Stories of panic and being apparently quite gigantic.

I have had a few times in my life where I have experienced what I like to refer as “crappy yet defining moments.” You know those moments – where you think, “Why the hell is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?” You want to shake your fists at the heavens and demand an answer from a higher power. Those times when you feel so horrid that you are – in that moment – absolutely positive that nobody on God’s green earth has ever felt as horrible as you do right then. You know those moments?

When I look back on my 24 years, two of those moments smack me in the face with cringe-worthy memories. I will now share those two moments and the perspective I have gained from them.

I can’t exactly classify the first moment as a moment…as it lasted for approximately ten years of my life. From age 11 to age 20, I had quite bad anxiety and panic attacks. Most have experienced anxiety at some point or another – something I didn’t realize in the throws the turmoil that was my teenage years. However, most don’t get a panic attack several times an hour and become convinced that something is seriously physically and/or mentally wrong with them several times a day.

Ah…the memories.

I don’t have memories of middle school and high school that aren’t accompanied by my panic and anxiety. I built my world around things that I could do that didn’t cause me to panic. Of course…the majority of the panicking happened at school. I couldn’t get out of school. I tried. Pretending to be sick, crying in the morning, but my mom booted my teenage butt out of the car. [I know that it was hard for her to do, by the way, and I am grateful that she didn’t coddle me.]

I had trouble sitting through a class without pretty much hyperventilating. These episodes weren’t evident to anyone else when they were happening. Outwardly, it was nothing more than my fingers tapping the desk or slightly faster breathing. But it my head it was a cacophony of “I’m going crazy. Why is my heart beating so fast? Am I going to faint?” [Intense fear of fainting…even though I have never fainted…though perhaps that’s why I’m so scared of it?]

Then, during my second year of college, I decided I’d had enough. I began devising strategies to keep myself from having an anxiety attack. If I felt one was about to happen, I would begin evasive maneuvers immediately. I’d take a few deep breaths, focus on a spot on the floor, wait for my vision to uncloud. I began exercising to lower my anxiety level. I ate healthier food. I did a complete 180. It took a few months, but I was almost panic and anxiety free.

So you’d think things would be better, right?

Oh…if only …

When I became less of a slave to my panic attacks, I suddenly able to do anything I wanted without leaving the house with an escape plan – i.e. excuses for why I had to get up frequently during classes or leave a party early. But, I was left with very few close friends because…when they called me to go somewhere I said no. I was left with hobbies that meant I was cooped up inside my room alone – writing, reading. I didn’t know how to date or have a relationship. I was, socially, way far behind.

I had friends, don’t get me wrong. I think I’m quite a pleasant person to befriend. However, beyond talking at school, I didn’t speak to most of them. Only a select few. I was so closed off.

During this time, I remember how leaving my dorm to go anywhere and not having to worry about panic attacks made me kind of…angry.

“Why? Why couldn’t the past ten years have been this way? I have barely done anything with my life. This is pathetic. I am absurd. I am so mad at myself. Were all my friends living like this the entire time I was afraid to do anything? That is completely unfair. I’m mad at everyone but it doesn’t begin to approach the level of anger I feel for my ridiculous self.”

However, it has been about…let’s see…four years since I had to worry about panic attacks. For a while – I mean at least two of those four years – I was dumbfounded. I didn’t understand why my life was “so terrible.” [I’m dramatic.]

But I realized recently that…had it not been for my panic attack years…there’s so much that I’ve done recently that I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing. Travel to Korea? Heck no. That’s ridiculous. Get a job teaching? Speak at meetings? Make friends with people from all over the world – friends who feel as close as family.

I hadn’t ever had friends who felt like family until I went to Korea. I wouldn’t have gone to Korea had I not gotten panic attacks all those years. My biggest motivation for going to Korea was not wanting another second of my life to resemble what those ten years had been. It worked. I changed.

I also find that I am much more empathetic than I would have ever been had I not experienced all that. I care about people – the clients I work with on a daily basis these days, the students I taught in Korea, the friends from Korea who are my language partners. Even people I don’t know well. I know I have an interesting story and I like to figure most everyone does. I don’t know who else could be going through a crappy yet defining moment, so I try to withhold judgment.

—–

Okay, readers, are you with me so far? I am about to take this in the direction of my second and most recent crappy defining moment. It is so recent that it’s difficult to write about…yet I am me, which means I can also see the humor in it. Are you ready?

Here goes.

When I was living in Korea, I had a serious boyfriend. Remember that thing I said about having no serious relationships in high school and college. Well, that changed in Korea. I met a guy and fell for him and was head over heels. He was funny and cute and interesting to talk to. I hadn’t ever met someone I could talk to for hours a day that way.

When we had been together around three months, he told me he loved me. I was ecstatic. I loved him, too. However, on the same day, he told me, “Yeah, it’s funny…because when we met I was just curious about what it’d be like to…you know…sleep with an American. But I guess at some point I started to care about you.”

That should have been a red flag, right? Well, I’m an idiot, so I looked at it more like, “Aww I won him over with my awesomeness.”

Ohh…silly Amber.

After we’d been together for about…I think eight months, it was August of last year. 2012. Oh yes, the memories are fresh. He decided to have me meet his parents. This was when it all began to fall apart – no, not during those other moments that it should have fallen apart. Like…when he told me to lose weight and grabbed my stomach like I weighed 5 million pounds. Or…like…that time he told me I couldn’t hang out with certain male friends because they seemed to like me. Or…like…when he would get mad at me for not speaking to him in a cute voice and hang up the phone and ignore me for a day or two.

Nah. It fell apart when I met his parents.

I heard from him that his parents had differing views about me, but the common theme in the views was that they didn’t like me.

Oh, excuse me. Wait.

They thought I was smart and pretty and cared about him. They thought I had a wonderful personality and understanding of Korean culture. But, dating their son? Oh…that won’t work.

His dad thought it laughable. Literally laughed at me during the meeting at one point and said his son should just focus on practicing English with me since he was going to study in America. My ex’s proclamation of “she’s not my teacher” elicited more laughter.

His mother thought…oh…if only that girl were smaller and possibly Korean. People would laugh at us, she said, or stare at us. I was taller than him, and I wasn’t thin. That was unheard of in Korea. The girls should be smaller.

I cried about this. I was distraught. I ended up deciding to go back to America earlier than planned for other reasons but…if I’m being honest, the situation with him was a contributing factor. He agreed with his mother when he discussed it with me. “I mean…the girl IS supposed to be smaller.” We began to grow apart.

We ended things for good a month after I moved back to America. Meaning…we ended things five months ago. During the first month I was back, I had intense reverse culture shock…crying all the time, feeling disoriented. I reached out to him for support and got very half-hearted responses. He ignored me, he was mad that I left. He said horrible things to me.

Despite all this, I had in my head that he was coming to America in January and perhaps I would go to the state he was moving to and live with him. I proposed this. He rejected it. He said that since there were other Koreans on the campus who knew his father, he couldn’t have me there. People would talk.

So, after having him treat me like I was an embarrassment to him – someone he will gladly share a bed with but refuse to stand up for in front of family and friends – I guess you could say I’m a tad bit…damaged. It’s still a difficult thing for me to discuss. I was so hurt by the way he treated me that I think a part of me will always look back on it and wonder why I let it go on for so long.

However, with each passing month…I am gaining perspective. I am almost…grateful for what happened?

Firstly…there’s something about people outright insulting me that makes me 100% more secure in who I am and what I look like. I realized that I’m the only one who can make me feel good about me. You know what? I’m not disgusting looking. I’m not gigantic. I’m not these things because I don’t think I am these things. I look in the mirror and like the way I look. I dare someone else to tell me I’m “too big” or “too tall.” It’s laughable. Why should I care?

I have also realized that I am much more comfortable and confident talking to men since having that relationship. I am certainly not eager to jump into another situation like that, so I don’t view every man I meet as a potential date. I’m going to be much more careful that I was before. I am having fun meeting and getting to know men every so often. But there isn’t any pressure. I’m not obsessing over things that cute guy said or what that cute guy texted.

I also am able to view the situation as…comical? I don’t know if that’s the right word. But I’m amused by it. I occasionally have moments where thinking about it makes me sad…and maybe it takes a while for that to go away completely.  But I think it’s kind of funny that the situation with him seemed like such a huge deal at the time. It has made me so much tougher and so much more relaxed and so much less likely to tolerate crap from people in all situations.

In the past six months, I have gone from rock bottom to working at a wonderful job that pays me well. I have my own place. I have new friends. I still talk daily with my friends living in Korea. I know that the chain of crappy events that led to where I am were all for the better. The next time I’m depressed about something, all I have to do is remember that I don’t get panic attacks these days and then glance in a mirror and remind myself that I think I look pretty darn good.

Enough was enough

You can be told a million times that nothing will change until you change your attitude and start believing in yourself. It’s wonderful and true advice, but when you’re in the middle of something awful…it’s hard advice to take. You want the opposite to happen – for your situation to change so you can have a better attitude as a result. That might happen to some extent, but a change in circumstance without an initial change in attitude won’t allow for as much happiness or appreciation.

I say all of this because I have been living this way. I got back from Korea almost six months ago after being there for almost a year and a half. Getting back meant feeling like I went back in time. I had changed and grown so much …but everything here was the same. I began to slip back into my old ways.

Prior to moving to Korea, I was stuck. I went to school, went home, wrote, talked to my family, and that was pretty much it. I was terribly shy. I was also unwilling to get to know anyone and make close friends other than ones I had from high school. I knew I had to change something. I decided to go to Korea. I changed.

I made amazing friends who were as dear to me as family. I had a boyfriend for whom I cared so deeply. I became this vibrant, outgoing, caring person that I didn’t know I could be. I am sure my family knew that about me but few other people did. I put up major walls.

Then I came home.

I was alone. My friends were so far away. My boyfriend and I broke up. I was depressed. I found myself staying in bed too long. I spent Christmas night alone in my room crying over the break up and how alone I always felt.

I was pretty depressed from November to February. That’s when it all began to change. I got a great job. I had purpose again. I had to get up early and I had responsibilities. My circumstances had changed before my attitude had.

Was I happy? I don’t think so. I was happier but I wasn’t happy.

I don’t mean to write this as a religious post – but I am a Christian, and being a Christian to me means living a life that others can look at and respect. I had one evening that was so horrible about three weeks ago. I had been having a great time at work. I was working hard and getting praised. Despite all that – even though my situation was wonderful – I found myself crying one evening. I was home alone and didn’t know who to turn to…so I prayed.

I really didn’t say much. I remember saying “I’m broken. My heart is broken and I can’t do this by myself anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

The following morning was Palm Sunday. I went to church and found that the sermon was all about how God heals the broken-hearted. Literally that was what our pastor said. I couldn’t believe it. I remember sort of looking up and thinking, “So you really heard me yesterday, huh?” The message of the sermon was that once God heals us…we can help others.

It was interesting how…from that moment I found that people were cropping up in my life who were just great people. Interesting, fun, kind. I felt less inhibited by my recent past and all of the heartache that I had endured. I stopped going right home after work and going to my room. I read and wrote at a coffee shop or bookstore. I stayed later to chat with colleagues who were fast becoming friends. I started to meet two Korean girls from my university to show them around the city and help them get acclimated. I spent time with my parents watching TV or movies or just joking around. (I have great parents. Have I mentioned that?)

I started to remember why I had been so outgoing in Korea. It was because of my attitude. I had to have a good attitude because I was in such a foreign place. Having a bad attitude meant you’d spiral really quickly. I saw it happen to other ex-pats. I realized I had to apply those principles to being home. I had to allow myself to be happy in the face of adversity.

These past several weeks have been a complete turn around. I realized there isn’t anything stopping me from being happy. I even realized that part of what I had to do to be myself was live on my own again. This past weekend I thought, “Hey, what’s stopping me?” I left home Saturday morning, found an apartment, put a hold deposit on it, and the application was approved this week. I move in a week and a half.

For a while, I felt going to Korea was the wrong choice. I was certain during those difficult past few months that it had done more harm than good. But I know now that it equipped me with the tools I required. I just had to remember how to use them.

Reverse Culture Shock and other difficulties

Before going to Korea, I took a TESOL teaching class to prepare myself, and my teacher was amazing. She talked all about traveling to other countries and learning new cultures, and then she talked about something that I will admit, I didn’t believe. Reverse culture shock.

Now…culture shock makes perfect sense, right? Specifically in countries that are so different from your home country, which Korea was for me. I prepared myself. I learned phrases in Korean. “안녕하세요! Amber 입니다!” I read about the culture, I made Korean friends. I was probably too prepared, because I never had any culture shock there.

The real culture shock happened when I got back to the US. I obviously should have listened to that teacher, but I just didn’t see how going back to your home could be difficult. But it is. You see, I think because you try so hard to fit into another culture, it’s weird to go back. You feel like a foreigner in your own country, and it’s worse than feeling like a foreigner in another country. You think, “No, what’s wrong with me? I shouldn’t feel this way. This is my home! I don’t understand!”

The first month I was back was brutal. I didn’t want to go anywhere, I barely wanted to see my friends, I was uncomfortable around everyone.

But, I was bored at home. In Korea, I was in a big city with tons of stuff to do at any time of day or night. Then suddenly I was back in Virginia suburbia wondering how I ever survived in such a boring place before. The only place open twenty-four hours is the gas station? What is this madness?

The second month wasn’t easy either. I continued to feel uncomfortable around people. Then, my boyfriend and I broke up, and I felt that my connection to Korea was cut off. He was Korean, and my first love, and my best friend all rolled into one great guy. But it wasn’t working long distance. This threw me into what felt like another reverse culture shock. I didn’t have him to talk to anymore, I was incredibly lonely. I didn’t have many friends in my town, because I was shy in college and knew I was going to Korea, so I didn’t get close to many people. I felt so alone. This continued through Christmas, when my mother came upstairs to bring me the phone so I could talk to my grandma later that evening and found me in tears.

Being in Korea was big for me. I was so shy and awkward and closed before I went, because I had had extreme anxiety for all of middle school and high school and some of college. I felt, when I got back, that all of the change I went through in Korea – becoming more confident, learning to be close to people, falling in love – was for nothing.

I was spiraling.

My imagination, the thing that has helped me as a writer for so many years, was suddenly my worst enemy. This is when being a writer is the worst. I began imagining every horrific, disturbing, irritating, irrational, absurd thing that I had ever heard or seen. I was making myself sick. I was depressed.

But the strange thing about being a writer is that times like these can be great for writing. Obviously, I’d rather not be depressed. But I have been using my writing as a distraction, something positive. I have started a new novel, and I am so thrilled with the characters and have actually be successful when plotting! It’s unprecedented! haha.

The new year arrived at exactly the right time. I’m working at my mom’s office part time, and I am having a good time there, because the people are so nice. I get to be productive and meet new people, so I am feeling better around people again. Not quite normal, because I was a recluse for so many weeks, but better.

Goals for this year include the following.

• Get a job that I enjoy, preferably one where I help people. Counselor, teacher, human resources.
• Write novel, edit novel, attempt to publish novel.
• Try to play violin again. I have signed up for lessons with my teacher from high school, and I am hoping to be able to play in the orchestra in my city.
• Be more involved at church – Bible study, maybe playing violin sometimes.
• Get a car.

My biggest goal, though, is to not be so hard on myself and get so upset about everything. I was strong enough to travel to Korea and survive on my own, so I can be happy here, too. I don’t think Korea was for nothing. I think I need to remember that I won’t be perfect and try to relax a bit.

Here’s to 2013.

There will be a post about my new novel soon!