uptempodemonplumsauce: "Omigawd!"

...said Pancho the Parrot and made me laugh til I cried.

Pancho's effect on me

745a

I sleep in! I yoga without crying again. I’m concerned. Where’s the release? Did I just spend 75 minutes doing surface yoga??

I write in the library. I take more pictures of murals. (scroll to the bottom for these) On my way home, I can’t help stopping by Jardín Rama again. I love this place. As I wait for my tacos I hear a scratchy “Hola!!” from the garage behind the restaurant. That’s how I meet Pancho the Parrot.

He’s gorgeous. Just my type. Loud and obnoxious from afar, but when you get to know him better you discover he’s shy and sweet. He put on quite a show, trying to mate with me. Every time he says “Hola!”, I laugh and cry at the same time, like I do when Stella (dog, not bestie) shows me her toothy grin. Animals, y’all. They’re so much better than people.

When I get home Martha asks me about my weekend plans. Home is the main plan. She asks me about friends or going out…? Nah, I like home. She suggests El Jardín Principal (the main garden, the city's social center) because Friday nights there’s all kind of revelry, mariachis, huge dancing monos (dolls)…

Sunset fm El Jardín

I haven’t been out later than 8p the whole time I’ve been here. I should see what Martha’s talking about, right? Huge dancing dolls? Sounds terrifying and spectacular!

645p

El Jardín is packed with people. I soak up the scene. It’s a beautiful sunset. I sit down on a low wall and people watch. I write, because I don’t know what else to do with myself.

There are kindergarteners with begging cups. They approach the couple next to me. I don’t have any money to give them, and I don't want to tell 6 year olds, “No.” There’s a chicken I need to cook at home. Altogether, I last about fifteen minutes out in El Jardín.

On my way home, I get caught up in a wedding parade featuring mariachis and HUGE, DANCING DOLLS. I weave in and out of a crowd of beautiful people. This is a much better party than El Jardín. Once the parade arrives to the park, I watch the bride and groom dance, flanked by huge dolls that have stopped their dancing to make way for the real stars of the show.

Felicidades!

I finally get to bed after trying an atrocious roasted chicken recipe that I undercook because I’m too tired to put it back in the oven. Seriously.

9/8, 830a

ZUMBAAA!

Last Saturday morning, while I was walking the dogs, I heard a party. That party was ZUMBA in the park. I vowed, HELL YES, I’ll be there next Saturday.

It's a large crowd, equal parts Mexican and Anglo, a huge age range. The instructor (Cesar Espinosa Camarillo!) is fantastic: sexy dancer, great personality and impeccable rhythm. BONUS: he uses hand signals to teach. (I could never ever master teaching dance fitness with hand signals, and always envied the badass teachers that could.) His signaling is so precise, my body understands them before my brain does and I move without having to think which is AMAZING. The class is FUN and I highly recommend it, should you find yourself in SMA on a Saturday morning.

Cesar bombs my Instastory

The class kicks my ass. I’m in excellent shape, and I’m exhausted. I want to go straight back to bed after, except I have breakfast plans with Melissa.

After breakfast (tamale plate at the market, EXCELLENT), I’m still exhausted and not feeling great. I’m hyper sensitive to every sound and smell. I keep imagining the undercooked chicken I tasted last night and wait for the food poisoning to erupt.

I arrive home and go straight to sleep. After a few hours of bed, and zero gross signs of food poisoning besides no appetite, I find a yoga class online that is supposed to rejuvenate me. (I’m rolling my eyes at MYSELF, so you don’t have to.) I feel better I guess, but I don't know what to do. I feel like I have tons of stuff to take care of, but I stand in the kitchen and stare at the dog food.

~Trigger alert: If you suffer from anxiety, this is about anxiety~

I wasn’t sure how or if I should address the rest of my afternoon/evening, but why not? I could pretend travel is the answer to everything and my life is all tacos and tequila, or I could tell the truth.

Tamale breakfast plate

The truth is, I don’t feel well because of my head not my gut. I’ve been distracting myself from facing Stuff because Stuff scares me. I'm calling it Stuff because I don't exactly know a better word that isn't loaded with judgmental BS like "issues" or "my Shadow Self". My Stuff comes to the surface a few times a year. Sometimes it’s activated by a specific failure or trauma, sometimes I walk into it like a cloud of summer flies.

This Stuff is summer flies. I’m rave-texting a friend about the benefits of facing your deep down, dark, awful Junk when I feel a wash of anxiety so alarming, it’s like my skin is being peeled from my body.

I try to convince myself: No. I’m talking about their Junk, not my Stuff. My Stuff is great, I’m in Mexico for crying out loud, I’m GIVING advice, I don’t need to feel this… I take the dogs for a walk to escape the sudden claustrophobia of this giant house. The air against my skin feels like ice and sand. Outside feels terrifying.

My panic is familiar, but it doesn’t make it less scary. I realize if I don’t allow myself to Purge now, the next time Stuff hits me I may not be alone, and I’ll make a fool out of myself and then what will people think?

Pretty proud of my quesadilla flatbread

So that’s my Saturday night. I Purge Stuff for a couple hours and come out the other side with swollen eyes and pages of journal scribble mental vomit, exhausted. It wasn’t the chicken, it turns out. I don't feel great, but feel better than I did. I can even eat a little dinner.

As I write this, I feel exposed. I don’t have to address my anxiety, but then I’d be lying to you and, by extension, myself. When I write, I write truth. It’s easy for me to speak lies, but it’s next to impossible for me to write them.

Maybe that’s why I don’t talk to my closest loves about my anxiety episode, even though I speak with or text all of them within 24 hours of the Purge. I’m afraid they’ll worry or want to fix me. I don’t want any of that. I just want to be honest. I’ve been told I come off as hyper capable and in control. I am both, and sometimes I’m also an anxious mess of doubt, shame, unworthiness, etc.

One last thought before I end this torture: This story doesn’t feel good enough. It was just anxiety, I’m not Sybil or anything.

(You notice I say I had an "anxiety episode"? That's because anxiety attacks go to the hospital. People think they're having a heart attack; I never thought it was a heart attack, so I can control my own narrative.

Note: this is hiding because of stigma and shame. Honestly, I don't know what it was, I just know I needed to stop ignoring it before it took me down.)

My fierce friend, Jordyn (@jordynrwagner on IG), is a passionate advocate for mental health awareness. When she shares about her journey, I feel less alone. Even though my story isn’t as dramatic as my ego would like it to be to earn a spot on my sacred blog, I’m making myself share it. Maybe if you find yourself feeling really shitty on the inside even though you look like you’ve got it all handled on the outside, you’ll feel less alone, too.