VACCINATED

Vaccinated

I’d never been so excited to have a needle in my arm.

But I was so thrilled the night before I got my first shot of Pfizer that I barely slept. I couldn’t wait to go to the convention center, even though there wasn’t going to be a convention there, to get my shot along with my dad as soon as our state opened up to 16+.

The process ended up being easy – we were in and out very quickly, and I received a “I got my Fauci ouchie” sticker to show off. It was an easy process, and the same was true when I came back three weeks later for my second shot. My only side effect was fatigue the next day, but I was still able to stay awake for Dungeons & Dragons that night after a hot fudge sundae.

As excited as I was to get vaccinated, things started to feel weird once I got my second shot. I heard so many opinions from so many people about where and when I should wear a mask; whether I should be allowed to do things like eat outdoors or indoors at a restaurant, see a movie, and hang out inside one of my favorite stores; or return to Chicago.

Now that I’m several weeks after my second shot, I’m doing my best to figure out what the “new normal” looks like. I have many contrasting desires – safety for myself and others comes first, but I am also missing things like gathering with friends, attending events at my local game store, and, of course, giant conventions with thousands of people.

The conventions are likely going to have to wait a while (although I’m holding out hope for Chicago Comic and Entertainment Expo in December), but the other things are a lot more ambiguous. I’ve found myself wondering what’s safe for me to do with my vaccinated friends, and these decisions are a lot more relevant now that I have returned to Chicago

When I was with my parents, I had social contact every day even without leaving the house, but now, if I want to have social contact in person, it’s up to me to decide what’s safe. This has been somewhat anxiety-provoking, a phenomenon many people are experiencing right now.

I’ve heard it called “re-entry anxiety,” and for me, it set in once the immediate worry of catching COVID-19 or spreading it to an unvaccinated family member dissipated. Once my family was vaccinated – and I was the last one – some old fears of change started creeping in.

I’ve never been good at change, and no matter how much I miss certain things, it was hard for me to come to the decision to leave my family and go back to Chicago. I felt torn between being used to daily in-person socialization and missing my independence and my friends. I ended up compromising, waiting a little while after I got vaccinated to go back, and now as I settle back in, I am trying to figure out how to balance these needs in a new world.

Normally, when I go back to living alone after an extended visit with family, I try to take very good care of my emotional needs by making a lot of plans. I’ve tried to do that virtually this time, but after living with my family for longer than I’ve done since I left for college, I still feel strange to be by myself and create my own routine. It’s something I’ve done before, but not in a world like this, and with uncertainty comes anxiety.

When I prepared for coming back, I made my best effort to make as many virtual plans as possible – three events in the first weekend alone. But that’s not sustainable for every weekend, and it falls to me to figure out how to create a balance between my usual routine and what makes sense for these new times.

It’s hard for me to not have even a vague idea of what the world or even just my everyday routine will look like, because I’m normally a person who’s most calm when I know the general roadmap of how things work. Without knowing things like when (or if) I’ll be returning to my office, seeing my friends, or doing activities I enjoy, life feels strange.

I think it’s important to talk about feelings like these, especially since so many people are experiencing them. As more people get vaccinated and make their forays into the world at large, it’s important to not sweep re-entry anxiety under the rug. Talking about this very common form of anxiety may help people become open to more conversations about mental health, which would be useful to many people as we figure out what the post-COVID world will look like.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

LITTLE THINGS

Little Things

While “the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” is a common phrase, few of us celebrate the individual steps that help us get to that thousand-mile mark.

When I look back at the journey I’ve taken to get to a more stable place, that road is paved with hundreds of tiny milestones, some of which have been far easier than others, that help me lead a more normal life even with OCD.

Something that came to mind recently is that I avoided sleeping on my left side and my stomach for years thanks to an Internet sidebar ad that showed up one time for me. It was from a disreputable source trying to sell some kind of weight loss product, but the image of the stomach being “more full” if someone slept on the left side, and that that could cause nausea or vomiting, somehow got stuck in my head.

Like the vast majority of my obsessive thoughts, I knew it was completely incorrect. There was no way sleeping in a particular position – one I’d slept in plenty of times before – would cause anything to happen to me, but the idea wormed its way into my subconscious, and I found myself unwilling to sleep on my left side or my stomach.

Recently, however, I’ve noticed that the power of this long-held idea has faded. I sleep on my left side perhaps not as frequently as on my right side, but for whatever reason, I’ve felt the urge to sleep on my stomach. I was nervous at first, but quickly realized that it wasn’t actually going to do anything to me. I didn’t believe the ad I saw years ago anymore, and it had no power to make me sleep in any particular way.

And so, I tried sleeping on my stomach. It was scary at first, but I soon realized that I felt completely fine. One night turned into two, and now I sleep on my stomach just about as much as I sleep on my sides.

This might sound insignificant, but to me, every one of these tiny changes I make helps me live a life I can be proud of. I am reminded of this pride every time I try a new food (this week, I tried samosas for the first time as I hesitantly dip my toes into the world of Indian food), try a new activity that scares me, or convince myself out of a panicked thought loop.

Sometimes, when I get ashamed of myself for being afraid of things, I remind myself of these tiny steps and how they can make my fears much more manageable. I think about the time my best friend from college and I went to a Persian restaurant to try tiny bites of the food that might appear at my Nana’s 90th birthday party. I recall when, in the middle of the pandemic, I taught myself how to do things like grocery shopping again by taking two-minute trips to the grocery store where I touched nothing, just stayed in the building. In both of these instances, the “test drive” experiences made the real thing a lot less intimidating and helped me enjoy myself during times I thought were going to be ordeals.

When I discuss the various things I’ve gone through with friends, I sometimes hear that the things in their lives are impossible to handle or that they have no idea how I have handled what I have. I can’t see the whole journey either, when I’m in the middle of it – I just see the parts and the tiny little steps, and as I go along those steps, I find that I’ve gotten a lot farther than I thought.

In the world of therapy, this concept is called graded exposure therapy. Even though it often begins with the help of a therapist, I’ve found that it helps my everyday life to include little things that make me uncomfortable but help resolve my fears and obsessions in the long run. Whether this means listening to ambulance sounds to become less afraid of hospital memories, touching a dog for a moment in order to get used to being around dogs, or taking the tiniest lick of a new food, I appreciate the way these steps add up to create a path to where I want to go.

This mindset is a huge shift from how I used to see things when I was younger – that I was somehow stupid or bad for needing more steps to get to my goals. But now, this is my go-to method for anything that scares me. I’ve found something that works for me, and even if it takes more time and effort to make progress through little steps, I now celebrate them because they help me do the things I want to do and be the person I want to be, while acknowledging the way my head works and making accommodations for myself.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

#chooselife;....Guest Mental Health Awareness Month Blog

#chooselife;

TW: Suicide

Welcome to the “shittiest club” of all.  That is what I was told after my husband Ted completed suicide in July, 2020.

I described Ted as the “perfect storm”.  He was depressed and filled with anxiety which was only exacerbated with the onset of Covid 19. He was a cancer survivor twice.  He was not afraid of dying, he was a peace with his life.  What Ted was afraid of was suffering, not being able to breathe, not being in control of his body.  What made this worse for Ted was my job as a home care physical therapist, going into patients’ homes daily, not knowing what I had come in contact with or was exposed to.  In essence, he created his own cycle of suffering which he acknowledged and eventually succumbed to.

The day Ted died was typical for us, except for what he had said to me, that he felt alone and that he was losing his faith in G-d.  I assured him he was not alone and that we could go see our Rabbi regarding his concerns over his faith.  He was a deeply religious person, a son of two holocaust survivors.  But that day my brutally honest husband lied to me when I asked him if he was going to harm himself. The answer was always no and not ten minutes later, he had died by suicide and changed my life forever. 

The events are clear as the day it happened, knowing what happened, calling 911, going to the hospital, knowing he had died.  I was by myself the whole time. We lived in the country and had no family nearby.  I called his family, my family and my close girlfriends who insisted on coming over the house.  The people that could come were on their way, damn Covid.  There were so many emotions all jumbled together—shock, anger, shame, sadness, love, and a deep, deep heart ache like I had never experienced in my life. I was so angry with Ted for “doing this to me.” 

Because of Covid the funeral and shiva were all limited and controlled.  Only twelve people at the funeral; and shiva was scheduled outside, masked and distant.  It was a cold and unfeeling experience.  I missed the hugs most of all. 

 Shock was my friend during this time, it helped my survive.  I was sad, I cried, but I could not feel the grief that was on its way.  I started that journey by reading every book I could on suicide.  I did Zoom services daily to be able to say Kaddish. I listened to podcasts on the subject, hearing how others survived and thrived. I also talked to others—my rabbis, family and friends.  I did not hold anything back about what happened; I did not complete suicide, Ted did.  Understanding the stigma related to this, I was not going allow it to brand me.  I was honest when I needed to be, an open book about what happened.  During this time, I also returned to work and decided that a move closer to my daughter would be the right thing to do.  It was our home, not my home and I needed to leave. I was so conflicted because typically you are told not to do anything for a year after a loss, and here I am planning to sell, buy and move to another state.  And it happened as it was to happen.  Four months later, I am in a new home, new state, just a few minutes’ walk from my daughter and her family. 

I was very fortunate to have a therapist who I called immediately for support and guidance.  I started sessions on a weekly basis soon after the funeral.  I also found a wonderful organization call Cornerstone of Hope, which deals with grief at all levels and for all different scenarios.  I was fortunate to find out that there was a group for suicide survivors that would be starting soon, in person and I would be able to complete this prior to leaving Ohio.  This group has been a lifeline for me—knowing others who have walked my path, knowing that what I am going through and feeling is normal.  It was the hug I had been looking for… at a distance.  I have been lucky to continue weekly meetings with this group, growing, learning, and supporting one another. 

It has been nine months, and so much has changed and evolved.  I have learned so much about myself, suicide and grief.  I learned that I am so much stronger than I could ever have imagined, that I have family and friends that are gems on earth.  Suicide comes with unanswered questions that will never, ever be answered and not to focus on the way Ted died but how he lived.  I was told by my brother soon after Ted’s death that “this was not my fault.”  This message was powerful and continues to give me strength when I need it.  Grief and flashbacks have become familiar occurrences, often visiting in waves, sometimes will stay away for a while and then revisit me, uninvited of course.  I do not fight the grief any more, I understand that this is a process.  Death is something that you never get over or recover from, you just learn to live with it at different levels.  Sometimes feelings of grief will flare up and sometimes it is quiet and leaves me alone.  I truly take one day at a time because all I have is today. 

Lastly, as a survivor, your therapist or doctors always ask you if you have feeling of wanting to hurt yourself.  It’s a common question as well as a common feeling to not want to be here anymore.  Of all the lessons I learned through this experience is to choose life.  Knowing the hurt and pain that a suicide causes to family and friends, how could I do that to my loved ones?  Today I choose life, with gratitude, grace and joy. 

Mimi Aron is a mom, grandma, and survivor of suicide. She lives in Madison, WI after relocating from the Cleveland, OH area with her mini poodle puppy, Gracie Joy. She is currently working part time as a physical therapist, rewriting her bucket list, and learning what it means to live her authentic self.

Trying Something Old

Trying Something Old

All my life, I’ve been encouraged to try new things, but this week, I realized that trying something old can be just as impactful and work on the same skills of confidence and courage.

I hadn’t taken a writing class since college, and not for lack of desire. I wanted to take more writing classes almost immediately after graduating with a creative writing degree, but after my experience senior year, I was too afraid to give it a try. Even though there were plenty of online options, I set my sights on a particular place in New York City and said that since I didn’t live there or close enough to commute, I couldn’t take a class.

What I really felt was fear. My senior year of college - one brief year after my breakdown - I came back to college prepared to conquer the world. I took extremely complicated courses and added more than the typical course load to secure a double-major. I also decided to write a thesis, and as happens with much of my writing, it became deeply personal.

This thesis - a novel - focused on three stories: Ellie, who I mentioned last week, who was a representation of the part of myself I hated the most and what would happen if that part spiraled out of control; Jeanine, whose ambition resembled mine and who found herself struggling in a world where her life was far out of her control; and finally, the goddess Athena, taking a small and simple role in the story that somehow thrilled and inspired me like nothing else. Quickly, I developed an obsession with all things Greek mythology, and with my friends encouraging me at every step, I flew through over a hundred pages of writing with ease.

The problems started when I had to share the story with others. Even now, many years later, it was hard for me to type that last paragraph, to acknowledge my ideas. I became incredibly ashamed of my story, even as I fought very hard for it, when I received fierce criticism from my thesis-writing class.

This isn’t to say that I can’t take criticism - in fact, I always enjoyed sharing my work with others to see what they thought, and loved incorporating feedback. But this criticism was different. I vividly recall convincing myself that I had to wait until after class to cry when people told me my ideas were horrible, idiotic, and not something anyone should ever write. I usually made it to the stairwell and then rushed down, determined to stop crying before I made it to dinner with my friends who were much kinder.

The professors weren’t much kinder, and it got to the point where I was told point-blank to change what I was writing thanks to all the feedback I was getting, and that there was nothing I could incorporate. That was because none of the feedback was constructive - just hearing that “this sucks” or “you can’t write” or “give up” doesn’t tell me how to improve a manuscript, it just makes me sad and angry. I told my thesis advisor that I was going to fight for my story and if my story was really so horrible, I would just quit the thesis program. He told me I could stay, and to make my work the best I could.

The controversy never quite went away, even after months went by without a kind word. I fought for my story like I said I would, never got constructive feedback, and went into my defense terrified and far too prepared. In the end, I got an A on my thesis from that same professor and continued working on the story for a few years afterwards.

I still love that story to this day, although I’m scared to do anything with it. I’m scared to show it to people, and that spread to the rest of my writing. Even this blog is something only a scant few people in my life know about, and I can’t even sit in the same room as someone reading anything I’ve written. Even if it’s true, honest, and revised as best as I can, I still hear the people in my thesis group calling me stupid and my ideas worth less than the paper they were printed on.

Years later, I decided to try to be brave. I signed up for a writing class with the place in New York City, which went online thanks to the pandemic. I didn’t have any excuses other than my fear, and before I could overthink things or obsess over what could go wrong, I signed myself up.

This week was the first time in years that I have given a sample of writing to be evaluated by a group. I surprised myself by volunteering last week, and submitted the first four pages of the story I wrote last week’s blog about - the story of Britt. I didn’t know how people were going to respond to my first attempt of writing horror or the way my character dissociated and experienced flashbacks and had so much trouble living in the moment because of an experience she couldn’t vocalize. I sent two scenes - one about a hot dog and one about a pet dog - and waited.

When it came time for class to start, I was pacing anxiously around my room. I hadn’t shared anything in years, and even though I’d technically done it before, it somehow felt scarier because I knew how badly it could go. The Zoom room could quickly turn into 14 people (a similar number to my college class) telling me I’m dumb and have horrible ideas. And of course, when it came time for me to start receiving feedback, my anxiety peaked.

Against what I’d planned, I wound up starting to overexplain things, but thankfully I caught myself before apologizing. I knew I had nothing to apologize for, but I still felt the need to say sorry to anyone who had to read my work. I quickly added that my last experience in a writing class was very negative and I was nervous to hear what people had to say, although I wanted honest feedback, especially since this was my first time writing horror.

The first thing the professor said was, “Wow, hearing that it’s your first time in this genre - I’m doubly impressed about the vibe you got across.”

A smile crept across my face and it only got wider when the main thing people enjoyed about my story was the in-depth and realistic portrayal of PTSD. I felt incredulous that they actually liked what I’d written and wanted to see more of what was going on in Britt’s head!

Just like in this blog, I’d conveyed a story I knew well, and it wasn’t stupid or bad or wrong. It was how I saw the world, and just like my college thesis - which was based on my lived experience with OCD, dreams, and a literal obsession - there was nothing wrong with sharing my point of view.

As one class participant said, “I’ve never thought about what it would be like to be in a picture-perfect college and experience something like Britt did, live to tell the tale, and reconcile the two worlds.” As someone who’s done the same thing (although with fewer demonic beings), it was refreshing to hear that my story - both imagined and real - was valid.

I am excited to incorporate the feedback I received into the next draft of the story. Even with just four pages, I was able to learn what my group wanted to know more about, what was clear and what wasn’t, and how to keep the internal monologue going in a satisfying way. It didn’t have to be a matter of everyone liking everything for me to feel okay, and I learned that I can take criticism when it’s framed in a polite and respectful way.

This week, I tried something old that felt entirely new thanks to the class’s reactions. Everything else was the same - a mental health-based story in a new genre, supportive friends on the side but not in the class, and an idea I was truly excited about. But thanks to the kindness of people who heard and understood what I needed, it was a wonderful experience and one I hope to repeat again as I work more on Britt’s story.

Maybe I’ll even show it to my family and friends - another new-old step on my writing journey.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.

The Most Authentic Voice

The Most Authentic Voice

TW: Trauma

This week, I started taking a science fiction, fantasy, and horror writing class from a place I’ve admired for a while. I’ve felt like I was in a rut with ideas ever since the pandemic started (and longer, if I’m being honest) - and the class seemed like the best way to break myself out of writer’s block by trying something new.

I had no idea that I’d find my way out by going back to one of my oldest wells of inspiration.

After the first class, I dove right into the homework: “Using whatever means at your disposal, describe a hero. There is no wrong answer.”

I thought of superheroes first, and the Fellowship of the Ring, and it was there that my mind began to diverge from what I’d typically think of as a hero. My brainstormed characteristics started to change from physical strength to mental, and most of all, to survive something incredibly terrifying and be able to vanquish it a second time, knowing exactly what they’re in for.

It’s what scared me the most after I had my blood clot - knowing that I could go through all of that again, and that I’d know exactly everything that was going to happen to me and what it looked and smelled and felt and hurt like. Thankfully, I’ve avoided that fate, but I started to think about a common trope in horror movies. (Not that I’m brave enough to watch them, but I watch commentary and learn about their plots, because I enjoy the genre.)

I started to think about what might happen if a “final girl” who survives a horror movie, some sort of encounter with the supernatural that no one would ever believe her about, was forced to return to normal life and try to be normal herself - and then faces the demon she’d survived once again.

My fingers flew over the keyboard in a way that hadn’t happened in quite some time, and even though I was working with a new idea, the story veered into the familiar almost instantly. My character, Britt, started the story at a college BBQ for new freshmen, something I attended at my beloved school. The world around her took shape. The attic room, the closet with the far-too-heavy doorknob, even the food at the event that she was doing a very bad job of eating - everything started to come together and even though it was fiction, it felt incredibly real.

Unlike when I write most of the time, I wasn’t stopping constantly to second-guess myself. I didn’t research names - I picked whatever came in my head first - and I didn’t let myself edit until I had the whole first scene done. By the next day, I was starting on the second. And when it came time to share my work with my class, I finally decided to reread what I’d written, and discovered something I haven’t done in a very long time.

The last time I wrote one of my “Ellie” stories was my senior year of college. She was one of the three narrators of the novel I wrote as my thesis, and although my thesis was picked apart by so many people, Ellie’s voice was never up for debate. The one piece of positive feedback I got from everyone who read it was that the character felt authentic, real, and like she was about to jump off the page and turn into a real person.

The difference between this Ellie and characters I’d written previously - and which came back again as I started to write my new story this week - was that I was writing in-depth first-person narrative from the point of view of someone living with a mental illness I too live with.

For Ellie, even though I didn’t obsess about the same things as her, I knew how daunting it could feel to have an exposure experience, and how I would need to split up something like that into a series of tiny tasks so I could feel like I was accomplishing something, a bit at a time. Therefore, since her story started with her large fear of getting on an airplane, I dove into her head and described every task from calling a taxi to putting her suitcase in the taxi to lifting said suitcase on the conveyor belt at airport security. I numbered each step, and no matter what anyone had to say about other parts of the story, sections like these got a lot of praise for authenticity.

I never told anyone except for my close friends that I was merely putting my thought processes on paper. I never told anyone that I could have those exact same thoughts and go in the exact same direction, only about the things that I personally obsessed about.

Writing about Ellie, and now about Britt, is also a way to delve into the deepest thoughts in my head and draw them out farther. What happens when I let myself explore thoughts that are frightening or the ones I try to keep out of my life? I tackled my understanding of violent crimes committed by people living with mental illness in Ellie’s story, and with Britt, the guilt that sometimes (but thankfully not often) resurfaces over my inability to take care of a dog made an appearance.

I never liked the advice from writing professors to “write what you know.” I felt like my own life was too boring (not nearly enough dragons) to merit writing about. But as I’ve come to see, writing about what you know doesn’t necessarily need to mean copying your life exactly. It can mean using thought processes that live in your head and putting them in another world, just to see what happens - and it’s not uncommon for me to wonder what my characters would do if they were in my life instead.

Starting Britt’s story this week reminded me of my first favorite character to write, an original character I wrote in the Lord of the Rings universe when I was nine years old. I used to write her as the version of myself that I wanted to be, and I drew inspiration from that idealized version of myself when it came time to face challenges in my life. As the world is starting to move to a post-pandemic state, I wonder if I’ll look to Britt for inspiration as I keep writing her story. After all, there’s plenty of time left in this class - and now that I’ve tapped into one of my favorite sources of inspiration, I’m not short of ideas.

Ellie, a writer new to the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.