It’s been exactly (ok, over) 4 years since I began to medicate with pharmaceuticals. My mental state prior was comparable to a shelf of my grandmother’s fine china, on the San Andreas fault. Trembling and unable to compose myself enough to do what needed to be done, I quietly sulked at home, avoiding reality at any cost.

You’re probably curious at this point; why is a blog about mental illness on a LA culture blog? Especially when it hasn’t been updated in a minute.

To most, I appear as in control woman who travels constantly  (while not blogging) without issue as I post photo after photo of bucket list destinations (not on my blog). When others mention their anxiety of planes and air travel, I commiserate along beside them. Three side eyes and an eye roll later, my story is being demanded by my grounded company.

Being a high functioning (read: heavily medicated) anxious person makes others naysay your affliction. I confess, I had an EXCELLENT therapist who was a total hardass that made me take responsibility for my emotions, and taught me to be more introspective when I’m in the trenches. I gotta say, it makes all the difference. That, and being on a low dose of Lexapro with a dash of Xanax improved my standard of living. Instead of rattling dishes, I could finally relate to my spirit animal: a goat.

Seriously?

A goat doesn’t give a single fuck about anything except eating. And scratching it’s itchy spots. And spawning. But mostly eating.

I visualize that when I am seated at a gate, or on a plane, when I’m feeling like the fault line is going to crack, and send all the saucers and tea cups to their fiery death. Or, I yell at myself in the toliet closet to “snap out of it” while dancing and singing like a goat would do if she could.

Sometimes I think I should have went with Cheetah, but they’re just as anxious as me.

The mind is a powerful, pissed off demon at times. I refuse to let it hold me back from doing the things I love the most.

So, if the idea of being a goat can get me through a trans-pacific, or Atlantic flight, I think I’ll take it.

With a side of Xanax, of course.