Invasion of the Body Snatchers

When I was 22 years old, I lived in the apartments on Washington Street with my three year old daughter. My ex-fiance and I were in the middle of a separation (although we would eventually live together for another few years before my inevitable coming out debacle) and I felt very alone. Although my ex-husband had been deployed a few times, this was the most mature I had been required to be and it scared me to death.

During the fall, I felt a little more down than usual and decided to see my doctor (the very wonderful Dr. Pilcher) to discuss the very aptly acronym'd S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder). We discussed vitamin D, light treatment and possible SSRIs. Being young and relatively uninformed, I chose SSRIs because they seemed to be the easy solution.

A few days later, driving home at night, I very rationally decided to drive my car into a parked car. Luckily, I realized before turning the wheel that it was a "wrong" thought and was able to finish my drive home without any more suicidal ideation.

I wasn't so lucky a few days after that when I made my three year old sit in the living room and watch a Disney movie while I calmly called my doctor and explained to him that I was going to have a seizure. My pulse was racing, my breath was shallow... it felt like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I felt like any moment I was going to have a heart attack or a seizure and it would all be over. I tried to position myself away from any sharp furniture in case I fell.

Spoiler alert... it was a panic attack. My first, in fact. To this day I still am fairly convinced that the Wellbutrin I had been prescribed for seasonal affective disorder somehow altered my brain chemistry enough to allow me to have panic attacks. I also, unfortunately, have a genetic predisposition as well (my sister and mother and probably my grandmother all suffer from anxiety as well).

I still get them fairly regularly, although I am not able to minimize their impact with some techniques I was taught by my therapist. They aren't fun and I feel terrified every time they happen, but I can talk myself out of a lot of the major symptoms and just deal with a fairly normal level of fear.

I feel lucky every day that I have a partner who understands me and doesn't judge me for my anxiety. Going through them is scary enough but having someone who doesn't "get it" and actively judges me for "freaking out" is even worse... trust me.

Self.

What happens to you when you grow up? It's something I've always wondered about and struggled with. When you leave each stage of your life, do you grow out of that shell like the butterfly emerging from its cocoon? Is it like evolution, so slow that it's only noticeable much later? Are there versions of you in alternate dimensions, carrying on like your eight year old self (pretending your bicycle is a horse) or your sixteen year old self (full of shaven headed rebellion)?

Do those selves just fade away to nostalgic fondness or a slow head shake when you remember how "silly" you used to be?

As I "grow up," I find myself unconsciously catering to society in ways that would have made my ultra-feminist, chelsea-wearing teenage self ill. I've grown my hair out, I don't "mouth off" as often, I'm working full-time and writing less... the list goes on and on. But the thing is... I choose not to be ashamed of either of those sides of me. I am still a feminist, I'm a proud out bisexual and I use my writing to bring political change instead of protesting and holding signs. In the rush to fix my credit scores, buy a house, "grow up," I worry that I have lost that fire inside me.

Then there are days like today, on a long walk, where Ani comes on and I unabashedly raise my fist into the air, take a deep breath of sunshine and remember.

I am still her. But I am also me, now. I'm the culmination of all of those selves... picking flowers to wear in my hair, fighting "the man"... but I'm also ready for the future. I'm ready to put down roots and grow. I'm ready for my daughter to learn about revolution and change and for her to take of the (hopefully not head shaving) reins. This isn't a world for the young, for the middle-aged, or for the old... this world is all of our responsibilities.

And I know sixteen year old Mell(i)e would be proud of me for that.