I know I haven’t blogged in about a month and I do
feel terrible about that. But it’s time for some honesty. This past month has
been tough in a lot of ways: physically, mentally, and spiritually. And for
some reason I’ve had trouble summoning up the mental energy to put my thoughts
into writing, a problem I haven’t had in quite a while. Usually, I love to
write and express myself. But not lately. Allow me to explain.
A few
days after I wrote my first blog post for this trip, I came down with a case of
food poisoning. This would have been nasty enough, especially since it’s the
second time this year, but it was quickly followed by an intestinal infection
that took advantage of my weak stomach and immune system to give me a rather
unpleasant week. After finally getting rid of that problem with helpful
antibiotics, I discovered I had been exposed to lice (which I thankfully never
got). To my slightly obsessive self, this led to a whole day of home treatments
and about a week of imaginary itches all over my scalp. No sooner was that over
than I contracted what I thought was allergies to something in the air, but
what I’m pretty certain is a bad head cold. On top of this, my stomach decided
that this was the perfect time to have a bad reaction to something I ate. Which
literally brings us up to this weekend.
All
this stuff would constitute a problem for a person with normally functioning
emotional and mental responses. But mine aren’t normal, and haven’t been in
about three years. In the spring of 2014, I was diagnosed with a depression and
anxiety disorder which had managed to wreak all kinds of havoc in my life
before I realized what was wrong. What does this mean practically? It means
that oftentimes I have to be careful about how long I’m in a noisy or stimulating
environment, as too much sound and activity can cause a panic attack. For me,
this means shaking, trouble breathing, and sometimes a twisting feeling in my
stomach. Although this is partially just the way my brain is wired, I obsess
way too much over everything, playing back possible or real scenarios over and
over again until I just want my brain to stop. Things that are insignificant in
themselves break me when they pile up in one day. When it gets really severe
(which is blessedly rare), I don’t want to talk to anyone but close friends or
family members and often not even to them. I tend to hide inside myself,
spending a lot of time in mindless activities that don’t require engagement. During
these times, I’m exhausted inside, no matter how much I’ve slept the previous
night. It takes all my energy to process the strictly necessary activities of
the day. I don’t have the stamina to invest in others during these times; I
just want to crawl in bed and stay there until I feel less empty.
Thankfully,
these incidents have grown rarer with counseling and treatment, but they’re
unfortunate aspects of my life that I still have to consider when making
decisions and plans. So I guess I wasn’t completely surprised when I had a
major relapse during this trip. Right after the food poisoning and before I
found out that I had an infection, I began to realize that I just felt bad. I spent most of the next 1-2 weeks
in my room, playing Nancy Drew computer games and wishing I could go home. I
went to my classes and taught, but they were all I had the energy to do. I had
started volunteering at an orphanage (which you will totally get a blog post on
soon!), but I stopped going there. I just couldn’t handle the extra
stimulation. Besides, how was I supposed to explain a panic attack to a
2-year-old if it happened while I was there? “I’m sorry, but your screaming
overstimulates me, so now I’m gonna sit in this corner and shake. Please give
me some space and try to be a bit quieter so I can get back to normal.” Nope, not
going to work at all. My anxiety began to subside when treatment for the
infection began, and I slowly began doing things like eating out and
interacting with people again. But I’m fairly sure I worried the people around
me a lot, as talking about depression and anxiety is a relatively new
phenomenon in the U.S. and doesn’t seem to happen a lot in Bolivia.
So
why did I come to Bolivia with the kind of problem I have? Change, stress,
culture shock, pressure, sickness, separation from family and friends…all
definite triggers for me. But I decided at the time of my diagnosis to live-and
to hold back from this trip because of fear would not have been living. This
kind of trip has been my dream since early in college, and I am blessed to have
been able to come here. Has it been hard? Very much so. Has it always been fun?
Nope. Am I going to say at the end that I now want to live here forever and
ever? Unlikely.
I was
asked by a dear friend the other day whether, in spite of all the issues, my
trip has been good. And I can unabashedly say yes. There have been some
wonderful times, some great Spanish practice, some crazy adventures, and a
slow, steady movement out of the spiritual darkness that depression and anxiety
exacerbated. I have seen God move for the first time in forever (Did I actually
quote a Frozen song there? Weirdly enough, that was unintentional). I have
worshipped to random rap songs that are not necessarily “Christian material.” I
have become “auntie” to seventeen little kids. I have met some incredible
people, both from the places I am volunteering and randomly on the street. I
have danced, laughed myself silly, crashed a wedding, and seen some of the most
beautiful mountains in existence. I have lived. 
The Cathedral in Cochabamba where I accidentally walked in on the prep for a wedding
(the roses are not standard church decorations)
