Question of the Week: Question #16

<em>Well, friends, I came up with this week's question myself after I looked into the mailbag and discovered it was empty! I'd love to hear from you, so feel free to email me (mellow1422 [at] aol)!</em><br /><br /><strong>How do you deal with irrational fears?</strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhLbUDK4yJ9x8NkMv51LhmocpSGahqwKocuiCMKoJifStUSZihq3o2DHAN2pFguxKybYP9cyT9kWsvseLkVnkeUch85cjW9VYdq8SjxRtqAXlxxRiP3Vi08WVqI77SHPBYG8CjiWo8tA/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716853758157287714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhLbUDK4yJ9x8NkMv51LhmocpSGahqwKocuiCMKoJifStUSZihq3o2DHAN2pFguxKybYP9cyT9kWsvseLkVnkeUch85cjW9VYdq8SjxRtqAXlxxRiP3Vi08WVqI77SHPBYG8CjiWo8tA/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Irrational fears.<br /> <br />Two words. Fifteen letters. The two words don’t even look like they belong together, do they? If a fear is irrational, there is no way it should hold so much power over us. We know it’s irrational. And what’s more, a fear is just that: A fear. A fear of something that might happen, but hasn’t yet.<br /><br />Remember when I last wrote about <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2010/09/irrational-fears.html">irrational fears</a>? You know, the kind that seem to linger longer than a pesky hang nail and leave you exhausted from a bit of over-obsessing. <br /><br />When we were kids, we might have been afraid to go to sleep because of monsters. We looked for them under our bed, in our closet or sitting on the branches of a tree outside our window. We’d even seek reassurance from our parents – the rational ones – who would be positive that no such monsters were haunting us. We had proof in the empty closets and lonely tree branches, but sometimes the proof isn’t in the pudding – or in this case, a lack of monster sightings. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLId6YkhvUXe02ehIV2H4_ZKb9BpRoTIToB6QHG_N0rvFyryZ4AqFIykjiLEOGC2tb2O3Pb9UAEI9vpMwQFai4J_GOKj7PPmyKju6hNypXEIRPobHJtamShhvSHItNeOO8jC_TXCLLAs/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716853757035686626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRLId6YkhvUXe02ehIV2H4_ZKb9BpRoTIToB6QHG_N0rvFyryZ4AqFIykjiLEOGC2tb2O3Pb9UAEI9vpMwQFai4J_GOKj7PPmyKju6hNypXEIRPobHJtamShhvSHItNeOO8jC_TXCLLAs/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" /></a>Sometimes those fears still linger. Even when we’re adults. That’s sort of how I’ve come to see these irrational fears that keep popping up in my head. These fears are like our childhood fear of monsters. Just because I can’t see the fear up-close-and-personal doesn’t make it any less real. <br /><br />Our adult-equivalent of monsters could be anything: Job stress, health woes, relationship tension. These fears, whether rational or not, are very real. We picture them jumping out and scaring us. <br /><br />Ever the curious person that I am (<em>and looking for ways to rein in my fears</em>), I did the only logical thing: I took my question to Facebook. Who better to give me advice than my friends? Some said to remember to keep on breathing (<em>always a good idea, especially with everything in life</em>). Some reminded me to think of happy thoughts. Others said to do something like exercising or enjoying a new hobby and always remembering to live in the present moment. <br /><br />And someone even said, “I scream, then kill them because they are usually bugs with eight legs."<br /><br />I’ll admit it. That one did make me laugh. Maybe we can rein these fears in together? How do you beat those monsters, friends? xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://audreyhepburncomplex.tumblr.com/">Audrey Hepburn Complex</a>]

Question of the Week: Question #16

Well, friends, I came up with this week's question myself after I looked into the mailbag and discovered it was empty! I'd love to h...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420129066403234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light bulb above your head, and everything that was once dark and shrouded in mystery is now bright and clear. Take the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder I experienced all the way back in 2010. I couldn't put the pieces together then, but looking back now, I can't help but see that time as a precursor to the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">depression</a> that would eventually land me in the hospital by the end of the year. What, Sweetpea? I've never talked much about my PTSD? Well, allow me to explain...<br /><br />It can be something as little as the time I was standing in a hotel parking lot while on vacation one summer, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walking toward me. He looked exactly like my father. The closer he got, the larger the lump in my throat became. Or, it can be something a little bigger, like the few dozen times I’ve walked past the building on the campus where my father worked and pictured him galloping up the stairs with a huge smile on his face. Or, even the time when I found the blue-knit cap he wore during the course of his chemotherapy and radiation to treat an aggressive form of sinus cancer and up until the day he committed suicide two weeks after finishing treatment. Or, the smell of his clothes and how they’d remind me of his big bear hugs.<br /><br />That’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in a nutshell. It’s the body’s way of trying to process the massive stockpile of emotions left in the wake of a traumatic life event. For some, the sound of a car’s squealing tires may make them jump in fright following a car accident. And with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, more and more soldiers are coming home both physically and emotionally scarred.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420125864558674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" /></a>Having been born with a physical disability, I’m used to labels. But PTSD? That was a label that took a little more time to come to terms with. Before my father’s death, I’d always prided myself on being such a strong person. So to wrap my head around the idea that, “Yes, admitting I have PTSD does make me a strong person instead of a weak one” took some time. I’d been in counseling for much of the time since my father’s death. In fact, I returned again after a year off. I told my therapist I thought I needed a “tune-up.” There is nothing wrong with that, I keep telling myself.<br /><br />For me, in addition to the sights and sounds that remind me of my father, I’ve also grappled with spiraling thought patterns. Because of my physical disability and the fact that I was only 21 when my father killed himself, I worry constantly about losing my sister and mother. Being alone is my worst fear, and even though I know it’s irrational, I just keep thinking sometimes about the “what ifs.”<br /><br /><em>What if I lose my mother and sister too? What if I’m all alone?</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s1600/04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420095795985282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" /></a>That’s why I’ve always pictured PTSD as a sort of carousel. I’m sitting on one of those colorful ponies going around and around in circles. You eventually come back to the starting point. You see it, and sometimes, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Other times, you see it and can pass it without even registering it in your mind.<br /><br />It’s those latter times when I start to think I’m “over it,” which is sort of the insidious way PTSD operates. I know I’ll never be “cured,” but sometimes I can go for weeks or even months feeling just fine. And other times, like last year, for instance, every little thing sets me off. I’ll find myself crying over seemingly minor stuff. It’s times like these that remind me that I’m still trying to learn how to integrate my PTSD into my life rather than plan my life around it. It’s a constant struggle, but one I know I need to fight with all my strength. I know my father would want me to.<br /><br />One of the common misconceptions about PTSD is that you can just “snap yourself out of it.” Time has passed, so it’s time you move on too. Maybe I even tried to convince myself that at one time or another. Sometimes my mother, sister and I will drive past our old apartment. It’s the apartment I grew up in — where I recovered after all my surgeries, where my father taught me how to balance an equation in high school algebra. It’s also the place where he killed himself on a March morning in 2003 while I was sleeping in my room.<br /><br />Driving by it now, it’s easy to see that, on the outside, everything has changed. The parking lot is filled with different cars. The building looks like it’s been repainted. Even our windows look different. Life has gone on. As if nothing had ever happened.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420097091459954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>But deep down, the memories are still there, memories of everything that happened inside, and that’s what makes the trauma still feel very raw and very real for me. It may be chronologically almost 9 years after my father’s death, but sometimes, especially when I think of that old apartment, it feels more like only a few months. In those moments, when I’m spinning on that carousel, all I can do is keep going. Maybe the next time I come around, I’ll see things from a different perspective.<br /><br />Does that make sense, Sweetpea? I often wonder if I'll be struggling with these issues when we meet, or if I'll be in a different place in my life. I suppose only time will tell. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light b...

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