Diving Headfirst into Self-Help

One of the discussions that surrounds mental health is whether it is caused by genetics or environmental factors. The classic “nature vs. nurture” debate. 

There are studies and evidence that support both theories, and then the question focuses around which came first: the genetic disposition for mental illness, or environmental factors that brought them to the forefront. In essence, it’s like asking if the chicken or the egg came first.

Understanding mental illness is important when it comes to dealing with it. The reason science wants to determine if nature or nurture is responsible for the issue is so that it can look for ways to prevent it. But looking at it from that perspective misses the point. In many cases, mental illness has already presented itself in a person. At that point, finding a way to heal is essential.

I know from experience that my mental illnesses come from both nature and nurture. My maternal grandmother took anti-anxiety and antidepressant medication for practically her whole life. My dad has been impacted by anxiety and panic. When necessary, he would take Xanax. 

I was “lucky” enough to be “blessed” with both of these ailments. For as long as I can remember, even in my early teens, I was prone to bouts of depression. Looking back as an adult, I can also pinpoint moments of anxiety. I didn’t know what they were at the time, but I can see the signs now.

Alcoholism is also something that runs through my family. I had the pleasure of falling down that rabbit hole in my late teens and early 20s. Mainly, it became a coping device for my depression and anxiety; a way to combat the cold, hollowness that often presented in the center of my chest and touched me to my soul.

In addition to the genetic disposition of mental illness, environmental factors would influence how I felt. Now, I know that these moments are called “triggers.” At the time, I just knew that the people around me were making me feel like shit.

Not Knowing What I Was Dealing With

The thing that made all of these mental issues more challenging was the fact that we didn’t talk about them in my family. Grandma may have been taking medication daily to ensure she remained even, but I didn’t know this until later in life. When my mom was little, it was always referred to as her “nerve pill.” 

When I still lived at home, my family and I took a trip to Iowa every summer to visit family. Apparently, my dad had a map with all of the hospitals on the route marked -- just in case he had a medical emergency. That would have been his anxiety. My mom didn’t even know about that map until a couple of years ago when my anxiety was taking over my life and he shared that tidbit of information with me.

Mental illness carries a lot of stigma around it. People don’t always like to share that they are suffering because they may be ridiculed, shunned, or dismissed. Or potentially all three and then some other horrible things. Instead, they suffer in silence.

Unfortunately, this isn’t helpful. It’s also how generational trauma gets passed down. Ignoring the situation doesn’t make it go away. Not talking about the issues makes the child feel like what they are experiencing is abnormal, so they hide it away for fear of being different. That’s how I felt.

The Impacts of Mental Health Issues

As you can imagine, this did not lend itself to healthy coping practices. I didn’t have the vocabulary, let alone any type of knowledge, to understand what I was going through. Since many of these issues were secret shames of the family, I felt like I needed to hide how I was feeling.

Not only did I fall spectacularly into unhealthy coping mechanisms, but I also developed terrible life habits and patterns as well. Since the adults in my life didn’t talk about the hard subjects, including recognizing toxicity in myself and other people, I often fell victim to manipulative people. My “first abuser” walked into my life when I was in kindergarten. There was a steady string of them through my life from then on.

Of course, I can recognize these patterns and issues now because I’ve done the work. 

I dove headfirst into self-help and discovered vocabulary to define and explain the things I’ve been feeling throughout my entire life. It took a long time to get there. And I came into the self-help practice thinking that there was something wrong with me; that I was broken and needed to be fixed. I believed that I was the reason that the relationships around me kept crumbling and falling apart.

Don’t get me wrong: I did play a role in the outcomes of my relationships, but I wasn’t always to blame. Just because I didn’t recognize the traits/red flags of a narcissist did not mean I deserved the abuse I was put through. Just because I may have had codependency or people-pleasing issues, that didn’t mean I deserved to be taken advantage of, used, and then abandoned like I didn’t matter.

We all make decisions in life. 

We get to decide on a moment to moment basis how we are going to act toward the people around us.

The individuals I most often surrounded myself with made a conscious decision to treat me like trash. That was their choice. If I wasn’t the subject of their bad behavior, someone else would have been. The only reason I tolerated it for so long was because I didn’t know better. I thought the way I was being treated was normal.

It took me a long time to get to that realization. And before I could get there, I had to understand what was going on with me. That’s when reading self-help books became beneficial.

Knowledge Gained

More often than not, I would learn about a certain personality trait, behavior disorder, or mental illness through reading. I found out about my depression in college, which was the first time I took a depression inventory. 

My anxiety came to light in adult life, after the first time I had a panic attack. I was in therapy at the time, and I explained to my therapist what had happened, and that’s when we went through the signs and symptoms and I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder (GAD).

Having this information was both beneficial and detrimental. I at least had a name to put to how I was feeling, but I chalked it up to nature (my genes), so I assumed I was stuck with feeling like shit for the rest of my life. It wasn’t until my anxiety and depression got worse that I discovered that environmental factors could impact their onset and severity.

I learned about codependency and people pleasing. I became curious about what these issues entailed. Part of me also thought that if I fixed these things about myself, it would fix my relationship with others. 

Part of that thought process was true.

Truth be told, neither codependency or people-pleasing are good traits to possess. In essence, they are survival mechanisms. They are ways to deal with horrible situations to ensure you get the attention and support you need to live in the world. 

More often than not, they develop in childhood as a way to appeal to parents or other caregivers to ensure you are taken care of. They are a learned trait that ensures you don’t die. You bring these behaviors with you into adulthood because they were reinforced and worked for you at a young age. 

Unfortunately, they don’t often serve you once you become an adult.

From learning about codependency and people-pleasing, I also discovered other issues such as complex PTSD, disassociation, trauma, abandonment wounds, and so many others. Not everything I found applied to me, but a lot did. And it felt wonderful to finally understand what was going on in my brain -- the physical and emotional side of it.

But it was also really hard. 

Learning that I was a people-pleaser or codependent hit me hard. 

I had always taken pride in my independence. To find out I wasn’t actually being independent but changing my personality based on who I was around and the situation I was in forced me to see that I had no idea who I truly was. I was so concerned with making sure other people liked me, I gave up my identity and tried to become what I thought they wanted me to be. I had no true self.

Learning this helped explain why I was prone to depression and anxiety. It’s a lot of work changing yourself to meet the needs and expectations of those around you, and it can be incredibly contradictory. Since I had to lose my true self in the process, I was left confused and lost. 

I couldn’t relate to myself any more. 

I often felt disconnected from my mind and body (disassociation). This caused me to lose touch with my feelings, making me feel numb. Or like I had a hole in my soul. 

The coping mechanisms I employed couldn’t be sustained for long. I did what I could for years, but it became apparent that they would eventually kill me. At this point, I had kids to think about. They became my focus and reason for living.

Finding Myself the Hard Way

While this is grand and noble and helped me get my shit together, it wasn’t all that I needed. 

I was still disconnected from myself and needed validation and approval from the people around me. 

That’s why I tried so hard to get my then-husband to love me. That’s why it cut me to the core when friends or family members decided they no longer liked me. 

From my self-help books, I learned that they were tearing open my abandonment wound and pouring salt into it.

Again, the fear of abandonment was something that developed early in childhood. It was actually what drove me to develop codependency and people-pleasing traits. 

As a child, I needed adults around to provide me with the basics, including food and shelter. I don’t remember when or how I realized that they may not be there for me (most abandonment fears form before 18 months, which is before I had developed memory), I had to look for ways to be pleasant to be around. How I achieved this as a baby, I have no idea. But I know what I did as a young child well into adulthood.

I did what I had to to survive. Since changing who I fundamentally was and ensuring the comfort of others around me worked as a kid to get (most) of my needs met, I assumed that was how life worked. I didn’t realize there were other options available to me. I didn’t know that asking for what I needed was something I could do. I settled for way less than I deserved because I was mostly getting what I wanted/needed. I had no idea more was needed to live a healthy, happy life.

I only learned these things by having some basic knowledge about mental illness and how it impacted me. I’m also an incredibly curious person that likes to learn as much as I can about the world. I’m endlessly fascinated in the human psyche and all that can go wrong -- which probably explains my obsession with serial killers.

But I was also looking for a way to make life better for those around me because I thought something was wrong with me.

The end result of my self-help journey was gaining the knowledge to grow as a person, but I didn’t come into the practice with my wellbeing at the forefront of my mind. I was still putting other people first.

The Journey Takes a Toll

The journey hasn’t been easy. It’s actually really hard to admit to myself that nature AND nurture played a role in my mental illness -- and I was my greatest enemy. 

I did a lot of damage to myself by allowing certain things to happen and not knowing myself. Learning about the toxic traits that exist within yourself isn’t exactly a moment of pride, either. Having to find out that most of my life was ruled by terrible, horrible people was shocking and depressing as well.

There’s this idea that finding yourself is an incredibly magical moment. 

The accepted imagery is that you’re on a mountaintop and the lights of heaven are shining down upon you. There may be tears, but there’s also joy and salvation. Renewal and rebirth.

The reality of self-discovery is actually quite different. 

It happens once you’ve reached rock bottom. When you find yourself in the gutter covered in filth and guilt and shame. You have nothing else to lose. You're left with only two choices: find a way up or keep living your miserable life.

I chose to pull myself up, but it hasn’t been easy. 

There are days when I slide back down and once again get covered with shame and guilt. I fall back into old patterns of people-pleasing or refuse to deal with a situation. Anxiety tingles at the edge of my existence, and thoughts of shutting down take over my mind. I cry. I rage. I throw my hands into the air and say, “Fuck it!”

But then, I realize how far I’ve come.

Yes, the journey has been hard.

Yes, I have learned unpleasant, terrible things about myself.

Yes, I have done some toxic things.

Yes, I dealt with my emotions (or lack thereof) in unhealthy ways.

I’ve hurt people.

I’ve hurt myself.

But then I look at all the things I’ve accomplished.

As of the writing of this, I’ve been sober for 14 years.

I can recognize the situations and triggers that impact my anxiety and find healthy ways to deal. Occasionally, I may still fall into panic, but the dread of attacks doesn’t impact my life as much as it used to.

I recognize the signs and symptoms of anxiety and tough feelings in my boys, and we talk about what they’re feeling. I give them ways to ground themselves and the vocabulary to put what they’re going through into words.

I’m learning to create boundaries so that manipulative people don’t get as much access to me and can’t drag me into their bleak existence.

I do what I can to validate myself and not rely on others to give my life meaning.

I’m learning that it’s okay to not be perfect and to feel all of my feelings.

Mental Illness Doesn’t Go Away

I am still plagued with mental illness, and there are occasions when I slip back into depression. That’s part of who I am, and it’s not anything I will be “cured” from. Same with anxiety. I am genetically wired to freak out at random times. I’m learning to be okay with this. I’m also learning how to keep environmental factors from spinning me out of control.

The discussion about nature vs nurture when it comes to mental illness will continue, but it’s not the most beneficial debate to have. 

The most important thing to realize is that these issues exist and they have serious impacts on a person’s life. That doesn’t make anyone unworthy or broken. All it means is that they have challenges to overcome. 

Nature and nurture have an impact, but it doesn’t have to be detrimental. It sucks diving deep into the core of your being, and there’s a lot more pain that comes with the process than you can imagine. You’ll probably find yourself plunged into darkness like you’ve never experienced. But you don’t have to stay there. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. There’s freedom as well.

Self-help isn’t a one-and-done type of journey. You don’t read one book and find yourself cured. 

It’s a never-ending process. 

It’s something you do for the rest of your life. 

This may seem daunting and scary, but it becomes less so the more you learn about yourself. 

Through the process, I’ve discovered some absolutely amazing things about myself, and I’ve changed the dialogue around mental illness for my boys. They won’t have to suffer like I did or flounder in ignorance. 

I have empowered myself through self-discovery, and I hope to pass those tools on to the next generation. Even if my kids suffer from mental illness, I hope they know they don’t have to go it alone and there are resources and tools that can help.

Nature. Nurture. Who cares? The most important thing is to recognize that there’s an issue and find a way to take care of it.

Know Your Audience

As a writer, one of the first things I was taught was to know my audience. As an English teacher, it’s one of the main lessons I teach my students.

Knowing your audience is so important because it allows you to structure your writing in a way that helps them understand what you are trying to say. You might think that the entire world is going to be interested in your story or essay (or whatever you’re writing), but they aren’t.

Trying to get the attention of people who don’t want to read your writing is a waste of time and resources. Instead, you need to focus on those individuals who think the same way you do and are interested in what you have to say.

Recently, I came to the revelation that knowing your audience doesn’t only apply to writing. It applies to other aspects of life as well. Particularly when it comes to emotions and hard times.

The past few years have been incredibly trying for me. My life has been turned upside down in many ways, and I’ve spent a lot of time reaching out to friends and family that I thought would help me through.

Instead, I was met with more heartache, frustration, and disappointment. I did what I could to make them understand what I was experiencing. I sent links to articles, I found memes that expressed my feelings in ways that I couldn’t, I tried to explain things as best I could. 

It didn’t help. 

It made my feelings of grief and loss that much deeper.

I didn’t know my audience.

I was trying to get support and empathy from people who were unable to provide it the way I needed.

While on my soul-searching journey, it has become apparent that I can’t expect others to be there for me the way I need them to. Even if I tell them exactly what I need and give them every resource available to understand me, they have to make the decision to use the information. I can’t force them. I have no control over their actions.

Their inability to support me isn’t about me. In many cases, it may be a sign of their own neglected and unhealed trauma. Maybe they don’t have the capacity for sympathy and empathy. Maybe they just don’t care.

No matter what the reason, I have to be there for myself.

This doesn’t make my friends and family bad people. It just means I have to change my expectations. I have to accept them for who they are and what they have to offer — even if it’s nothing.

I have to know my audience and share accordingly. If that means I keep my feelings to myself, so be it. If they are truly interested in knowing what’s going on and I feel safe, I can share my innermost issues.

I spent a lot of time trying to force others to see me for who I am, and it led to exhaustion, stress, anxiety, and resentment. I’m done. I will accept others for who they truly are and not who I want or need them to be, with the understanding that may mean I won’t interact with them as often.

In my writing world, my stories aren’t for everyone, and I don’t try to force someone who doesn’t want to read them to read them. I’m learning that the same is true for my life as well. It’s tough and painful, but knowing my audience will eventually lead me to finding those who accept and support me for who I truly am.

The World Has Knocked Me Down

Hello, friends.

You may or may not have noticed that I haven’t been posting for a while. Last year took a huge emotional, physical, and spiritual toll on me. Dealing with three deaths and a divorce pretty much sent me over the edge. Most days, it was all I could do to pull my carcass out of bed. I had no energy to write. I just needed to disappear.

So I did. In a variety of different ways.

Not only did I stop blogging, but I also disappeared from social media. It started with my Twitter account, then eventually I got off Facebook. I just…couldn’t take it anymore.

I don’t want to get into the dirty details of it, but just know that I’ve been taking a hard look at my life and trying to figure things out. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve had to face some harsh truths about myself and the world, and there are things about me and my life that I’m trying to improve.

All of this is in addition to the anxiety and other mental struggles I’ve been dealing with for the past 2.5 years after moving to Nebraska. With the recent pandemic, things aren’t exactly on an upward swing.

But I’m trying to take some steps.

One of the decisions I came to during this time is that I’m done trying to make money off my books. It wasn’t a super lucrative endeavor in the first place, and I only feel frustrated and like a failure when I check my sales stats.

Looking back at my historical information on Amazon, I always did really well when I gave my books away. Thus, I’m going to offer my stories for free on Wattpad. My paperbacks will still be available for sale on Amazon, but you’ll be able to read the electronic versions free of charge.

I will be uploading the stories individually, and I’ve started with The Appeal of Evil.

As I’ve been uploading the chapters, I have to say that I don’t hate the story. There are some parts that I really like, and I remember how much fun it was to write. I hope that readers will find the same enjoyment reading the story as I did writing it.

By the end of the month, I hope to start uploading my Saving Humanity series. The first two, Humanity’s Hope and Edge of Humanity, are done. I have the next two books, Finding Humanity and Losing Humanity, edited and ready to go, but I’ve been sitting on them for a year. I finished them right about the time I lost my mind.

I now feel ready to share them with the world. There will be at least one more book in the series, and it’s been started, but I don’t know if I’ll have the energy to finish it any time soon.

Right now, I’m just trying to take some small steps to figure out if this is where I really want to be.

Reflections on a Sh*tty Year

Another year is about to come to an end, and I’ve spent the last month (maybe more) reflecting on everything that has happened.

It hasn’t been a good year. It’s been incredibly challenging. Sure, there were some good moments, but for the most part, my memories are filled with anxiety and depression and tears. If there weren’t tears, there was anger. So.much.anger.

I lost my desire and motivation to write. I spent a lot of time in therapy and reading books and working on myself. Every so often I was able to put words on a page, but it certainly wasn’t what I had done in the past. It was tough. It made me feel less than complete.

The past couple of months, I’ve been working hard to get back to writing. I’ve scheduled it in and found ways to be excited about it. I’ve finished the very rough draft of the third book in my Saving Humanity series, but it still needs to be typed, edited, and edited some more.

At the beginning of December, I made a conscious effort to think about my writing differently. One of the things that made it so hard and so frustrating was the fact that I wasn’t making money. Sure, I’d have a few sales here and there, but nothing major. Every month when I looked at the sales sheet, I asked myself why I was even bothering. It hardly seemed worth the effort.

Yes, depression played a major role in these thoughts. I hadn’t realized how far I had sunk into the hole until I was talking to my mom one day, telling her how I’d lost 30 pounds. She freaked. I freaked. I knew then that something had to change. I had to find contentment and calm. I had to find my way back to writing.

I sat down and asked myself why I started writing in the first place. The answer was easy: because I enjoyed it. Because it gave me an escape from my troubles and worries and allowed me to put myself in the shoes of another.

I lost that somewhere along the way. I became jaded and thought that my writing had to show a return of investment—a monetary return of investment.

I had help in this thinking. I didn’t come to this conclusion alone. But I held onto it. I let it define and influence me. I let it dictate how I felt about my stories. How I felt as a writer. When I couldn’t sell books or make more than a few dollars, I felt like a failure.

There was one point in the year, and I remember this vividly, that I was sitting on my couch working on Finding Humanity, and I had to go outside to help the kids scoop dog poop so that my spouse could mow the lawn. As I pulled myself out of the story, I noticed that I had a headache. Nothing major, so I went to take some ibuprofen, and my stomach knotted. I knew that if I put something in it, I was going to throw up.

Still, I had a job to do, so I went outside and walked the backyard with my kids and pointed out the piles of poo. Dizziness washed over me. I almost lost my balance numerous times. I thought I was in the throes of anxiety, but the next day, I realized I had a migraine.

From that one moment, every time I tried to sit down and write, my anxiety asked, “What if writing gives you another migraine?” (Side note: I’m more than positive it wasn’t the writing that gave me a migraine. I guarantee it was stress.) This scared me. It made writing scary for me.

Have you ever been afraid to write? It’s an awful feeling.

I asked myself if I could ever get back to writing for enjoyment, and the answer was yes. How do I get back there? By writing. By keeping in mind that there are other benefits to writing, not just getting money from the sale of my books. I get peace of mind, a way to relax, a way to escape. That’s the real return of investment for me.

It took some time and facing my fears to get me back to writing. I can’t tell you how many times I put the pen to paper only to have dizziness overtake me. I thought for sure I would get another migraine, so I often stopped after only a few pages.

Then, one day, I told my anxiety it didn’t get to decide. I was in charge, and I was going to write. “But, a migraine,” my anxiety said. “Bring it on,” I told it. “I’ve dealt with it before and survived. I’ll do it again. Even if I have to go to bed at 6:00.”

Surprisingly, I never got a migraine, and I was eventually able to finish my book.

My sister-in-law had been reading Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis, and she gave me a copy. I read it, and I loved it. There was so much in there that spoke directly to me. I laughed. I cried. I nodded my head in agreement. Then, I read the part about writing and felt validated.

Writing isn’t about money (for some people it might be, and that’s okay, but for me, it’s not). It’s about ME. It’s about doing something I love. It’s about being able to step back and say, “I created that. ME. No one else. MY work.” It’s an amazing feeling. It’s an empowering feeling. It fills me with pride.

I don’t need anyone’s permission to write. I don’t need anyone’s validation. It absolutely makes me happy to put my book out into the world and know that readers enjoy it and want me to write more, but that’s not the only reason I write.

I write because it makes me happy.

Period.

There doesn’t need to be another reason.

The path to getting healthy and feeling better is long, but I take steps every day. Some days are good, and some are bad. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed, but I do. I show up. Every.single.day. Maybe 2019 will bring me less depression and anxiety. Maybe it will push me over the edge. I won’t know until I get there.

And I remind myself: if I get committed to a mental health ward, it will give me more time to write.

I hope during the last few days of this month that you take some time to reflect on the past year and look at the things that shaped you and made you stronger. It didn’t have to be a good year—mine was terrible.

But I’m coming out of 2018 with lessons learned and a goal. I hope you do the same.

Feeling Better Through Writing

There have been studies that claim writing is a good way to heal from traumatic or emotional issues. As a writer, I can attest that there are some healing properties when it comes to writing, particularly for fiction. However, during the past several months, I’ve discovered that journaling can be beneficial too.

For a long time, when people asked me why I wrote fiction—horror in particular—my response would be, “Because mangling or killing someone on the page is more acceptable than doing it in real life.” There’s some truth to this statement. Not that I would ever really mangle or kill anyone in real life, but writing about these things is a good way to vent frustrations and work through stress.

For the past several months, I’ve been going through some emotional difficulties. During that time, it has been incredibly hard for me to find the desire or time to write fiction. I would sit down and try, only to find the words wouldn’t come or that the act was incredibly exhausting. So I backed off. I put all of my work aside and focused on other things. But this focusing on other things didn’t make me feel better. In reality, doing a lot of things didn’t make me feel better. If things were going to change, I had to change them.

When I was a kid, I used to keep journals/a diary of my daily activities. I wrote my hopes and dreams down in there, as well as long ramblings about nonsense (of course, at the time, I thought it was incredibly important information). While working through some of my anxiety issues, one of the things that was suggested was to write down thoughts, fears, and other things to get to the root of a problem. I decided to give it a try.

I still have a long road ahead of me, but the process does seem to help. When it comes to emotional issues, I think I express my ideas better by writing them down because when I say them out loud, I police myself. I withhold information that I’m afraid others will use to judge me or make me feel like a bad person. When I write, I don’t have to censor myself or my ideas because I don’t have to share that information with anyone. It’s strictly for me and about me. I don’t have to hide. That is incredibly empowering.

One of the things I really enjoy about writing in all its forms is that it allows me to explore things I wouldn’t normally explore. When it comes to fiction, those are places and situations that I will probably never find myself in. For journaling, it’s the inner recesses of my mind. In both cases, I learn more about myself and how I would or do handle certain situations. It’s incredibly eye opening and freeing.

Since I’ve been journaling, I’ve rediscovered my passion for fiction writing. I don’t feel as exhausted or lost for words when I sit down to write about my characters’ adventures, and it feels really, really good to write stories. Writing has made me feel better.

A Different Kind of Zombie Story Hero

I love that zombie stories show us tough heroes who rise effortlessly to the challenge. However, I wanted to create a hero who struggles with mental health issues and is unsure of where life is going to take him or if he’ll be able to overcome the next hurdle because then he’d be more human.

I love zombie stories—in all shapes and forms. From movies to TV shows to books to comics to video games, I enjoy watching humans test their strength and resolve against the undead and hopefully come out a winner.

My fascination with zombies began after I watched Night of the Living Dead. I was in junior high at the time (but not at the same time the movie came out), and my dad had it recorded on a VHS tape. I remember feeling creeped out, but not jump-out-of-my-skin scared. I had to watch more. So I did.

George Romero will forever be the father of the modern-day zombie. There were zombie movies before his, but the creatures were often created with voodoo. Romero introduced the world to creatures that rise from the dead to consume the living.

Zombies have progressed since Night of the Living Dead first came out, evolving into fast-moving, sentient, and aware creatures. Some argue that these zombies taint the purity that is Romero’s slow, decaying creatures, but even Romero’s zombies evolve. By the time we get to Land of the Dead, zombies are aware that they are different from humans, and they don’t like that humans kill them. They go on a revenge mission to kill the humans that have been destroying the zombies.

If there’s one common thread that runs through all zombie stories, it’s that the survivors never hesitate to pick up a weapon to fight the undead. There may be questions about whether or not the zombies can be saved and turned back into humans, but no one hesitates killing the zombies if their life is in danger.

A lot of this boils down to survival and the fight or flight choices humans have when faced with danger. I love this aspect of the story. I love that the story shows that most humans will step up to the plate and do what they have to do to ensure we don’t go extinct.

I’ve incorporated this toughness and badassness into a lot of my own zombie stories and the characters therein. It’s fun to imagine a world with tough characters who don’t back down from a challenge. They may be afraid, but they don’t let it show when the going gets tough. 

But what happens after? What happens to these characters when the threat is gone and they don’t have to be tough?

That was a question I wanted to explore in Humanity’s Hope, and I looked at it from the perspective that the main character has been deeply and profoundly changed by the zombie apocalypse.

One of the great allures of stories is that they show us how we wish we could be. We know that if zombies were to rise, the situation would be life changing. It’s fun to imagine how we would react, but we might also question our ability to rise to the challenge. We want to believe that we can be tough, unflappable, and able to do whatever it takes to survive terrible threats. That’s why these tough characters are so appealing. 

However, one of the other things that stories do really well is reflect real life back to us and show us ways to overcome our fears and shortcomings. We might not always be tough, and that’s totally okay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be brave. We also are not going to go into a life-changing situation and not be changed by it—life without zombies rising has proven this to us.

When I conceived the idea of Humanity’s Hope, I wanted to explore how the zombie apocalypse would change a person. While all of us want to believe that we’d still be as strong and tough as we were when faced with zombies, the likelihood of that happening is low. All of us would probably react differently to the situation, but some of us would come out like Caleb: mentally scarred and suffering from PTSD.

Does that make us or Caleb weak? Absolutely not. It makes us human.

Through medical research, we know that soldiers often suffer from PTSD or other mental health issues after being in combat, and they are trained to deal with these types of stressful situations. If they aren’t immune to these problems, what makes us think the rest of us will be?

Where the true strength comes in is how we deal with these problems day in and day out. There’s no doubt it’s a struggle, and it has a profound impact on how we interact with one another and our environment. It may even impact how we interact with our own minds, and that was what I wanted to explore with Caleb.

Humanity’s Hope isn’t exactly a traditional zombie story. Caleb can and has been strong when he needed to be, but most of the narrative focuses on his attempt to return to humanity after all he’s seen and done. We see how the tragedy of watching his family and friends die has impacted him. We see him struggling to understand his world and himself after everything has been turned upside down.

We live in a time and world where mental health is a misunderstood and stigmatized issue. When we hear someone has mental health issues, we automatically assume that they are a danger to others or themselves. Yet, there are more than 200 forms of mental health issues, and most of them are treatable.

My goal with Caleb and Humanity’s Hope was to highlight the struggles someone might go through when dealing with mental health issues and how those issues may have manifested. I wanted to point out that even though these issues can be difficult to deal with, they aren’t impossible to deal with. I also wanted to show that despite Caleb’s struggles, he is a hero.

We all want to live “normal” lives and to be functioning, productive members of society, but the definition of “normal” varies from person to person. Caleb certainly wants to return to a normal life, but how is that possible after the world has been changed and overrun with the undead? Would you be able to return to “normal” after dealing with the undead?

It’s Easy to Take Feeling Calm for Granted

Wow. January was an incredibly tough month. It’s been a long time since my anxiety has gotten that bad, and it wasn’t fun at all.

I was sick for most of January, so I wasn’t sleeping well. I also have anxiety when it comes to taking medication, and I had to take antibiotics to knock out the cough I had. Normally, I’m fine with taking antibiotics, but for whatever reason, this time it freaked me out. Maybe it was because it was a heavy-duty antibiotic and had some really weird side effects. I don’t know. I got through it, but it left me emotionally and physically exhausted, but it did get rid of my cough!

Side note: the side effects included tendinitis and the potential for my tendons to rupture unexpectedly. There was also the possibility of joint issues and nerve damage. Am I the only one who thinks that’s weird?

My doctor also wanted me to start taking low doses of Buspirone so I don’t burn myself out on anxiety. I was nervous about doing so, but also optimistic. If it was going to help so I didn’t feel out of control, it was worth a try. I took my first dose on a Friday night.

On Saturday, I felt like I was underwater. I could barely move, barely think, and barely form a coherent sentence. I was also incredibly grumpy. I’m well aware that it takes 1 to 2 weeks for this medication to have its full effect, but I felt terrible—whether from the medication or my own mind, it was real to me. I couldn’t bring myself to take another dose, which didn’t help my anxiety.

I also have anxiety when it comes to traveling. Both of my boys are in basketball at the moment, and they travel to different towns for tournaments. They aren’t far, an hour and a half at the most, but that distance is enough to get my mind working overtime. My youngest also had his birthday one weekend, and he wanted to go to Omaha to The Amazing Pizza Machine. Thankfully, I have Xanax to help for those short trips.

By the end of the month, I felt like I was at wit’s end. I had three panic attacks in the course of 2 days. On a Monday, I was freaking out so bad I couldn’t drive my kids to school—a task I’ve accomplished countless times in the past. I was able to ride that panic attack out, but on Tuesday morning, I couldn’t. I had to have Xanax intervention. Same with Wednesday and Thursday, but I was able to take my kids to school.

I don’t know exactly what triggered the panic attacks at the end of the month. It could have been because I was exhausted and no longer had the energy to sustain my emotions. Perhaps it was the super special full moon. It’s hard to say. Whatever the reason, it was horrible feeling like I had no control and being afraid to do normal, everyday tasks.

Feeling calm is one of those things that most people probably don’t think about. They don’t go through their day thinking, “Huh. I’m feeling pretty calm right now,” they just go through their day. I’m constantly looking for and acknowledging those moments when I’m calm so that I can replicate that feeling during moments of anxiety. During one panic attack, I was convinced my brain was broken and I would never feel calm again. That’s an incredibly difficult thought to deal with. It’s scary and depressing. Thankfully, it wasn’t true.

Because I’ve been in a heightened state of anxiety, I’ve been taking my Xanax more often than normal. I only take half a pill, but it doesn’t sit well with me. Remember, I have anxiety about taking medications. I was convinced that I was going to become dependent and wouldn’t be able to function without it. Once again, another scary, depressing thought. And I would feel that way right up until the Xanax kicked in.

It became apparent to me that something had to change. I had to fix my life so that I could feel better and deal with the anxiety. No matter what thoughts run through my head during an attack, there’s an underlying issue that is pushing me to feel that way, and the best way to figure out what that is is with professional help.

I got an appointment with a local counselor. I talked to my doctor’s office daily for half of a week. I researched online to find ways to combat this affliction naturally, and I found some things that are definitely helping. I can’t say if this trick will work for everyone, but it’s helping me. I’ve been able to once again take my kids to school in the morning without having to take a Xanax first.

My goal is to be able to get my anxiety and panic attacks under control without having to take medication. While it helps for my extreme, immediate needs, it’s not a viable long-term solution. Hence, I will continue to see a mental health provider, talk to my doctor, and learn natural techniques to keep me calm. It’s an awesome feeling to know that I can take back control over my body and brain. It’ll take a while, but the baby steps give me hope and encouragement.