Anxiety

I have an anxiety disorder. This may not be news to some of you, but it's also not something I talk about openly with the world (until now, apparently...). I was diagnosed with this a little over 3 and a half years ago, but it's been an obstacle in my life for much longer than that. I'm choosing to write about this now for many different reasons. For one thing, I'm just now beginning to understand what this disorder is and how it applies to me. Also, it's become apparent that if I'm having trouble comprehending the manifestations of this disorder, then it must be just as confusing, if not more so, for my friends and family who don't understand my day-to-day struggles. So, with that being said, I'm going to start with a brief description of anxiety and GAD.


Anx●i●ety: (noun) an abnormal and overwhelming sense of apprehension and fear often marked by physiological signs (as sweating, tension, and increased pulse), by doubt concerning the reality and nature of the threat, and by self-doubt about one's capacity to cope with it. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)


Generalized Anxiety Disorder (or GAD): characterized by excessive, exaggerated anxiety and worry about everyday life events with no obvious reasons for worry. People with symptoms of generalized anxiety disorder tend to always expect disaster and can't stop worrying about health, money, family, work, or school. In people with GAD, the worry is often unrealistic or out of proportion for the situation. Daily life becomes a constant state of worry, fear, and dread. Eventually, the anxiety so dominates the person's thinking that it interferes with daily functioning, including work, school, social activities, and relationships. (WebMD)


Brain chemistry: GAD has been associated with abnormal levels of certain neurotransmitters in the brain. Neurotransmitters are special chemical messengers that help move information from nerve cell to nerve cell. If the neurotransmitters are out of balance, messages cannot get through the brain properly. This can alter the way the brain reacts in certain situations, leading to anxiety.  (WebMD)

GAD Symptoms:

• Feelings of panic, fear, and uneasiness
• Uncontrollable, obsessive thoughts
• Repeated thoughts or flashbacks of traumatic experiences
• Nightmares
• Ritualistic behaviors, such as repeated hand washing
• Problems sleeping
• Cold or sweaty hands and/or feet
• Shortness of breath
• Palpitations
• An inability to be still and calm
• Dry mouth
• Numbness or tingling in the hands or feet
• Nausea
• Muscle tension
• Dizziness

I've experienced most of these symptoms. Some of them on a daily basis. I know it's hard to believe, but I assure you, they're not fun.  And until as recently as the last few months, I've had only a vague understanding of why I've been experiencing this. 


For the first 17+ years of my life, I lived in what amounted to an almost constant state of chaos. I wasn't beaten or molested or anything like that, but analyzing and assessing the atmosphere of every situation became a survival mechanism for me. In order to avoid an explosive situation I would analyze the potential outcome of every move I made. I did this for so long that it became hard-wired in my brain. It was no longer a conscious choice, but an instinct. Children are very impressionable and breaking a childhood behavior, particularly one you've adopted for nearly 2 decades, is an overwhelming, if not altogether daunting, task. 


So. We've established that living in a constant state of anxiety is not fun. It's also exhausting. I've been working on trying to break this behavior but it's not easy. I've been told it could take years of work. I'm not looking forward to it. But I'm hopeful.


In the mean time, I (and many other people suffering from anxiety and other related disorders) could really use your patience. For example, comments like "Don't worry about it", "Calm down", and "You just need to relax" don't help. Those phrases don't work on most well-adjusted people, let alone those with anxiety disorders. "Try not to worry about it" isn't a good one either. It implies that I'm not making an honest effort to help myself. I'm aware that I over analyze, "catastrophize" and obsessively worry. Asking me to "try not to worry about it" only serves as a reminder that my attempts to control my anxiety are insufficient. Do you think I enjoy feeling like this? That I wouldn't rather be enjoying my day-to-day life than worrying about how my actions could potentially affect every little move I make? "What's the worst that could happen?" and "It's not the end of the world" are two of the worst things someone could say to me. It trivializes my feelings. I know it's not the end of the world. I'm anxious, not delusional or stupid.


Personally, I would prefer to hear words of encouragement. "This will pass" or "You'll get through this" are good phrases. I particularly like "We'll figure something out" because it lets me know that I'm not alone, that I have someone willing to be there for me instead of trivializing my fears, regardless of their validity. 


I hope this helps. The process of writing it down seems to be helping me anyway. In closing*, I'll leave you with this: an example of an internal monologue I experience on a regular basis.


'It's bed time. Time for sleep. Time to close my eyes. It's 10:30, you need to fall asleep. If you don't fall asleep by midnight you'll only get 6 hours of sleep and you'll be extra tired in the morning. And cranky. You get very cranky when you don't get much sleep. So sleep. 100 *breathe* 99 *breathe* 98 *breathe* 97 *breathe*... Crap. You forgot to make your lunch for tomorrow. You'll have to do it in the morning. If you don't fall asleep soon you'll be extra tired tomorrow and you'll hit the snooze button too many times and you'll be racing around trying to get ready and you'll still have to make your lunch and you might miss your bus which will piss you off and you'll be late for work and your coworkers will think you're lazy and undisciplined and stop it! Stop worrying. Stop thinking. Just go to sleep already. Where was I? 97? 96? Just start over. 100 *breathe* 99 *breathe* 98 *bre... What am I going to wear?! You didn't do laundry again... because you don't have any money. Seriously Megan, who doesn't have $3 for laundry? Why can't you manage your money better? I wish it was pay day tomorrow. I hate being broke. You're 28 years old, Megan. You have a college degree. You should be able to manage your finances better. Man, I hope they don't cash that check tomorrow... I don't want another NSF fee. Pathetic. What are you going to do if you get really sick? Or break another bone? You can't afford that! You don't even have medical insurance! And when was the last time you went to a dentist? By the time you can afford to go again, your teeth will probably be rotten through and they'll have to pull them all and you'll need dentures or something and you can't afford that. STOP! 100 *breathe* 99 *breathe* 98 *breathe* 97 *breathe* 96 *breathe*...'


This goes on for hours. The only plus side is that it's so exhausting that I do *usually* fall asleep at some point. That may have sounded unrealistic or extreme but it's pretty common for me. That's my every day thought process. It doesn't even touch on all of my personal relationships or daily occurances and conversations. It's a constant battle. I'm well aware of how useless it is to obsess over these mundane details but it's not an easy pattern to break. And when something serious does happen, it's not uncommon for me to go into full-blown panic mode. I won't describe what all of that entails but I can tell you with all sincerity that it is ugly and terrifying - not just for me but for anyone who witnesses it. 


So please, *please* be patient with me and know that I am trying. And try to keep in mind that while it may be frustrating for you to deal with or tiring for you to be around, it's absolutely exhausting for me to live with every day. If I could just switch it off, I would. In a heartbeat. But few things are that easy.


Thank you.


*I know I said "In closing" but apparently I wasn't even close to being done. Oops! Haha...

A Perfect Day

April 28th is my Mother's birthday. For those of you who don't know, my mother is my everything - she's my role model, my mentor, my best friend, my rock. She has been the one constant in my chaotic life and I admire her more than anyone or anything else on this planet. So when she laid out her plans for her birthday this year, who was I to argue? She planned out every moment of the day - and it was perfect.

I'm often jealous of the rest of my family because their birthdays are all in the Spring whereas mine is in the winter. In the spring and summer you have many more options for things to do on your birthday - parks, picnics, barbecues, camping, etc... In Olympa, where my mother lives, the Spring is gorgeous. She knew exactly how to take full advantage of the day. And luckily, the weather was with us!

We began our day with coffee and breakfast at The Bread Peddler - an artisan bakeshop near the waterfront in downtown Olympia. The tiny little shop was packed (it was Arts Walk that weekend) but we managed to score a couple of seats at the window. Window seats in any cafe in Olympia is important because the 'people-watching' is always entertaining.

After coffee, a game of 'count-the-Subarus', and a delicious meal, we made our way down to the Farmers Market. I love going to the Olympia Farmers Market in the Spring because they have a beautiful garden with tons of flowers in bloom. I am by no means a gardener, but I do enjoy looking at and photographing flowers.  My mother, on the other hand, is an avid gardener and enjoys looking over what the locals have to offer at the plant and flower tables. We did a quick perusal of the various vendor's tables, bought some homemade soaps and dried lavender, and headed out to our next destination.

Next stop - PEDICURES! I was especially excited about this next stop. After breaking my leg, all I could think of was getting a pedicure (casts are not particularly friendly to legs and feet). It had been several months since I had had a proper pedicure and was finally feeling brave enough to attempt one (I still experience some pain in my ankle and was a little nervous about having someone torquing on it too much). It was definitely appreciated and I experienced no pain! It was heavenly.  :)


Pedicures completed, it was now time for some shopping and a nap. Well... my mom got a nap. I got to make her a carrot cake. I've my tons of cakes before but never a carrot cake. Did you know that grating a pound of carrots without a food processor can turn your hands bright orange? It was worth it though because it was one of the best carrot cakes I've ever had. (I got the recipe from the people at Cook's Illustrated). The cake had a cream cheese frosting that was unbelievably creamy - if you want the recipe, let me know and I can email it to you.

For dinner, Mom requested Red Lobster. My sister joined us, and quickly declared that she would be drinking and I, therefore, had to play designated driver. It's amazing what 2 Long Island Iced Teas will do to my sister. The meal, although it took a while, was lovely (and entertaining) and now it was time to head back to the house for a couple drinks with friends. 

Needless to say, I was exhausted by 10 and in bed by 11. It was beyond worth it. I'm not sure I could have planned a better day. Thank you mom, for being born!

Some Things to Keep in Mind...

I'm sure you're all tired of hearing me complain about my leg injury but I'm not quite done complaining. If you've never suffered an injury like this before, then you probably don't realize how debilitating it can be. 

First, let's go over the injury. This image shows the fracture in my left leg fibula.

Looks pretty bad, right? You might be thinking, "Yeah, but bone fractures can heal pretty quickly... why does she have to wait 3 months to walk?" I present, figure 2:

As you can see in this image, my ankle looks to be quite offset. Anywhere where there's a large gap between the bones is a torn ligament. I basically dislocated my ankle. The doctors did surgery to screw it all back together. 

Sixteen stitches and eight screws - that's what it took to put my leg and ankle back together. And it needs roughly 3 months to heal before I can really use it; it will be at least 6 months before it's completely healed.  

12 weeks on crutches. If you've never had to use crutches before, then you probably have only a vague idea of how much it changes your life. Being on crutches forces you to relearn or find new ways of accomplishing the smallest of tasks. For example, here is a list of some of the things I either can't do or find it very difficult to do while on crutches:

• Carry plates, bowls, beverages from one place to another
• Carry anything that doesn't fit in a back pack
• Open heavy doors
• Stand comfortably for more than 5 minutes
• Get dressed/undressed while standing
• Pick stuff up off the ground
• Carry a laundry basket
• Shower standing up
• Go grocery shopping
• Go up and down stairs, ramps or hills
• Jump up when you spill hot liquids on your lap
• Talk on the phone or text while walking
• Go further than 2 blocks without the use of a motorized vehicle
• Go further than one block without breaking a sweat
• Get a pedicure (I really need one)
• Stomp (this seems trivial but when you're pissed off at having a broken leg for months, it'd be nice to be able to stomp or even kick something)
• The hardest thing to do on crutches is to feel strong

60 days. That's how long I've gone without walking. My arms have had to compensate for everything my leg used to do. On the rare days that I have the energy to take the bus to and from work, I come home exhausted. I can barely lift my arms.

The worst part might be having to continually tell people that no, there is not much they can do to help. When a stranger offers to help me up a hill, yes, it seems like a nice gesture. However, apart from carrying me (which I'm not about to let someone do, even if I thought they could) there's literally nothing they can do. While I appreciate the thought, the offer really only serves as a reminder of how pathetic I must look, struggling to get somewhere. The more people offer to help me with things they can't actually do, the more I'm reminded of my weakened state. 

It's one thing to feel emotionally broken and weak; you can hide that from others (most of the time anyway). But when you're physically broken and weak, it's obvious to everyone. The looks of pity and concern are killing me. I can see when people hold their breath as I attempt to go up stairs; I can hear the gasps as I lose my balance and the sighs of relief as I regain it. 

But here's what I've learned in the last few weeks: It takes a lot of strength to recover from a broken limb. Crutches (and wheelchairs, canes, etc...) are not necessarily a symbol of weakness; they are a symbol of strength. They are not simply something to lean on; they are tools. I could have chosen to stay at home, in bed, and wait for my leg to get better. Instead I chose to learn a new tool to regain some of my independence.

I am not fragile. I am strong. My leg is broken. I am not. I do almost everything for myself. I've learned to adapt. It's difficult, but I'm doing it. If I stumble, I will get back up. I may be hurt, but I'll survive. So you don't have to look at me with pity and concern. I will be fine. 

Stubborn

I'm stubborn. Not always, but when something is important to me, regardless of its validity or rationality, I become overwhelmingly stubborn. I'm not going to argue that this is one of my finer traits but I won't say it's necessarily a fault either. Stubbornness is just one of my many attributes. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Left-handed. Stubborn.

If you know me personally or you've been following my blog then you'll know that I broke my leg about 5 weeks ago. I was at a holiday work party, had too much to drink, picked a fight with the stairs, and lost. It hurt. It hurt A LOT. But I think the embarrassment hurt more. I hate feeling embarrassed. I can only imagine what my co-workers were saying the next day. "Hey, did you hear about Megan? Apparently she got so drunk that she fell down some stairs and broke her leg! Classy." Embarrassing.

I know. It could happen to anyone, drunk or sober. But that doesn't take the sting out of it. When I was in elementary school, I was one of the "loser kids" that everyone picked on. I had issues making friends. The school even made me see the counselor to try to bring me out of my shell. 6th grade was the worst. I cried a lot that year. So when I started middle school, I decided I wouldn't let "them" see me cry anymore. I'd make fun of them before they could start in on me. If they tried to embarrass me I'd just laugh it off or stare them down. I even hit a few girls (I do not condone this behavior, by the way). But I never let them see me cry, not if I could help it. Stubborn.

After I broke my leg, I decided to remain positive. I wanted to keep my independence. I wanted as little help from others as possible. When they let me out of the hospital, I insisted on going up to my apartment with my mother, on the fourth floor. I was still feeling the affects of the anesthesia and pain killers, I was extremely unstable, but I insisted. My mom thought I was crazy. Two days later, on Christmas Eve, I decided I was going to sleep in my own room in my mother's house, on the second floor. The stairs are very steep and there's no rail. But again, I insisted. Stubborn.

I didn't ask for anything if I could help it. The problem was that I was still very unstable on the crutches and I couldn't get myself any food because I couldn't carry anything. One day, when my mother was at work, I waited patiently for my sister to wake up so she could fix me something to eat. She didn't get up until 11:30am and when she did wake up, I waited another hour before I broke down and asked for some food. Stubborn.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to get back to my apartment two and a half weeks later. I got to be by myself, do everything for myself, no asking for help. I was back at work later that week. I was nervous to see my co-workers for the first time since the incident, but I went in. I smiled. I assured them all I was fine. It took me roughly 3 minutes to make it up the stairs to my office. I almost fell twice. But I made it. And I asked for as little as possible. Stubborn.

I had taken a cab to work those first couple of days. Then the snow storm hit and I worked from home for a week. This last Monday, I decided I was going to take the bus in. $35 a day for cab fare is more than my budget allows for. The nearest bus stop is roughly two and half blocks from my apartment, and it's mostly uphill. And the bus drops me off another two and a half blocks from my work. But I made it. I made it to work. Up the stairs. To my office. Stubborn. Jimmy was nice enough to offer me a ride home that night. I was so grateful.

Yesterday I woke up so stiff and sore that I could barely get out of bed. There would be no bus ride to work that morning. I took a cab, and was still exhausted all day. I kept flip-flopping on whether or not I would take a cab home or the bus (Jimmy didn't have his car that day). When I went to leave, I got downstairs only to find that everyone else had already left. I really didn't have money for a cab. So a bus it would be. Stubborn.

After fighting with my key in the office door for 5 minutes, I finally made my trek, in the rain, to the bus stop. There is no shelter or bench at this particular stop. And I was about 15-20 minutes early. I felt tears coming on but I controlled them. I texted some friends, hoping they could cheer me up. The bus finally arrived. I hated having to ask for the lift. I got off at 4th and Jackson so I could transfer to another bus that would drop me off closer to my apartment. Another 20 minute wait in the rain. I had a bench this time though. I started crying a couple of times but only a little bit and not for long. This was the first time I had really, truly, cried since I broke my leg.

An hour and a half after clocking out, I finally made it to my apartment. I limped in, collapsed in the nearest chair, and began to sob. It was the kind of sobbing that hurts, when you can't catch your breath, and you begin to think it will never stop. All of my muscles were trembling from fatigue. It did eventually stop 30 minutes later, but it continued on and off for another hour. I haven't cried like that in a long time.

I was angry. I was mad at myself for getting into this situation; I was mad that I couldn't force my body to cooperate; I was mad that I was feeling sorry for myself; mostly I was mad that I'd lost my will to be stubborn.  I had to admit defeat. I was not ready to start bussing it to work everyday. I could not keep up a positive attitude. I wouldn't be able to make it into the office the next day (today). And I had to tell my co-workers that I couldn't make it in. I was not as capable as I wanted them to think. I was embarrassed again and too tired to be stubborn.

I ate cereal for dinner that night and was in bed by 8pm.

I'm not sure what any of this means or says about me. I guess it just means that I'm human.

Overcoming the Fear of Painting

I've often said that I've been an artist ever since I was able to hold a crayon. It's true. I love to draw. And I'm an emotional artist too (is there such a thing as an unemotional artist?). When I was four I got mad at my stepfather and tried to write angry things about him on my bedroom wall with a blue crayon. I was no longer the only one experiencing anger. Oops.

I drew with crayons and markers, enrolled in after-school water color classes, I cherished my colored pencils and oil pastels, and I took several ceramics classes (although I wasn't that great at it). In high school I signed up for art class so many times that they had to rename some of the courses so I wouldn't have too many redundancies on my transcript. True story! I got to set my own assignments and choose the mediums I wanted to experiment with. I played with acrylic paints, conte crayons, graphite and charcoals. I fell in love with charcoals. It was there that I learned the most about color and shadows, form and structure.

It was only natural that I would later attend art school. One of my favorite instructors was an amazing illustrator named  Dave Danioth. He taught me how to manipulate mediums and not fear color. I got to play with scratchboard, markers (the good kind), screen printing, india ink, gouache and bleach. Yes, you can paint with bleach.

Now here comes the confession...

 I've never, not once, ever, used oil paints. Why? I'm terrified of them. All of the chemicals, the long drying times (I'm extremely impatient), the impossible stains, the inability to successfully use water, etc... Aside from all of those (completely legitimate!) reasons, I'm also scared that I won't be any good at it. Silly, right? Who cares if I'm not good at it. There are lots of things I'm not good at! There are plenty of crafty things I can't do! (Shut it, Sam!) But people have been painting with oils for centuries - artists have been painting with oils for centuries. Most of my favorite artists and many of my favorite pieces were executed with oil paints. I think I would be very upset if I weren't able to somewhat successfully render with oils.

Last Fall (2010) I took a course on Contemporary Art and Design. We studied Rothko. I was inspired. That Christmas I asked my mother for some oil paints. I've had them for over a year now and haven't touched them. Still scared.

But...

I've been snowed in for a week now. Due to a broken leg, I haven't been able to leave my apartment even to play in the courtyard. I've left the building precisely once to retrieve necessary food staples at the corner mini-mart and I thought I was going to die. I've caught up on all of my TV shows, cleaned my kitchen, posted a new blog and am currently working on a second post, I've painted my cast (with acrylics), re-painted my cast (again with acrylics), grudgingly watched a documentary that a friend has been pestering me to see for nearly a year now, checked my facebook approximately 2,343,751,389 times and I'm bored. SO BORED. So this weekend I'm going to set down a drop cloth, open a window, grab some paint thinner and brushes and break out my oil paints. I'll post pictures later... or not. Either way, I'll let you know how it goes.

Morning People

Between graduating from school, enrolling in therapy, quitting my barista job, finding a full-time graphic design job, and breaking my leg, I've had pretty eventful year. And I've learned a lot. A LOT. I've mostly learned a lot about myself. For example, I always assumed I despised morning people. As a barista, you get really good at making fun of and bitching about perky morning people. Even my best friend, Sam, hates mornings. I'm sure she would have eaten her young years ago if it weren't for the fact that she doesn't eat breakfast. We've had several conversations about the injustice of mornings and morning people.

Recently however, I've come to a rather stunning realization. I am a morning person. And I have been my entire life. It hit me one morning a couple of months ago when I was riding the bus to my new job. There was a gorgeous sunrise that lit the sky on fire. I couldn't help but smile when I saw it. 

Sunrise over Georgetown, Seattle

I then preceded to go to my favorite coffee shop (The Essential Baking Co. in Georgetown) to grab a mocha and lemon bar. From there, it was over to the office to start my day. It was about 7:30am. I was the first one in. I was able to boot up my computer, check my email and sip my coffee in a quiet peacefulness; no phones ringing or office dogs barking, no one demanding my attention at that exact moment. Just me, my coffee and my quiet routine.

I love routines. I operate best when I have my set routine. I can handle obstacles and upsets like a pro; I occasionally enjoy those too. But as far as mornings go, I love my routines. Ever since I was little I've have a morning routine. My mother would quietly tip-toe into my room to wake me up; she'd set my brother and me in front of the television with a cup of Cheerios or Teddy Grams and we'd watch Sesame Street or Zoobilee Zoo while she got herself ready for work. It was our quite time. In a home full of chaos, mornings were always the same. They were stable. They were safe. They were peaceful.

I believe my mom is a morning person too. It's always been a sort of bonding time for her and me. When the rest of the house was asleep, we'd wake and share coffee, breakfast and a newspaper together. Ironically, I have a vivid memory of a tee shirt she used to wear frequently on the weekends. It read in bright bold letters "Perky Morning People Should Be Shot!" We're far from "perky" but we're definitely morning people.

Homemade Mocha in a handmade ceramic mug made by my mother <3

I think being a morning person is what drew me to being a barista. Getting up at 3 or 4 or even 5 in the morning sounds like such a pain in the ass. It's unnatural to have to set your alarm for any time before 6 am. And yet... I could shower, dress and head for work in a complete haze. Once I arrived at work, I was able to start my real routine. I could set up the cart, put all of the pastries out, count the till, start up the machine and organize my day. I could do it on autopilot with my eyes closed.

Having a morning routine, starting my day on my terms, easing into the unpredictable chaos of the world, has kept me from killing many people. My mornings are for me. Some people cherish their time at night to unwind. I need my my mornings gear up.

I might have to resign myself to being a morning person, but this does not mean that I will tolerate overly perky morning people. Just because I'm awake early does not mean I want to deal with your loud, obnoxious, excessively joyful quirkiness. Shut up, sit down, and enjoy your coffee. 

---

I'm going to leave you with this. I grabbed it from a friend's facebook page and I thought it worth sharing. Enjoy :)

Playing Catch-Up

Thanksgiving set me back. A lot. I will never again set out to write that many posts in one week. Well, probably never. I just don't have the motivation to follow through with a task like that. Besides, with the last of the Thanksgiving dinners, there were far too many things I wanted to share but couldn't for fear of offending someone.

Anyway, a lot has happened during my blogging hiatus. For starters, I am no longer a barista! (That's not entirely true - I'll always be a barista, I'm just no longer a professional barista) At the end of the school quarter I quit my job at the coffee cart based on a promise of going full time at my new job. Although I will miss my coffee slinging days - the customers were great (some of them anyway), the job was easy (when I didn't have to deal with my boss), and let's face it, I was damn good at it! - I am excited to start a new part of my life!

Or at least I was.

Three days before Christmas, I attended a Christmas party at my new job, went with some coworkers for an 'after party', fell down some stairs and broke my leg/dislocated my ankle. I spent nearly all day of the 22nd at Harbor View Medical Center being poked, prodded, questioned (Seriously, how many times do you need me to recite my DOB, address and social security number and how many times do you want me to tell you that there is no way I could be even remotely close to pregnant?!) and tortured. Oh, and I had to go in for surgery. I've never had surgery before. The plus side: when you're in an ER, full of morphine, and the doctors tell you you're going to need surgery that afternoon, you don't have enough brain cells or time to get nervous.

Instead of going full time as a graphic designer, I am now forced to live out the first couple weeks of the new year at my mother's home where she can bring me meals, do my laundry and fetch things for me. It sounds great but it's getting old, fast. Not being able to do things for yourself because you're unable to walk or unable to walk and carry things simultaneously is, in a word, lame. I've been a able to do a little work from home but nothing even remotely close to 'full-time'.

So here I sit, gimpy legged, counting down the days (43) until I can get my cast off and walk on two legs again. Oh, and today is my Birthday. 28 years ago today I was born... and I couldn't walk... and today... I still can't. *womp womp*