Snapshots

   My Father was a professional photographer. For over 35 years he played with babies to make them smile. Spent long days ‘talking’ his stuffed animals at toddlers, and tossing around balls with elementary school children. There wasn’t a sulky teenager anywhere that he couldn’t get a smile out of, no matter how strongly they resisted. And he had a never ending store of jokes to loosen up even the most uncomfortable adult into a winning smile.

   So needless to say there are countless numbers of photographs of myself and my brothers as children. And because I am the least photogenic person I know quite a few of mine are horrific. These days the only photos of me that I like are ones that I take myself. And that’s only because I snap 30 to get that 1 good one. Nobody else is willing to look at my mug that long until they get a good picture.

   When my father was alive, he was of course my photographer. He somehow mostly managed to be able to capture what I believe he always saw in me, my inner beauty. And every picture taken also brought back the memories of my father actively playing with me and laughing to make me laugh. Looking at them brings a smile not at what the picture is showing, but the memory that it evokes. Those pictures were more than recording how much we’d changed and grown, they were a faithful record of a father’s love for his children.

   One absolute certainty in our household was that on the first day of school, every year, Dad would have his equipment all set up and ready that morning and he’d take pictures of us kids before we headed out. It was tradition, and as cool as it was looking back at family albums later, what it represented was that my Dad was always there for us on that exciting day.

   I remember the year that I was 5. I had thought I would be starting Kindergarten but my late birthday delayed me for another year. So I was up with my older brothers bitterly disappointed that I wasn’t a part of their yearly ritual yet. I sat on a stool watching my Father photograph my brothers in their nice school clothes and large excited smiles, and I felt sadness. 

  Mom was off driving the boys to school when my Dad came up to me and said he wanted to take my picture, too. I had on a ratty T-shirt and my hair wasn’t combed, but I reluctantly agreed. I had a condition for my Dad though. I insisted that I wanted to take an ‘angry face’ picture. My father said sure, if that’s what I wanted. I crossed my arms over my chest tightly and made the most ferociously angry face I could muster, and Dad snapped the picture as promised. Then he asked if he could get another one for himself. I don’t remember what my Dad said or did, but I remember feeling better.  

   Two weeks later when I saw the pictures that he had posted in the family scrapbook that so lovingly chronicled our lives, there it was. A full page 8x10 of me in my ratty T-shirt and unbrushed hair with a glowing, radiant smile. And what was that tiny wallet sized picture pasted in the bottom corner? Me, arms crossed and angry. My Dad made me see that day that when I have a sad, disappointed, angry feeling, it is only a small part of who I am. It’s a tiny wallet sized part of my full 8x10 sized happy self. Every time I looked at that picture I smiled.

   I miss my Dad. He passed away in 2007 and I miss him every single day. On the really hard days, I miss him so much that I can physically feel it. An ache in my chest and throat that swells and pulses inside me. When my Father died I was not in a good stable place in my life, and I worry that he died worrying for me.  

   What is life but a series of snapshots? Basically one long bar graph where you can keep track of your progress. We’re all hoping for that upward trend even though there are a few low spikes in there mixed in. I enrolled in college the other day. To me enrolling was the first day of school. No turning back, I’m committed to it. I sat in my truck before my adviser appointment and took out my cell phone. I thought of my Dad. And I snapped a picture. One more snapshot of my life to document where I’ve been, how I’ve grown and changed, and where I’m going. Definitely an upward trend. Look at that picture Dad. And smile.

My Life As A Druggie/ Thank God For Lexapro

I have been experiencing recent battles with anxiety. Including pretty much the last 5 years, but it's been growing steadily worse since my Dad died 3 years ago and then in the last 6 months especially. Tears were a daily occurrence. Hysterics weekly. Stress all day every day, whether there was any real cause for stress or not. Panic attacks arrived out of the blue and then vanished just as suddenly. Second guessing myself was routine. Guilt was overwhelming, most especially when whatever making me feel guilty was quite obviously not my fault. Concentration was impossible, sleep completely out of the question.

 20 days ago my doctor put me on Laxapro, and Xanax. I immediately had a panic attack, and took a Xanax. Seems funny to me now that the mere fact that I had a Xanax prescription written for me made me feel more stressed out instead of less. Xanax prescribed to someone else is a routine necessary medication for a chemical imbalance or a stressful period in life where extra assistance is needed. Xanax prescribed for me meant I was crazy. Even while I told myself the ridiculousness of this faulty logic I couldn't adjust my reasoning for anything. Until the Lexapro kicked in.

 All I can say is- WOW. 20 days into this medical regimen of 1 little Lexapro pill daily, I can already tell a huge difference. I am actually sleeping at night. I don't think I have ever slept at night, my entire life. Even as a child I remember having trouble sleeping, counting thousands of sheep and eventually when I was older just giving up at 3 am and reading a book instead of continuing to lie with my hands folded and my eyes shut just...thinking. That's what it always was. A constant flow of thought traffic through my head. A song stuck in my head that no amount of jumping numbered sheep could dislodge. A replay of an occurrence from that day that kept replaying itself in my head unasked that no amount of zen-like 'OOOHHHMS' could throw from my thoughts. My brain, for as long as I can remember, has been going 150MPH. And going nowhere. I lay in bed every single night at a reasonable time and usually spend 8-10 hours in that bed 'sleeping', but honestly I have probably been getting 4-5 hours of sleep most nights. So now, my druggie self sleeps like a log every night. And perhaps that's also a part of why I was so stressed. No matter what time I went to bed, I was always tired, and thus always overwhelmed.

 Now that I am sleeping...everything else seems to be falling into place. Little things no longer stress me out. I am now content when I have done my best that i couldn't have somehow squeezed out some kind of superhuman strength to accomplish more than I did. I can CONCENTRATE for the first time in ages. I realized that I am moving more slowly than I used to, but accomplishing just as much. Because I am more focused. And not getting stressed keeps me concentrating on the job at hand. Professionally and personally I am thriving.

 I wish I didn't have to be on medicine. I wish I could have the ability to sleep and be realistic and reasonable without the aid of chemicals. However, now that I know how my life can improve from these medicines, I could never go back to what I was. That person, that stressed, frantic, crying, overwhelmed person- that was NOT me. I felt every day that I wasn't ME. And today, for the first time in more years than I can count, I am comfortable in my own skin. I've had flashes of what this should feel like over the years, good days when things looked rosy and possible. But this is hanging with me, and I like it. And even if it takes the drugs, I will stay here.