such as if someone drags me into a hug without my permission, or the wind blows my hair the "wrong" way), yet need it in certain situations to feel safer. It's why passing headlights of any kind give me a headache at night. It's why I gag whenever I eat yogurt or eggs. It's why I wrap up unfamiliar pillows with one of my hoodies if I'm staying at someone else's house, and am very particular about the shampoo I use (because I'm now very sensitive to smell since regaining it two years ago). It's why I avoid groups of five or more people as much as possible. On and on. 

In the case of my Cystic Fibrosis, I'm highly alert of everything I touch and expose myself to. I've been hoarding hand sanitizer and masks long before it was cool. If someone even clears their throat around me, and I can't tell if they're sick, I'll instinctively hold my breath and move away from them. It's why I avoid going to the hospital for any reason, and why I get extremely anxious whenever I have to go in for even the simplest of check-ups. It's why my veins shrink up whenever I have to get my blood drawn. It's why I ask a million questions about every little thing at the hospital, and don't let someone do something to me until they tell me exactly what they're doing, why they're doing it, and what to expect from it. It's why my worst nightmares are those that occur in the hospital or an ambulance. It's why I have such severe PTSD; PTSD that I'm not sure how to properly take care of at this point. 

There's so much more that goes into my anxiety, but CF and ASD are the two big ones that impact it. Yet, I'm still at a loss at how to best control my anxiety or overcome it, given just everything I've talked about so far. Right now, I'm simply enduring it, but I'm not sure if that's the healthiest way to go about it, considering I get so tired and physically sick from simply grinning and bearing the anxiety. I don't think it's normal or healthy to skip period cycles, break out in severe acne, lose clumps of hair, develop cold sores and pink eye, and lose lots of weight during times of increased anxiety. I would like to stop dealing with that crap, but I don't know how, and my doctors and therapists don't seem to know either. 

I know there must be a solution to this major problem of mine. If Cystic Fibrosis can be almost cured by three little daily pills, then surely there must be a way to bring my depression and anxiety to heel as well. But, emotionally, I feel like I've tried it all. If no amount of yoga, prayer, support from family and friends, exposure therapy, talk therapy, group therapy, EMDR, practice, medication, experience, healthy eating and exercise, muscle relaxation exercises, grounding exercises, rest, distraction, etc, etc. can rein in my depression and anxiety, then what can? What if I'm just stuck living like this forever? What if I literally go crazy and throw myself off a cliff one day? What if, what if, what if? 

I try not to think that way, though it's hard not to believe I'll live the rest of my life an anxious, depressed wreck. Because, I know there must be a set of solutions that will make my life a lot less scary and depressing. Maybe I've just been doing EMDR and exposure therapy wrong all along, and I ought to give them both a second chance with just a different approach. Maybe if I work very hard to notice even the slightest of skipped heartbeats, I can identify exactly what caused it, and work on controlling my body so my heart doesn't skip a beat in response to whatever made it skip in the first place. Maybe if I spend a whole month meticulously noticing and writing down my symptoms and situations, I'll be able to identify common patterns that I can then work with in therapy, using tools that previously didn't work. 

I mean, I've learned so much about myself over the last couple of years. Surely, my approach to treating my anxiety and depression will be very different, even if I use the same tools that failed me in the past. Of course, I'll only know this if I try it. Maybe there will be a sudden breakthrough if I re-use old tools knowing what I now know. Maybe I will one day live free from the bulk of my depression and anxiety, finding peace and joy and comfort in things that once terrified me. Hell, it would be great if I could just go about my daily life without freaking out over the stupidest things. 

I wonder what it's like to live in the present, without a worry of the future or an open wound from the past. I wonder what it's like to live phobia-free, to talk to strangers without shivering and overthinking every word hours later, to have confidence in the most stressful situations, to not have a plan for every problem and mishap one's mind can conjure up. I wonder what it's like to just be totally relaxed in life. To live without a single tense muscle or racing thought.

Currently, I can't even begin to imagine what that must be like. I only know such a life exists because a lot of people I meet and get to know live that way. Of course, those people tend to be rather impulsive in life, rarely considering the consequences of their actions. But, while that may be true, they are also happy-go-lucky and full of peace. Me, on the other hand? Well, let's just say I know exactly what would happen if (God forbid) I got T-boned by a red light runner at the intersection of Wadsworth and Coal Mine while going 55 MPH, and how I'd handle it. And I know when the rustling in the bushes is a squirrel, deer, coyote, or cougar before I even catch a glimpse of it. If you see me sprinting down the hiking trail with a spooked expression on my face, you better fucking run too!

Of course, I recognize that a lot of my phobias and worries are irrational, at least on the surface. And, my imagination has a tendency to get away from me at times. Regardless, deep down inside, I know that even my most irrational phobias have very real roots.

For instance, I'm not extremely sensitive to touch and sound just because I'm Autistic. It's also because of what happened to me when I was a newborn. Open heart surgeries are not easy or painless to go through for adults who can take Morphine and other hardcore pain medications. Due to my size and fragileness, and the fact that doctors still debated on whether or not newborns felt pain the same way adults did, I was only allowed tiny amounts of Tylenol as I recovered from my ordeal. I may not consciously or even subconsciously remember what happened to me over twenty years ago, but my body damn sure remembers it. And there are physical marks left behind on my body that, while faded, will forever serve as a reminder of the hell I endured just three days after I was born. 

Not to mention the endless shit I went through soon after my open heart surgery. Before I was a year old, I'd gone through open heart surgery, Cystic Fibrosis, a breast milk allergy, Sepsis, multiple Pneumonia infections, and a myriad of other problems I can't recall at the top of my head. Clearly, God was working way overtime to keep me alive. To this day, I suffer from severe survivor's guilt as a result, on top of everything else. 

Knowing that alone, it's no wonder I've grown to be resistant to touch. It's no wonder that almost any sort of unexpected touch automatically triggers the "lizard" part of my brain. Certain sounds do the same thing for me. While the high-pitched noises hurt my ears because I just have very sensitive ears. Other noises, such as the whooshing noise of a strong wind in the trees, or the whooshing sound a vehicle engine makes when it first starts, also evoke a sense of dread within me.

I'm not nearly as off-put by those noises as I was when I was little, mostly because I spent years working hard to associate that specific sound with positive things, like dirtbikes and being out-of-doors and far away from hospitals and cities, rather than the sucking and pushing of medical valves and tubes. Even so, those whooshing noises still give me a little rush of adrenaline no matter what, and it's not a good feeling of adrenaline either. It's more of an "oh shit" kind of spike of adrenaline rather than the "oh hell ya" kind. I hope that makes sense. 

After all, as a newborn, I was on a ventilator and then on oxygen for most of my first year. And, I frequently needed help getting mucus out of my nose and throat until I was in elementary school, because I was too young to really know or understand how to cough and blow that crap out myself. I still vividly remember having to be held down every time my parents or the doctor had to suck mucus out of me using a little vacuum-type device that they'd shove up my nose and into my throat to get to the nasty stuff. It only stopped when things like nose-washes and "snot bulbs" (a little rubber thing in the shape of a bulb that was much more gentle and less noisy) became available. But, the nose washes were still very unpleasant, contributing to my phobia of water I developed later on in middle school that lasts to this day. 

Needless to say, wind and water have been my enemies since day one. While I've successfully conquered the fear of the former well enough to where I can be almost perfectly okay with forced air of any kind (although, I still really hate it when it gets so windy that I have trouble breathing when walking into the wind, because it gets shoved up my nostrils too fast for me to deal with), my fear of water remains. And, for good reason. 

Again, on the surface, my fear of water comes off as irrational and nonsensical. I love my hot showers, and I love surfing and snorkeling in the ocean (and making friends with the sea-life along the way). But, I still have trouble getting within smelling distance of a swimming pool or a stale body of freshwater (such as a pond or a lake), and I sure as hell avoid waterfalls at all costs (because, in the past, the freshwater mist provided Pseudomonas and MRSA easy-access to my airways. I got my first Pseudomonas infection after visiting Niagara Falls and going on a boat that went right up to the base of the falls). These days, I know my fear of fresh water is completely unnecessary, as I'm no longer susceptible to most bacteria found in fresh water. But, my "lizard" brain doesn't get that yet. 

I'm working on conquering that fear like I conquered my fear of wind and air. But, it takes a lot of time and a lot of effort. It's especially hard because of my age. I'll be twenty-one in May. Adults shouldn't be afraid of silly things like swimming pools. As far as I'm aware, no one else I know is afraid of water quite like I am. Even my own family has poked fun at me for it. They spent all of last summer incessantly trying to get me to dive into the neighborhood pool, and Mom still wants me to go to the gym and use their hot-tubs. At least, they understand my fear of freshwater a little better than they understand my other fears and phobias. But, I think they're quite surprised I didn't take to the pool like a duck dog the second my doctors gave me the green light to do so.

For the record, I've never been afraid of rivers or spring-fed lakes, because such fresh water is neither still or warm enough for things like Pseudomonas or MRSA to live. The bad bacteria only lives in warm, stale water, such as in shallow ponds, swimming pools, and the showers at the gym (which are always warm and damp, and I still hate gym showers because ew). Bad bacteria can't grow easily in salt water either, because the salt acts like a sort of disinfecting agent. It burns away a lot of the bad bacteria. Plus, the ocean is vast and constantly moving. There's no way Pseudomonas and MRSA can live there. 

The salt in ocean water only has ever made me feel really, really good, so I was naturally addicted to it. It was my Trikafta before Trikafta came about. I would literally nebulize saline water at least twice a day to coat my lungs in the stuff. My parents joked about getting me a salt brick from the feed store because of how much salt I ate in an attempt to keep my body hydrated. Swimming in the ocean and breathing the ocean wind was satisfying to me beyond words.  

I would literally dive into rip-tides with my family donning snorkeling gear, and just spend my entire vacation in waters thirty or forty feet deep. We'd also stand on the decks of the boats and ferries we rode to watch for dolphins, orcas, and whales, all while taking in huge breaths of that lovely salty air. When staying in Canon Beach, Oregon undergoing my first rounds of Phage Therapy, a huge hurricane-like storm battered our ocean-facing condo. Me, being a desperate saltwater junkie, sat in a chair on the porch watching the massive waves crash on the rocks and beach, breathing in that awesome cold, salty air. When it was time for bed, I slept in the living room with the ocean-facing doors and windows wide open so I could sleep in salt. The next morning, instead of eating breakfast, I literally sprinted to the beach outside to revel in the salt even more. I felt like I was literally cured (too bad I wasn't and had to go back to Colorado). 

Even now, I still crave that salt, although not nearly as much as I did before Trikafta. But, it's what drew me out of my den when I lived in Gig Harbor during the height of the pandemic. I was out by that salty Sound water, rain or shine, wind or calm, just to get as much of it in my body as possible. The only place I was really weary of was the far end of the harbor itself, where a freshwater river fed into it. At low tide, the salt would recede, and the fresh water from the river would take over, soaking the shore in water that smelled awfully like Pseudomonas, Black Mold, and other horrible shit.

Even so, after doing some research, talking to doctors, and even testing things myself, I eventually figured out (logically) that I could no longer get sick with Pseudomonas. I could test positive, but it would do nothing bad to me. And black mold couldn't survive in the harbor, even at the lowest of tides. 

Still, the emotions remained. The fear was deeply ingrained within me. After spending nearly twenty years religiously avoiding things that could land me in the hospital with a lung infection, getting over my fear of fresh water seemed impossible. In fact, it still does. And, it frustrates me to no end. All of my remaining fears and phobias do, because so many of them do nothing but stand in my way and defy all logic and reason. 

I spend my evening prayers begging God, not just for strength to be brave, but to be cured of my fears and anxieties. I know God won't answer those prayers in the way I wish He would. Yet, I still ask, not because I believe there's a slim chance God will somehow change His mind and make me the most fearless creature in the universe. But, because it's simply my way of conveying my many frustrations and anxieties to the God Who Heals; lamenting and grieving the girl and woman I could've been had I been born "normal", to the only One I know understands. 

I know this desire to be "normal" will never make me "normal". No matter how many times I rant to God about every little flaw and weakness of mine, or how I describe and idealize "normal" people to Him in prayer, I will probably never get to taste what "normal" feels like. Fresh, stale water will forever remind me of all the times water-borne lung infections nearly bested me. The sound of a high wind rushing through the trees will forever remind me of the sound of oxygen masks and medical suction tubes. The mere sight of the hospital will forever send tremendous chills down my spine. Crowded rooms, airplane cabins, and elevators will forever spike my heart-rate to nearly deadly speeds. I may just forever be an extremely neurotic and watchful person, relying on anxiety medication to tame down the physical reactions to my fears. But, never making the feeling of fear go away. 

People will continue to misconstrue my appearance of outward confidence and masculinity as fearlessness and toughness. When in reality, I'm screaming inside all of the damn time, and I'm physically suffering from the anxiety in ways people never see or notice. Most of all, I just wish to have a few people close to me who can recognize the extremely subtle signs of my anxiety rearing its ugly head, and know how to react accordingly. Unfortunately (or fortunately), the reactions to anxiety I cannot hide are almost never noticeable to the people around me. Even to those who know me extremely well. Unless, of course, my knees buckle under my weight and my vision becomes clouded and starry. By then, I'm experiencing crisis levels of anxiety, and I'd rather not get to that point for people to notice I'm struggling. 

Truth is, I'm just too ashamed of my anxiety to really voice it, because I'm an adult, damn it! I should be able to handle damn-near everything as adults do. Or, more accurately, I should act like a teacher in a room full of kids whenever I start to panic. But, I know that's not the right away to deal with my anxiety. It's not right to just stuff it down and pretend everything is fine when they're not. Especially since I'll never be responsible for anyone younger than my little brother (who will actually laugh at me for being fearful, because that kid's got not one speck of fear). So, why suppress my anxiety like I'm expected to be the "chill" person in the room, when it's actually okay for me to be vulnerable from time-to-time with trusted friends and family members, so they can actually help me?

I think these questions all boil down to how I was born and raised. I've been an "old soul" all my life; rarely interacting with my peers and opting to sit at the table with the adults instead. I was also raised largely by extroverts who expected me to be on my absolute best behavior no matter what, and told me horror stories from their not-so-awesome childhoods that scared me shitless (and still kind of do). Besides that, I was simply too sick and tired to act out in any sort of way. I was too busy just trying to fucking survive to purposefully seek out trouble for personal entertainment. I was already way in over my head in shit dealing with my health and social issues. I didn't need to "spice things up" with typical tween/teen shenanigans. 

I only began to seek adventurous things when I started to fully realize how fucking pathetic I was. Even then, my adventurous behaviors were fostered by my parents. Mom put me in Tae Kwon Do to learn how to kick ass and get my ass kicked, not just for physical health reasons, but to try to build up my confidence and reduce my anxiety. Dad roped me into Motocross and Off-Roading for similar reasons. He also tried to get me into camping, but ruined that rather spectacularly with that horrible spider-infested camper from the 70s. While enjoyable, those things often did scare me. But, instead of "coddling" me and talking me through my fears, my parents more or less just told me to "suck-it-up" and "fake it till I made it". 

They didn't mean to be malicious by any means. They just didn't know any better. Hell, nobody seemed to know a damn thing. Not even the most prestigious psychologists in the state and country had an idea of what to do with me. Everyone simply blamed my ways on "trauma" and prescribed more EMDR (which did absolutely fucking nothing). It wasn't until I was eighteen someone finally guessed right. Yes, I have a lot of issues to work out with myself. I have a hell of a lot of PTSD and generalized anxiety/depression from both sides of the family. But, I'm also Autistic, and am just generally eccentric, neither of which are bad.

I'm still very much angry at the fact that it took so long for people to finally figure out what, in hindsight, was pretty damn obvious all along. I often wonder what life would've been like had I been properly diagnosed as Autistic, and my anxiety/depression/PTSD had been treated early on with that knowledge. I often feel like I missed out on vital childhood and teenage experiences that, if properly diagnosed and treated, I could've enjoyed and been comfortable doing.

I wish I could've experienced a true sleepover in my childhood (instead of staying at the birthday till 10PM and being brought home for the night to do my CF treatments and get some downtime). I wish I could've kept a best friend or two all throughout gradeschool, instead of losing touch with my peers the second I left our school. I even wish I'd done some stupid shit as a teenager, such as sneak out to parties and egged rivals' houses. Hell, I almost wish I'd been caught doing that stupid shit as a teenager, just to experience was it was like to truly be in trouble: not because of social blindness or illness, but because of my own stupidity.

Growing up, I was fascinated by the tales of trouble my parents and grandparents told me from their childhoods.

I wondered what it felt like for my mom to sneak out of the house with her best friends (Priscilla and Jen), to go to rock concerts where they'd always find ways to meet their idols backstage. I tried (and failed) to imagine myself in my dad's shoes, when he was 15 years old and was caught drinking at a party, causing him to lose his spot as lead quarterback on his football team. I wish I had the balls my grandpa Lyle had when he inadvertently participated in North Dakota's first (and only) riot that officially deployed the National Guard (he left before it got too crazy, but he couldn't resist throwing a few beer bottles into one of the bonfires in Zap before fleeing the National Guard in his '65 pickup). I still admire my grandma Debbie for regularly going on joy-rides through Denver as a 14 and 15 year old, never once getting caught by the police or her parents (she must've been an amazing driver back then).

Instead of following in the footsteps of my dangerously rebellious parents, who got that rebelliousness from their parents, who got their rebelliousness from their parents, so on, I turned out to be simultaneously the scariest and most boring Nibbe Reinhardt of them all! I was scary because of all the times I almost died, but was boring because none of my near-death experiences were my fault. The scariest moments of my teenage life were spent playing World of Warcraft in my hospital bed, periodically leaning over the trashcan at my bedside to puke up my intestines because the hospital overdosed me on Bactrum on an empty stomach.

Yeah, my parents never had to worry too much about me outside of the hospital and doctor's visits. 

Now, as an adult with a very well-behaved tween brother, I sometimes wish he was a little more wild just so I could get a taste of what a "normal" teen looks like. But, at the same time, I'm glad he's too invested in sports he's obsessed with to do what so many of his peers are doing. If I want to get a glimpse into the life of a "normal" teen, I'll have to go to Utah, where my mom's best friends are both having to grapple with their wild and angsty tweens and teens.

To be entirely honest, after spending a pandemic summer with them, I'm glad my household is not ravaged by hormone-crazed teens and terribly-behaved dogs. Mom also regularly reminds me how much she appreciates how well-behaved my brother and I am. Yes, we have our bad days and disagreements. But, none of us has even come close to ending up in the hospital, the psyche ward, or with police on our doorstep as a result.

Still, I cannot deny the tiny, sick desire I have to witness such a major freak-out. Much like how so many people probably have that same little urge to experience what CF has put me and my family and friends through. It's that morbid little wish that makes us gawk at car accidents and natural disasters. It's that cat-killing curiosity that gets people to eat dog food or touch a candle flame just to experience those things. We know, damn well, kibble probably tastes like shit and a candle flame will burn our finger. But, we try these things anyway, because we're curious creatures that just have to experience it ourselves. 

That's how I feel whenever I look back on my life, and lament over the fact that I've never purposefully tasted alcohol, or snuck out my bedroom window to go raise hell with my stupid friends, or thrown snowballs at random passing cars, or spray-painted a dick on one of the concrete pillars holding up the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. I sometimes just fantasize about doing things like that as a tween and teen, instead of spending those years too scared of people to walk my dog around the block by myself, and going to the hospital at least once every two months so I wouldn't die of a condition nobody asked for.

Even now, the most rebellious thing I do is park my Xterra on snowdrifts in the college parking lot while making direct eye-contact with a campus police officer (who clearly don't care, because they've never done or said anything to me. Well, that's not true. A cop did pull up next to me while I was walking to the building just to tell me he liked the color of my Xterra, never mentioning the fact the damn thing was on a snowdrift). But, I'm still too much of a wuss to drive on I70 for just a quarter mile, and I almost cried when Dad took me on I70 in the jeep for the first time. 

I guess I've just had too much excitement in life to liven things even more by being reckless and stupid. Depending on who you ask, this is either a very good thing or a very sad thing. Me? While there are some perks to being a goody-two-shoes, I still feel sorry for myself for being too anxious to have let loose just once in life.

That, and I really do feel suppressed in many ways. I often question if my interests, way of life, beliefs, fashion sense, social needs, etc. are a trauma response, or just the way that I am. I mean, I'm going to be twenty-one in a few months, and I still have zero interest in sex or finding a romantic partner. I've never felt even remotely sexuality attracted to anyone ever. Is my apparent asexuality a result of twenty years' worth in bullshit, and when I peel back the layers I'll suddenly have the desire to find love and start a family? Or was I just born destined to be the "cool aunt" with heated toilet seats instead of kids? 

Also, what if my mom is right, and I wear hoodies and jeans to "hide" rather than wear them because I like them? What if I don't like people invading my personal space unless I give them permission, not because I like having space to breathe and move around, but because I'm subconsciously afraid of everyone who comes near me? What if I don't like high-frequency noises because they cause physical pain for me, but because they actually remind me of the alarm bells at the hospital? On and on. 

Questions like these have gotten in the way of me embracing myself and my identity. If I can't even tell if who I am is a trauma response or just...well...me. Then how on God's green earth can I even begin to heal and learn to love and embrace myself and my differences? What if all I am today is just 135 pounds of PTSD? What if I really am just an extroverted, girly city girl who's hid behind the facade of a redneck hermit all these years? What if, what if, what if...

Logically, I know those questions are ludicrous. I'm quite confident in the person I'm turning out to be, in a lot of ways. I'm pretty sure I know what I like and don't like, and most of what I like and don't like have nothing to do with what I've been through.

I don't wear camo hoodies and jeans everyday because I want to hide from everyone. If anything, I stick out like a sore thumb in most places because of what I wear. I don't like the city mostly because I just...don't like the city. I'm not a partyer or a socialite. I don't like shopping for expensive designer clothes and driving the newest, most stylish cars on cramped streets. I don't like the idea of living in a building with hundreds of other people. I don't like constant traffic and human noises. I like to see deer and bald eagles every now and then. Not because I'm traumatized out of the city life, but because I just connect to nature better. 

Sure, trauma and anxiety might play a part in my dislike towards the city life. But, it's not the main reason. I don't like certain aspects of the rural life either, especially since my views of the world are often drastically different from the views of those who have lived their entire lives in a town of less than 10,000 people. That, and the idea of not having more than one grocery store within 100 miles of my house kind of bothers me. I can stand the extreme rural life for a couple months. But, even I need some sort of civilization every now and then. After all, I do love the diversity the city has to offer. And, I don't think rural grocery stores have sushi.

I'm not as simple as my anxiety would have me believe. I'm a complex human being, with dislikes and likes, dreams and goals not influenced purely by my trauma and anxiety.

Sure, I do worry about the future, and my future goals are influenced by that fear to an extent, especially given the way covid fucked up the world. But, that's perfectly normal. Everyone is kind of in freak-out mode right now. I'm not the only one out there suffering from fear of the future after what's happened the last couple years or so. 

The cost of living is getting so high in most places around the world, that worldwide homelessness is skyrocketing. Subsequently, the average life expectancy is dropping, along with the average standard of living. More and more people are being forced to pod with others to afford their single-family homes or apartments. Farmland in the Midwest has gone from $1,000-$3,000 an acre to $11,000 to $13,000 an acre and higher in some places. Wages are stagnating and even falling in many places, while they're skyrocketing in other industries. Crime is rising substantially as people become more and more desperate. No government seems to give a rat's ass about it either. If they do, they don't have a clue what to do.  

You'd be a fool not to be at least a little scared of what's currently going on, and what may lie ahead. In this way, I'm not ashamed to admit that my anxiety is largely driving my college career right now. I want to live a long, fruitful, independent life, working a career I don't despise and won't kill me, and still makes great money so I can live a secure and comfortable life. Right now, pursing a career in computer science/engineering seems like the best way to achieve those goals. 

At the same time, I'm terrified I'm not smart enough to go into a math/science heavy career, even though various attribute tests/surveys given to me by my college, as well as my Astronomy grades, and my interest in technology, say otherwise. I suffer horrifically from Imposter Syndrome, especially as my career choices narrow further and further, pushing me closer and closer towards an engineering/software degree. Something I never thought I'd go into. 

In a way, I feel condemned to fail, too. Growing up as an undiagnosed/misdiagnosed Autistic, school was absolute hell. I felt stupid, and was made to feel stupid, for learning and thinking in non-conventional ways. I still remember the names of the teachers who bullied me the worst, and I can't seem to forgive them for treating me so badly. Their voices berated me for even attempting to solve a math or science problem all throughout school, and they still haunt me in college. Same goes for my peer bullies in school. They annihilated my confidence in ways words can't even begin to describe, and I'm still extremely defensive and wary of my peers largely because I was bullied so badly. 

Not to mention my physical struggles. I was frequently absent from school due to hospitalizations, doctors' appointments, and general illness. On average, I missed about a month-and-a-half of school per year. I bounced from school to school very often, because nobody seemed to be able to properly accommodate me and treat me with the dignity and respect I deserved. Every year, I only got sicker, eventually getting to the point where I had to drop out completely. I'll never forget how utterly crushed and defeated I felt when I realized I just couldn't go to school for seven or eight hours a day, and expect to be okay. Even now, I still feel like I'm letting my CF win by acknowledging the reality that I am not "normal". 

Add in current events, and I can't stop laying awake at night, wondering what might happen if my health took a turn for the worst, and/or if I failed out of college. Sure, I'd survive thanks to my parents. But, is living in my mom's basement on Disability forever a life worth living? Honestly, I don't think so.

I start to get super stressed out if I stay home for more than a couple days. I like to get out-and-about. I find joy and purpose in doing things around the house, as well as outside of the house. I like a productive routine. I like to create things and fix things and solve problems. I like to be independent, and I dream of becoming fully independent one day. Without things like that, I really begin to lose it. Eventually, I'll lose the will to leave my bed at all. That's what happened during the worst of the pandemic; I would sometimes spend an entire week in bed, only getting up to eat every once in awhile. I never want to go back to sleeping to escape my reality again. Never. Ever. 

Part of that stems from anxiety. Keeping busy with challenging tasks and doing hard, physical exercise keep my anxiety at bay the most. But, a lot of it just stems from... well... me. It's simply a personality trait of mine. The need to create, challenge myself, and stay busy has always been something I've had, regardless of anxiety.

It's why I spent hours upon hours drawing, painting, solving puzzles, playing complex video games, and building Legos when I was little. It's why I found joy in volunteering at horse rescues on Saturday mornings and taking English riding lessons Saturday afternoons as a tween. It's why I got into Tae Kwon Do, Motocross, and hunting as a teen. It's why I was determined to finish high school on time after my Pseudomonas episode. It's why I finally got my driver's license shortly after my eighteenth birthday. It's why I am now in college, pursing a degree that absolutely petrifies me. I thrive on hard work and challenges. I thrive on pushing myself to do seemingly impossible things. I thrive on conquering my greatest fears, and finding power and confidence in things like driving in the ice and snow, or controlling the reins of a 1,200 pound animal on the wide open plains. 

However, I have to rest as well. Right now, I'm not giving myself that time to rest, resulting in physical health issues that don't seem to really have an explanation (I got my annual comprehensive blood test done the other day, and as far as I can tell, everything looks just fine). I know it's because I'm pressuring myself too much, and am simply doing too much. But, I don't want to believe that, because I'm surrounded by people at home, in college, and among friends who are doing way more than I am just fine. And, I want so badly to be just like them.

I want so badly to work, go to college, go to the gym and/or hiking trails, have a social life, travel for holidays, pursue hobbies, and so much more all at the same time. But, I can't do that right now. It's simply physically impossible for me to do without slowly killing myself in the process. I'm barely taking two college classes. I'm not working at all. My only non-college responsibilities are basic household chores, going to therapy, walking the dogs, and picking up my brother from school. Yet, even that seems like a little too much. And, that fucking sucks, and it hurts my soul to know that, no matter what, I'll never be like my peers. I'll never be like my parents. I'll never be able to do what everyone else seems to be able to do just fine. I feel defeated and scared by that. Even though, logically, I know I shouldn't feel that way. 

Both Mom and Dad remind me daily that I'm literally a walking series of impossible miracles. That I've gone far beyond what was expected of me just a year or two ago. That I need to relax and just hang out for once. That I don't need to worry about the things I lose sleep over. That it's okay for me to not be "normal". That I will find my place in this world. I know my parents are right. My anxiety and resentment towards myself and the future just refuses to let me believe them.