How I met the ghetto (or, Wage Slavery in Orem)

The Plan has gotten old recently. The one about graduating high school (check), serving a mission (holy cow, check), marrying, graduating college, and living happily ever after. Somewhere in between my umpteenth A- grade and my thousandth roommate, the shiny promise of the premeditated life has become dull.

That all changed when I met Josh in a warehouse in Orem.

Recently, I had a conversation with myself. It went like this:

Rachael: You should really get a job, sis.

Rachael: That would require job searching...why not just be a bum on Cami's couch instead?

Rachael: That is tempting, but Cami might not be kosher with that. Also, if you get a job, you will have, drumroll please, A Purpose.

Rachael: Well, I already applied to like, six legitimate jobs. All that's left is Taco Bell.

Rachael: So? Spread your wings. Earn some cash. Be independent.

Rachael: Or I could call my home teacher and see if his temp job company is hiring.

Rachael: Atta girl.

It turns out that his temp job company was hiring. Three days later, I arrived all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at a warehouse in north Orem. According to my home teacher, I would be filling boxes with cosmetics. A fantastic place to start having A Purpose.

I would really love to market for [I probably shouldn't name them] Cosmetics.
"We use American wage slavery to competitively buy your loyalty"

There were about nine things that shocked me about the job right off that bat, as soon as I got there. Thing Number One's name was Josh. (Okay. Names and a few details have been changed. But this guy is real.) Things number two-through-seven were people a lot like Josh, although his story was by far the most riveting. Number eight was the realization that I was, indeed, spending hours and hours (and hours) of my life putting cosmetics in little boxes, voluntarily, on purpose, for money.

Number nine was the realization that my life has been blessed far, far beyond what I have ever appreciated. I am basically Life Royalty.

I step inside the warehouse. So. Hello, my name is Rachael, nice to meet you everyone, okay I'll sit down right here, what are we doing right now in this dark little room? Oh, constructing miniscule cardboard boxes, into which miniscule thirty-dollar samples of eyeliner are being placed? Okay. Sounds good.

About two hours into my first shift, I got to know my partner Josh a little better.

I try to be non-judgmental when I see men my age with heavy tattoos and baggy clothes. Josh was one of those people, and I told myself that he was probably the most wonderful person alive. I said to him, "So tell me about yourself, Josh. I see you've got a wedding ring on. How long have you been married?"

Josh seemed pretty pleased to answer this question. "Two years. My wife and I met at an NA meeting, and we've been together since."

Confused pause.

"So, what's an NA meeting?" I asked.

Sorry, guys. #sheltered

"Narcotics Anonymous." Oh. Okay. That. I was just about ready to stamp a big Nothing In Common sign on our relationship, but Josh kept going.

"We promised each other that we'd stay sober for each other. Every day, I come home clean, and it's because of my wife and kid," he continued. I was kind of wowed by that. "Is that hard?" I asked. "Yep. I crave every single day," he responded.

That seriously impressed me.

More details followed. When I shared that I had served a mission in Los Angeles, he asked if I was familiar with Compton and Watts. I was sort of like, yeah, I did go there once, but I later found out that it was against the rules for sister missionaries to visit that area...Okay, well, that's where Josh grew up. Not only that, but he grew up without parents. His mom was murdered by her boyfriend when Josh was just four years old. His dad was who-knows-where. Josh fathered his first child when he was fourteen, and the baby mama was sixteen. A few years later, the baby died in in a house fire at a friend's house. "It's kind of a heavy thing," Josh said matter-of-factly, "for a fourteen-year-old to have a kid. It was hard."

Tattoo-parlor jobs, some stints in jail, something about AK-47s, lots of beer cans and one beautiful new baby later, Josh was supporting his family of three. He worked full time (and probably overtime) at who knows how many seven-dollars-an-hour jobs. He spoke in glowing terms about his new family, and I honestly believe that he's one of the hardest workers I've ever met.

It seemed like everyone else at that job had similar stories. "My four-year old has a fever today. It's [swear-word] messed up that I can't be with him," said an eighteen-year-old girl.

"I never see my son, Ringo, and my wife any more. I'm at work almost all of the time, and when I'm not, I'm [swear-word] sleeping," said one muscly kid who was a year older than me.

"My girlfriend an I decided not to get married until I'm twenty-five at least. We don't want to have to deal with any [swear-word] kids until then."

"I lost my virginity in high school to a thirty-six year old woman."

"I lost mine to a thirty-three year old man."

As the conversation went around the table, I just sat there silently, staring at the little cardboard boxes we were folding. I badly, badly wanted to go back in time and hug four-year-old Josh. Or better yet, take out the piece-of-crap boyfriend who had murdered his mom. Although the boyfriend had probably had a piece-of-crap life, too.

Mostly, I just wanted to be a mom, really, really badly. I wanted to be a great mom, and I wanted Christ to give me a big hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay in these people's lives.

They didn't end up folding boxes for a living because they're not hard workers. Believe me, I've had a wide range of jobs in my short lifetime, and box folding is among the hardest. It's not because they're selfish. It's not because they're stupid. Somewhere along the line, no one taught them how to solve arguments with nice words; no one taught them to love reading; no one taught them to confidently expect to come home to two unconditionally affectionate parents every day.

It made me sick, heavy, and kind of sorrowful.

Guys, we don't know what we have. We seriously have no idea. And thank heavens for that, too; no one should have to live a life with those kinds of disadvantages.

I'm really grateful for my short-lived temp job. To be honest, I'm no longer looking at people with tattoos and baggy clothes as "others," or as "people I should be nice to." I look at them and I see role models—hard-working, somewhat war-torn brothers and sisters, ones who weren't lucky enough to get born in a palace and with a tiara, like I did.

And as for The Plan...it's back on track. I'm gonna finish college, guys, if I wasn't sure enough before. I'm going to gratefully do my homework. I'm going to be enthused about working hard. And I want to be a wife and mom. I want to give kids a great start in life. I want to be Christ's servant. And I want to be a good one. God's children deserve it.

How Elsa Owns Anxiety

Frozen. It's about winning over anxiety.

You know that scene where Anna and Elsa’s parents just died? And Anna is sitting outside Elsa’s bedroom, confused and upset because Elsa is still shutting her out? And then all of a sudden you see Elsa on the other side of the door, and it’s like a nuclear explosion of frostbite madness emanating from Elsa’s body?

(somewhat sketchy and probably illegal copy of this scene)

When I saw that scene for the first time, I almost choked on my popcorn. That’s it, I thought. Disney has portrayed what I could not--this is EXACTLY what anxiety feels like.

Okay, to further illustrate. Remember that scene where Anna is trying to get Elsa off the frozen mountain and back to Arendelle? Did you pick up on Elsa’s lyrics?

“I’m such a fool,

I can’t be free…

No escape from the storm inside of me.

I can’t control the curse.

There’s so much fear.

You’re not safe here.”

Frozen is an almost perfect analogy for generalized anxiety disorder. Like, so much so that it’s trippy. We N.S.O.P.H.’s sometimes freak out and lose control of our powers...

but...

if we’re being honest…

we have power. Don’t say that you don’t wish you could be Elsa for just like five minutes.

Let’s take a second to recognize how butt-kickingly awesome Elsa is. She has magical powers. She makes an entire ice castle in like, three musical minutes. She creates snow-henchmen and Olafs with the flick of her finger. And--this one is important--Elsa brings out the best in Anna. I mean, Anna’s pretty cool, but she’s kind of got nothing going for her until her sister goes nuts. And then Anna becomes a hero.

What’s the takeaway here?

Takeaway 1: Support system.

I just wanna give a shout-out to all of the Anna’s (and Olaf's and Sven's and Kristoff's) out there. You are ESSENTIAL for our survival. For reals. For everyone who’s ever dealt with a friend’s anxiety, giving them space and/or love as the situation demands, forgiven angry anxious outbursts, and/or shanghaied a studly ice transporter person on a crazy adventure up a snowy mountain in order to rescue our sorry bums, I just wanna say...you’re the best. Seriously. Aren’t you glad we force...er...bring out your better selves?

This is you. No big deal.

Takeaway 2: Embrace your special powers.

Let it go, sis, let it go

Okay. Anxiety is like living life on high-intensity mode, and there are a lot of downsides to that. But anxiety also often accompanies creativity, drive, and some other positive traits. Like ice-magic-wielding powers. Sometimes us N.S.O.P.H.’s are like that. We’re struggling, struggling, struggling, trying to find a calm in the storm, and accidentally we create something amazing. Van Gogh and Albert Einstein are good examples.

I feel like Dr. Banner/Hulk also fits into this category.

Takeaway 3: Summer inevitably comes.

I’m going to be honest….as cool as it is to be Elsa on top of that mountain, dressed like a classy gorgeous diva and singing like a goddess at the top of your lungs, it’s so much better to be safely down in Arendelle. I think most of us N.S.O.P.H. will admit that although anxiety makes us unique, it’s a pretty heavy burden.

Sometimes it feels like you’re wandering in the middle of the frozen fjords and the cold just keeps on coming out from inside you. You’re alone; your friends are upset at you; you’ve hurt yourself and other people; and you’re devastated by how fruitless your efforts to protect them have been. You wish things were different.

“Only an act of true love can thaw a frozen heart…” Yep, I’m going there. I don’t think I can really explain this one as well as it deserves. But in the middle of really intense pain, really intense love goes a long, long, long, long, long long long way. Like, the kind of love where my sister drops everything she’s doing to go for a run with me in the middle of the night when the anxiety is bad. Or the kind of love where I pray for peace and just for like five minutes I’m filled so strongly with the love of God that it’s breathtaking. Or the kind of love where I forgive myself for the curse.

Guys, Frozen. It’s all about anxiety. And thank heavens that after long, icy, humorous, painful, wittily-crafted plot sequences, there’s Arendelle in summer down at the bottom of the mountain. I believe that. I believe it with all my princess-loving, steadily-thawing little-girl heart.

Field Study #1...

Stranger than fiction, yesterday I had an encounter with One Of Them...

He appeared normal, but that shouldn't fool you. There he was, sitting in my kitchen, slurping up some soup like it was no big thing for one of His Kind to be sitting docilely in my kitchen. I was afraid that he was going to run away before I could take any good field notes. But oh what juicy data I ended up getting...I'm going to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The following is a faithful record of what transpired.

I had just gotten back from my daily run (you know, the one where you peel yourself off your bed and you do some deep breathing and a bunch of self-talk and the anxiety is finally calm enough for you to go outside and exercise). So I'm walking in the door, winded, patting the anxiety monster on the head in momentary victory; I grab some chow and sit down across from This Guy (we're going to call him Ben). Psh. I was totally oblivious.

"Can I ask you a question?" Ben says, sort of unexpectedly.

Nod nod, munch munch. "What's up?"

Ben shrugs. "I'm just trying to figure out if my life is easy or if everyone else just complains more than I do."

"What do you mean, Ben?" My rare-breed-of-human sensors hadn't yet clicked on. I was eating delicious chicken-and-potato soup and cannot be held accountable for the slowness of my apprehension. 

"Well, probably every single Sunday," Ben continues, "I hear someone talk about some huge trial that they're going through in their life. And I mean, life isn't perfect, but I don't think I have any huge trials, and I'm trying to figure out what everyone's talking about."

Yes, this conversation really happened, right in my kitchen, folks. He had exposed himself of One Of Them. Family: Psychological Health. Genus: Perfect Specimen Of.

"You're not going through anything difficult right now?" I asked warily.

"Nope. Not really. And it doesn't look like my life is that different from the lives of the people around me," says Ben. That's because you blend in, I thought.

"What about people who are going through divorce and loss and chronic illness?" I say.

"Yeah. But I feel like that stuff is a lot more rare than common. I mean, I'm happy...pretty much all of the time. Occasionally I feel depressed, but if I just change my attitude, I'm just fine."

There you are, folks. He said it, not me. A decent, hardworking, jovial kind of guy with absolutely no grasp on the intense reality of suffering. That can't be healthy. I decided to Lower the Boom.

"What would you say if I told you that I just got back home in September from my mission—eight months early, anorexic, suicidal, and delusional? I weighed like ninety-five pounds. You would never have known that if I hadn't told you, right?"

Me on the right...circa 100 lbs

Specimen does one of those cartoonish double-takes and his eyes get really big. "Oh...oh, wow. Wow. I mean, you've done a really good turn-around."

Oh Ben. Every single day is an uphill battle. A lot of days are crazy uphill battles with hair-pulling and irrational obsessive worrying and problems with my medication and the tight fear that I'll never really be okay again. And every day I have at least a little while where I'm like, man, I'm doing really okay right now. I think I'll do my homework or eat something. This is so nice.

Here's the clincher, though, and it's what people like Ben somehow don't know: Most people that you know are going through something pretty darn difficult.

Me on the right...having
eaten food

What about my one friend who told me last week about his depression and eating disorder? What about that other friend who finally is going to therapy for his lifelong anxiety and depression? What about that different friend who tells God, a little jokingly, every single day, "You know it would be really okay if I died today?" What about that one friend who was emotionally and physically abused and will never, never be one-hundred percent over it? What about that one friend whose childhood was a hellish nightmare? These are all people, not scenarios.

Okay guys, this isn't supposed to be depressing. There are plenty of well-adjusted people out there too. And for the record, I wouldn't change Ben's life if I could. It's always refreshing to catch a glimpse of Their Kind.

Someday, up there in that big BYU in the sky, we're all going to be healed of our physical and psychological problems. We're just gonna be a bunch of light-hearted, happy-go-lucky Bens with occasional worries and not much to chat about in Sunday School. (Well, maybe.) But for all you fellow non-Specimens, curious Specimens or Questioning, I know it can be a long road.

I hereby promise to keep a faithful record of my life as a Non-Specimen of Psychological Health (N.S.O.P.H., for clarity's sake). Boom-lowering aside, you're going to like it. Because as nuts-business as my life has been over the past year and a half, I'm weirdly, in a very cool and not-predicted way, healing.

Medication works. Therapy works. Close friends are essential. Feeling like you're not alone in what you're going through--also essential. Guys. I've been using these crazy esoteric tactics and...okay, so maybe you'd never guess where I've been, but you're going to be even more impressed with where I'm going.

If you're a fellow N.S.O.P.H, I bet you anything that you need an occasional injection of realistic, humorous, tell-it-like-it-is hope. And I promise to do my utmost to give that to you. If you're NOT an N.S.O.P.H., you're in for a treat. Because as crazy as this sounds, we N.S.O.P.H.'s are among the most hardy, humorous, resilient, and realistic people out there. Grab your binoculars...