the real scary thing

As many of you know, I cut my hair over fall break.  After much Pinterest surfing, here are some references that I attempted to replicate in my own hair:

In reality, I ended up looking more like some bizarre combination between Prince Valiant and Patricia Richardson from Home Improvement: 

Regardless, I still love my new hair.  It feels amazing and I'm way more confident because of it.

After the initial panic of chopping 8 inches off of my own head, I really began to enjoy the newfound lightness of my own head.

I had been getting really tired of my long hair and truly was ready to get rid of it and chop it off pretty drastically.  Not only does the cut make me feel more confident, but there was the added benefit of knowing that if somebody didn't like the way it looked, I could justify my actions on the moral high ground by announcing that I had elected to donate all of my hair.

This good feeling lasted for a few days until I was lulled into a sense of deep comfort in my newfound fluff head.  But alas, these feelings were not meant to last, as I soon felt an unwelcome spirit return to haunt me in the dark of the night.

Woe to me, in my haste to cut my own hair and pack home for fall break, I had hurriedly stuffed my donate-able ponytail of hair into a ziploc bag and sealed it away in the back of a shelf in my closet before forgetting about it for weeks.  And there my hair has stayed, the hypocritical locks that betray my boasting and cry for vengeance from deep within a pile of discarded shoes and a neglected bottle of Febreeze. 

Disclaimer: the hair is still very much clean and protected (thanks to the ziploc bag) and will be donated for real this time, post-haste.  Until that point, however, I will continue to be burdened by the forgotten ponytail in my closet.

Happy (late) Halloween.

an intimate encounter with the cafeteria floor

Welcome one and all to

ANXIETY, THE SEQUEL

For those of you just now tuning in, here's Part 1 and the Introduction to my little miniseries on my experience with depression and anxiety.

To recap, the first two years of college has been where most of my anxiety exists.  It exists for various reasons, many which I'm still fairly clueless about, but the symptoms are fairly consistent: irregular breathing, nausea, dizziness, shaking, and blacking out.  I am blessed to be able to say that the worst of these episodes are behind me, and that I haven't had a bad reaction in several months.  However, I still want to share my experiences from these years in college because 1) it's a real problem worth sharing and 2) it's important to laugh at your problems every now and again to make sure they don't get too big in your head.

So, without further ado, let me tell you a tale of my gruesome encounter with the cafeteria floor.

It was a Monday or a Wednesday.  I can't remember which and it really doesn't matter, I just know that I had just gotten out of my Print Production class and was making a bee line for the caf for some dinner.  Print Production was an anxiety in itself, but that's for another time.  I had just gotten a good grade and was feeling dandy, so when anxiety decided to show up I was extremely perplexed and at first tried to ignore the symptoms.  I was already fairly deep in the line at the caf and wasn't about to turn around and leave.  So I waited and pondered that the room was growing more and more like an old man's ear: fuzzy and unable to distinguish between noises.

By the time I realized I needed to deal with the problem, I was putting a plate on my tray and going through the line.  I honestly have no idea how I ended up with food on my plate, because I really couldn't see much and didn't care what was happening.

I remember blindly heading for the salad bar in a dazed quest for English peas and cucumbers, which I courageously retrieved before finding somewhere to sit down.  Thankfully I could always rely on my friends to sit at just about the same table every mealtime, so I took my seat and went to town on some cucumbers, which were about the only thing I felt I could stomach at the moment.

I munched steadily on those cucumbers, hoping stupidly that a few disks from a green water sausage would raise my blood sugar enough to snap me out of my wooziness (not my brightest moment).  After a few minutes I started feeling worse, and by then my friends could tell something was up.  I told them that I felt like passing out and that I was going to lay under the table and elevate my feet on my chair for a few minutes until I felt better.

This was not my finest moment.  There I was, laying down on the carpet of AU's cafeteria floor, with my head amongst the feet of my peers and my feet amongst the head of my peers.  It was there that I made constellations of the varied gums stuck to the roof of the table, and it was there that I contemplated my friend's choices in laces as they passed me cucumber chips from their Asgardian height.  

It seemed like a long time before I felt my wits begin to return, and I didn't want to keep my friends at the table for any longer.  Slowly sitting up, I said that I thought I felt well enough to try to walk back to my dorm.  My friend Matthew, who is roughly of the size and disposition of a bear, kindly offered to carry me and my backpack across campus.  I was already pretty embarrassed by the whole situation, and thought to spare myself from the attention of being carried to my dorm.

In the end, Matthew offered to take my arm and my backpack and walk me back to make sure I was okay.  I felt immediately improved as soon as I got outside and away from the cafeteria crowds, though I still have no idea what triggered that episode.  The moral of this story is twofold: 1) if you think your blood sugar is low, for heaven's sake don't try to fix it with cucumbers, and 2) always try to make friends with large teddy bears.  Shout out to Matthew Adams: thanks for being a friend sophomore year, the world needs more grizzly bears like you.

a new tool

I got a new toy in the mail this week.

A stylus.  I've been wanting one for a while, but just hadn't gotten around to getting one.  I had ordered a new case for my ipad and a stylus came with it.  Even though it's just a cheap little thing, I immediately wanted to try it out for my blog doodles.

Prior to this point, I've been drawing my doodles with just my finger on my ipad sketch app.  Not the most precision tool, clearly.  So, naturally I was excited at the possibility that maybe a stylus could improve the quality of my blog sketches, at least so my characters could look like actual people.

But, as so often it happens, my expectations don't always meet the reality of just how lazy I am when it comes to "art":

And so, dear readers of this crap blog, I'm afraid to report that while a stylus might improve upon the time it takes to make these posts, it most certainly does not improve the quality.  At first, I was disappointed. 

But then I came to terms with the reality of the nature of this blog.  If the art was good, then I'm not sure I would actually enjoy telling my silly mundane stories.  However, for now, I will just reflect upon my disappointing narratives and mediocre talents. 

I have the makings of a new post underway!  Hopefully I won't wait too long to get it out.  I realized I didn't post at all in June, but hopefully now that my summer internship is almost over I can blog a little more often.  Until then... Cheerio loves!

an intimate encounter with the bathroom floor

I'd like to think that I'm a woman of my word.

Granted, sometimes that word is untimely and I take a while to do good on it, but hey, I try.  In regard to my last blogpost (you can read here), I am endeavoring to share with the world the true and honest facts about my struggle with depression and anxiety.  Mostly anxiety, because I'm at a point where I can make fun of my anxiety.  And, as we know, making fun of my problems is what this blog is all about.

So, without further ado, allow me to present to you my first experience with real anxiety, in full illustrated detail:


It was freshman year here at AU.  I was loving life and doing well, and to be quite honest I didn't have any worries.  I was definitely the obnoxiously carefree freshman.  That being said, apparently my body disagreed with my hakuna-matata mindset, because come finals week I began to have problems.

My first final was for ART105, which is our foundations art course here at AU.  Basic principles & concepts, though for a lot of us it was some of our first experiences within the art world.  I wasn't worried about my grades, but to be honest sometimes anxiety doesn't need a reason to pop up.  It just happens.  And whatever "just happened" that day, decided to "just happen" during the middle of my Foundations final.

For art exams we always met in a small auditorium-type room with stadium seating.  I was halfway through my exam when suddenly I noticed something.

I had never blacked out prior to this.  Apart from the time I got my wisdom teeth removed, I had never passed out or even really felt light headed, so the blazingly obvious signs and signals of an eminent blackout (such as darkening vision, lightheadedness, and loss of hearing) were foreign to me.  I just thought I was really hungry.

Thus, I blindly paraded through the remainder of my exam and stumbled in a somewhat inebriated fashion towards the platform where my professor was collecting exams.  I couldn't even make eye contact.

By this point I was visibly shaking and very aware of my fading vision, and finally the warning lightbulb in my head decided to flicker to life and I began to understand that I was about to pass out.  And in my hazy panic, I forgot all lessons of laying down and elevating one's feet.  In fact, in my brain the most logical thing for me to do was walk to the bathroom.  It was an arduous and befuddling journey.

After I took refuge in the ladies room, I ended up making a hasty camp in a dusty corner where I immediately curled up on the floor.  Words can't describe how much I didn't care.  I had my raincoat for a pillow, a water bottle in my backpack, and a toilet approximately five feet from my head.  Like an animal that had reached an undesirable but somewhat safe shelter from a predator, I felt moderately accommodated for whatever schemes my body had in store for me.

It was here that I spent the next hour trying not to black out and/or vomit.  Luckily for me, the linoleum floor and concrete walls provided a perfect environment to block my cell phone signal, so I resigned to try and sleep until I felt well enough to stand up and find help.  

Whilst in hell's waiting room, a lady came in to clean the bathroom.  I could hear her scrubbing toilets and mopping on the other side of the bathroom, and patiently waited to be discovered.

Contrary to my optimistic expectations, the woman mopped around me and left without saying a word.  In retrospect, I'm not sure why I didn't say anything either.  It was just awkward all around.

Eventually though, apparently cleaning lady's gossip of the Creature from the Linoleum Lagoon spread and one of the ladies who works in the building peeped in and inquired if I was okay.

Apparently, I was not convincing.  We were able to contact my sister Maris, who came by to (literally) pick me up and help me get back to the dorm.  All the while, of course, I was denying my apparent condition and blamed it on low blood sugar (a very real possibility, I might add), lack of sleep, etc.; basically anything to convince myself that I hadn't come down with the very same problem that plagues almost every other college student in America.

Anyways.  The moral of this story is: take care of yourself.  If you think something may be wrong, then don't try to brush it off.  Tell somebody what's going on.  Don't be stupid and deny your problems just because of fear or pride: these things will only prevent you from overcoming your issues.  My intimate encounter with the bathroom floor was the first of many anxiety reactions, and I honestly think I could have conquered my stress much sooner and much healthier if I had just accepted the fact that I have this problem.  Acknowledging the problem is not the same thing as succumbing to the problem.  In any case, I hope this post brought you a smile and, if you struggle with this issue or something similar, know that you're not alone and better days are coming.  If I can survive literally the crappiest beginning to my freshman finals week, then who knows what else can be conquered.

P.S. I made a 4.0 that semester. 

the pool party from hell

So... yeah.  Sorry it's been a while since I've posted.  People keep asking me when I'll blog again (primarily my sister... like 87% my sister).  First things first though... thoughts on the new header image?  Yeah, it's kinda crummy, but that's what you get when you try to match the rest of the blog.

As to the infrequency of my posting: it's not like things haven't been happening or like I don't have any funny stories to tell.  Lots of things happen.  And, as we all know, it takes upwards of 2 minutes for me to doodle out any of the given catastrophes that I call "drawings", so it hasn't been a matter of not having time to post.  Rather, it's been a matter of motivation.

I've thought a while about whether or not I really wanted to blog about this.  My intentions with this blog has typically been a place to share my poorly-rendered humor so I don't take myself too seriously.  I strongly believe in the medicine of making fun of yourself every now and then.  However, I occasionally have to face the facts that sometimes not everything is okay.

Pop quiz!  What do you get when you combine depression with anxiety?  

Answer: the pool party from hell.

Think of all the things you care about in your daily life: be it school, work, family, health, friends, religion, etc., and picture it as a beach ball.  Swimming in the pool of life, a beach ball is really fun to have around.  Mostly.

Enter: Anxiety.  Anxiety is like that pool game you used to play when you were a kid where you tried to sit on the beach ball and keep it underwater.  Except with anxiety, when you lose the game, there are often physical consequences.  It varies vastly from person to person, but for me, it's mostly passing out.  So trying to keep the beach ball under the pool isn't fun anymore.  It's just exhausting and frustrating and embarrassing.  

But with depression, things are a little different.  You don't have to worry about keeping the beach ball from floating to the top of the pool because the beach ball is already deflated.  It's no fun anymore, and it's hard to remember why you thought it was any fun in the first place.  You'll keep trying to fill it up, but it always leaks out again, and eventually you're so tired from trying to blow it back up that you just want anything to keep you above water.  But guess what?  Your beach ball is empty.

The real kicker to this pool party is when you combine those problems.  Because with anxiety, you'd give almost anything to keep the beach ball from floating so darn much, but with depression, you'll do almost anything to fill it up again.  

Sometimes it seems like the best way to manage this problem is just to live with a half-inflated beach ball.  It's not as hard to keep under, and yet it's still just enough to keep you semi-afloat.  But it's still no fun, and in the end, that's really not how a beach ball is supposed to be.

I guess that's the image I want to use to describe the lack of motivation I've been feeling: a limp, sorry, bounce-less beach ball.  There's been days and weeks when I just don't know why I'm doing anything, or why I'm alive, or why I care.  It's hard to justify to yourself the maintenance of a silly doodle blog when you're questioning if you have anything to live for.  But the thing is, I know those questions and feelings are just lies.  Depression and anxiety are just convenient devices to keep me from acknowledging that God is in control, God has a plan, and God is worth living for.  He is ultimate peace and ultimate joy.  

Therefore, I am happy to report that I have turned a corner in my depression, and I am working to leave my anxiety behind.  They might come back.  Heck, I felt like passing out yesterday, but I didn't.  I know He will provide for me, and He will care for me.  I believe I have found joy again.

So.  That's a lot of text and not a lot of doodles.  I appreciate your patience, and if you made it to the end, I want to thank you for letting me babble.  I'm learning that sometimes it's important to air out your problems to other people, or else they'll get too big in your head.  Which, by the way, is why I think some of the upcoming doodle posts will be about my past experiences with anxiety.  Yes, anxiety sucks, and yes, passing out sucks as well, but it makes for some darn funny stores afterwards.  Like the time I took a nap on the caf floor because I started blacking out (which was highly enlightening, by the way).  Finals week is fast approaching, but I will strive to make some headway in posting more often.  Until then, I sincerely wish you all a blessed and fantastical week.  Cheerio! 

the thing on my neck

Most people come back from spring break with weird tan lines.  I have something different to boast of.

please don't mock me for my shameful selfie skills

So, as you can see, I have two strange markings on my neck.  They showed up a week ago and I'm pretty sure it's an allergic reaction to my cat's flea medication.  That, or a very mild chemical burn (also potentially from said flea medication.  Don't judge me for cuddling my medicated cat).  Whatever it is, it's definitely not a tan (I didn't get one of those either.  AS IF YOU COULDN'T TELL).  It doesn't hurt or anything, its just this weird brownish/red mark on either side of my neck.  Sis got one like this last summer, and she said it took about 3 weeks to go away.  And hers was much smaller.  Great.

I'm not actually very self conscious about it, but it did occur to me today that I'm headed back to school in a few days with two very obvious marks on my neck that clearly were not there before I left for spring break.  Luckily I have devised a few convincing explanations as to how these marks got on my neck.

So yeah.  I might start wearing my hair down more for the next week or two because it honestly looks like some sort of Biblical disease, but I promise it's just some painless reaction of my stupidly sensitive skin.  And if you ask me how I got the weird bruise/rash/hickey on my neck, I can't promise that I actually won't give you one of the answers listed above.  I guess it's best just to laugh at it until it goes away.  Until then... I guess I'll just spend the next few weeks trying to telepathically will it off of my neck.  Goody.

P.s. In case you couldn't tell, I got bangs since the last time I posted.  So now perhaps I look slightly more like my poorly rendered cartoon counterpart.  

Ciao!