Could we be devolving?

Yesterday I walked through an exhibit on evolution at a museum in Austin, and it got me thinking about human evolution. Over time, humans have evolved to have more useful characteristics due to natural selection. Our legs have become longer because those with longer legs could more easily catch food and escape predators, making them more likely to survive and reproduce. Our brains are larger than our ancestors because intelligence also made us more likely to survive and thrive.

Natural selection occurs in nature, but we don't live in nature any more. We live in a superficial world of our own creation where the likelihood of survival and reproduction isn't dependent on having superior genetic traits. People who might have died young due to disease or predisposition to illness live long lives thanks to our knowledge of health and medicine. Could this result in genetic predisposition to disease and illness being proliferated to the next generation? Isn't this the opposite of natural selection: devolution?

I frequently notice behavior in our society that leads me to believe that our culture is changing for the worse, not the better. The population seems to be getting more lazy. People don't appear to care about anything the way they used to. Even in my industry, it seems like innovation is pretty stagnant these days. What we consider innovative would have been considered incremental a generation ago.

Americans used to be idealistic and motivated to pursue their dreams, whatever those may have been. These days, it seems like most people are satisfied with the status quo, or their "dream" is to sit around watching reality television. For a long time now, I've assumed this shift is occurring for cultural reasons. Previous generations established traditions and policies with the intent of giving my generation a better life, but they really just enabled my generation to be lazy, to the detriment of us all.

After walking through that evolution exhibit, I started to wonder whether this shift toward laziness and apathy isn't a result of more than just cultural influences. What if we're actually devolving into dumber, more inept versions of our ancestors due to lack of natural selection? If this is true, we should be diligent to make sure we are progressing as a culture since nature isn't going to do us any favors.

If I could send a message to my generation, it would be this: I don't care what you do, but please do something to make the world a better place. Find something you care about, and take action to influence it for the better. We may be helpless against nature, but we can control the traditions and policies that we establish for the next generation. Let's make sure that the legacy we leave behind is one that makes our future, chimp-like descendants proud. 

I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist

Ok, I should rephrase that. I can't believe how hard it is to find a psychiatrist who meets my standards.

Over the past two weeks, I've had several bad panic attacks. I've had panic attacks before. I got my first one in 6th grade, so I'm no stranger to them. However, I've had a really enjoyable two year hiatus. I've been doing a great job of managing my anxiety for the past two years, but it's been steadily rising for a few months now. I didn't realize just how bad it had gotten until the panic attacks started. Anxiety is a sneaky bastard.

Upon further reflection, I realized that in a typical day, I am committed to about 28 hours worth of activities. I make it work by doing things like working through lunch, skipping a couple hours of sleep, making phone calls while I'm out running, and eating cereal for dinner. It has actually been working, and I've taken great pride in this. Note that when I say that it is "working," I mean I've barely managed to stay alive.

The reality is that I've been burning the candle at both ends. I'm tired. I'm agitated. When the smallest unexpected thing happens, I can't handle it. I just didn't plan time for it in my schedule, and I can't afford any set backs. Unexpected things always happen (especially at my job), so the pile of commitments just keeps on growing. I feel like I'm drowning, so I'm in constant fight or flight mode. I prefer fight to flight, so I'm a real pleasure to be around. Considering all this, it's no surprise that I started having panic attacks again. I don't really have time in my busy schedule to hang out on the floor hyperventilating, so the time has come (once again) for me to enlist the help of a professional.

When I went to the Cigna website, I just assumed there would be dozens of mental health professionals of the highest caliber waiting to solve my problems. My primary requirement was that they were in my health insurance network because I don't need the extra stress of burning $100 bills. Once I started perusing the list, I realized my requirements were actually more numerous.

First and foremost, I refuse to consider any doctor in Vancouver. I don't think any explanation is required there.

From there, it starts to get a little fuzzy. I don't like one doctor's name. I feel like I can't trust someone with a name like "Magna Doodlepants" to help me. That wasn't actually it, but I assure you that it was equally stupid.

I don't like the next lady because she doesn't seem very solutions focused. I don't need to pay someone just to listen to me. My friends do that for free as long as I give them wine and cookies.

I don't like the next lady because she has only been practicing in this country for a couple of years, and I feel like she won't understand the cultural influences that are contributing to my anxiety.

I Google the next doctor, find a picture of her, and I'm convinced she's missing an eye. She isn't wearing an eye patch, but one of her eyes is clearly fake. I know I would just stare at it and wonder if she lost it in a knife fight instead of focusing on my shit.

The next lady is 80 years old. I can't deal with old people smell. You can't get it out of your clothes.

The next lady looks PERFECT, but specializes in pediatric psychology. Why is she showing up in my search? Clearly just to taunt me with what I can't have.

This literally goes on until I reach the end of the list, and it finally dawns on me that I know exactly what I'm looking for: Me, but a psychiatrist. Who would better understand ME than someone who is like ME: a Portland-dwelling woman under the age of 80 with a normal name who solves problems and isn't missing any body parts. I'll be damned, but she doesn't exist, so I called to make appointments with three doctors who almost met that criteria.

I'm convinced that this is going to be a terrific disaster, but I guess I don't really have much of a choice. Wish me luck.

My Anxious Life: Part 1.

I’ve always been very private about my anxiety, but I’ve come to realize that I’m just a little different from most people, and there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, my anxiety has provided me with the motivation and drive that has made me so successful and happy in life. However, my life would have been considerably easier if the anxiety had been diagnosed earlier.

I know my parents feel guilty for not recognizing my anxiety when I was a kid. They recognized early on that I was very smart, and they did their best to encourage my intellectual development. They knew I was different, but they figured the anxiety-driven behaviors were just side effects of high intellect. I actually think that might be true to some extent. Everyone I know who has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder is extremely intelligent, so maybe there is a correlation.

I wish I could have explained my anxiety to my parents when I first became aware of it at the age of three. However, even an intelligent child usually doesn’t have the self-awareness or real world perspective to recognize what the hell is going on when they have anxiety.

“Mom. Dad. Certain shit has come to light, and I think I would benefit from seeing a psychiatrist.”

I wish it would have been that way, but it wasn’t, and I don’t blame my parents for not understanding something they had probably never had any experience with. I plan to write a series of blogs about my experiences with anxiety. Maybe you’ll recognize some of these behaviors in the children or adults in your life and be able to help them identify the source and seek some help. Maybe you’ll just become more aware of generalized anxiety disorder, a condition that affects millions of Americans. It’s also possible that you’ll just find the stories entertaining, and that’s ok too.

My earliest memories of having anxiety are from my first year of pre-school. It was blanket anxiety stemming from the fact that the other 3 year olds stressed me the fuck out. They couldn’t sit still. They were loud. They were unpredictable. Sometimes they threw tantrums. They slept during nap time, which was probably the only thing they did that didn’t scare me. I would lie awake quietly during nap time, savoring the silence and wondering when I would be allowed to “wake up” and read.

I told my parents that I didn’t like school because I didn’t like the other kids. A discussion immediately ensued between the two of them about my socialization (or perhaps lack thereof) with other kids my age. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I could tell that they were troubled by the situation. Soon thereafter, I had a couple of play dates with other kids my age. These play dates were slightly less stressful than school since there was only one crazy kid there, but they really weren’t enjoyable for me. I immediately learned to refrain from complaining about school.

Since there wasn’t any help coming to save me from the anxiety I felt as school, I had to figure out some way to alleviate the anxiety. I would bite the inside of my mouth because that seemed to take my mind off of the situation. I could focus on my throbbing, bloody lip instead of the kid who was running around screaming “POOP!!!” Unfortunately, that didn’t always work. Sometimes there were several kids running around screaming, and on those days I needed a more powerful antidote. I started biting my hands and arms whenever I went to the bathroom. I didn’t bite them very hard, just hard enough to distract myself. The marks went away within minutes, and I felt considerably better.

Then there was a day I can clearly remember when about 10 kids shit their pants. Someone must have put laxatives in the apple sauce. The whole place smelled like the inside of a port-a-potty. The kids who shit their pants were crying. The kids who didn’t shit their pants were crying on account of the smell, and who could blame them? I couldn’t take all that noise and shit stench, so I bit the hell out of my arms during the next bathroom trip. I bit them too hard. The marks didn’t go away.

The teachers didn’t notice, but my parents did.

Mom says: “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR ARMS!?”

I think: Uh-oh. She’s mad. This isn’t good.

Mom says: “JENNIFER, I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”

I think: I don’t want to lie, but I can’t tell the truth.

Mom says: “ANSWER ME, JENNIFER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

I say: “Someone bit me.” True, but a lie by omission of key details.

Mom says: “WHAT!? WHO?”

I think: Shit. ShitShitShit. Think fast.

Mom says: “PLEASE ANSWER ME.”

I say: “Michelle.”

Michelle was the biggest bully in the pre-school, and was always inflicting injuries on the other kids. I didn’t want to lie. I really didn’t. I’ve always hated lying, but somehow, I knew that the truth would fuck me over way more than the guilt of the lie in this situation. I still feel bad about the lie to this day.

Michelle obviously denied everything, but they didn’t believe her because she was such a horrible kid. The truth is, she didn’t get into much trouble. They just told her that she couldn’t keep beating up on the other kids, which I’m pretty sure was already part of the regular bi-weekly lecture she was getting for socking kids in the stomach. I never hurt myself again because I couldn’t bear the thought of telling another lie, or worse yet, getting caught in the truth.