Travel Diaries: part I

This is my first time flying internationally alone. I fly domestically alone quite frequently. I love it. I'm a champion at TSA checks and kiosk ticketing. The anticipation, though, of flying from Dublin to London and London to Tel Aviv is a trip that creates a lot of apprehension. There's a lot that can go wrong.

My previous blog discussed a lot about my anxiety and panic attacks and triggers. Because I am ridiculously self-aware and beginning to do a better job at actually doing something with my awareness--I do a lot to be proactive about preventing triggers from occurring. This is apparent in the saga of preparing and executing the plan for traveling today. 

For example:

I showed up the airport eleven hours before my flight takes off. one more time, in case you're scanning ELEVEN HOURS EARLY. Sometimes, even I surprise myself, and I am both calmed by such ridiculousness and amused by what I will sometimes choose as the most stress-free plan of action.

Let me defend, momentarily, my decision to arrive so prematurely. 

I have a very short layover in London. (but wait, Katie, you're obsessed with plans, and you are so thorough, what happened? My travel agent is a bit inept, that's putting it nicely. Lesson: book your own tickets, kids) So, I decided I would come to the airport with my class in hopes that I could switch my flight to an earlier one (one leaving in two hours). Switching flights is appealing for multiple reasons: 1. I am at the airport 11 hours before I need to be. 2. I want my bags to make it to Bethlehem, too 3. I have been sick, and the idea of rushing my butt to an entirely new terminal sounds like the literal worst. 4. I like my class, the taxi was cheap, etc, etc.

Here's how that went:

Katie approaches Aer Lingus desk in Terminal 2 of Dublin Airport, and explains above situation. 

Nice employee says that I can't do that for some completely understandable reason that will result in Katie getting charged a no-show fee. and directs me to terminal 1 for the sake of double checking with the parent airline.

 Katie walks with a 20 lb duffle bag and carry on to the terminal next door, through said terminal, to a very small desk being manned by two very unpleasant women. Women provide same answer, suggest I call my travel agent (at 3:00am in the US, on a weekend) to reschedule, and quickly dismiss me.

Katie returns the way she came to terminal 2. Tries to call Elly, who is obviously NOT AT WORK AT 3AM ON SUNDAY. and decides to just check in and write a blog about it.

So I did. 

I am going to get on this flight in 8 hours. 

I am going to 'trot' (as nice travel man from above scenario described it) from terminal 2 to 5 in London. And I am going to make this dang flight if it is the last thing I do. 

All the while doing all of that in chocos, a maxi skirt and weird cotton t-shirt. I look very very very mennonite farm-kid meets amish mafia meets gap. It's a good look. At least I don't need to worry about being abducted. 

All for now. 

KC

Panic attacks

I've been having panic attacks my entire life. I know this to be true, not because I have known my entire life that my episodes are panic attacks but, because counseling has helped me accept and identify that I have an anxiety disorder. I can remember sever times in my childhood where a panic attack occurred, when I fled the room our of embarrassment, etc etc.

These episodes never become normative. They happen for ridiculous reasons (forgetting my credit card at home, breaking a rule at my best friend's house, watching my dad mow the lawn, losing weight) and often result in pretty extreme fatigue. For the first time in my life I can acknowledge what they are, but I still absolutely hate them.

I had a panic attack yesterday, that's why I'm writing this. Actually, yesterday isn't super accurate. This time, my panic attack started two days ago, lasted through the night and ended sometime yesterday evening. It was scary. I couldn't eat, I managed to sleep but I woke up exhausted by muscles tension, I was afraid of everyone, and all I wanted to do was just curl up in a ball and cry.

Eventually I did. And I did that for close to three hours. It was cathartic, and somewhat comforting, but it was hard. 

It was hard to realize that even after a year of counseling and cognitive behavioral therapy these episodes would still happen and still be somewhat uncontrollable. It was was hard to realize that panic attacks can happen anywhere, even on trips with classmates and best friends. It was hard to realize that I was about to be alone for seven weeks and: whatifoneofthesehappensinbethlehemandiamallaloneanditisshamefultocryandidontwanttoseemweakand...

I think you probably understand.

What was hardest about all of this though, is that it wasn't the last time. Posting a blog about my anxiety and panic attacks isn't a cause of celebration of being cured, but a step at becoming more honest and transparent about what it can be like to be myself sometimes. I do a really good job at letting people know the good things, the exciting things, and the impressive things. I usually try to hide the nitty-gritty of this. I don't like being honest about how sever my panic attacks are. I don't like telling people the depths of my anxiety. I don't like being asked questions. I don't like being pittied. 

But I'm starting to realize that I can't do this all by myself, and so maybe a first step is learning to share with everyone that these things happen, that they're hard, and that I'm learning to live with it in an honest way.

Two days ago, I had a panic attack which has left me in bed all day today. There. Honesty.

Three days in

Dear Friends,

Today was heavy.
After a semester of learning what we (kind of) could from books and movies, we dove head-on into Northern Ireland's history.
I did not retain a lot, but here is where I'm at:

Reconciliation is a long process. Signatures on a line, handshakes in photos, and a lack of bombs does not mean that a culture has actually shifted in any significant way. I met two men today, they are from different sides of Derry, and they are friends. But what troubled me was that once one man was gone, the tone of the other became drastically defensive. There seemed to be no letting go, no intentional altering of cultural norms and expectations. There was a lot of defensiveness, a lot of long-explanations, but no story of personal transformation.

I have come to the conclusion that reconciliation is a fluid and personal journey, as much as it takes place between people and groups.
If we rely solely on relationships to count towards reconciliation, if we think having friends from the other side of the bridge is enough, we miss out. We forget that reconciliation means giving up, forgiving, and doing so independently of the other side.
The other side may need to forgive something completely separate, they may have completely different needs, hurts, and expectations; and if we spend all of our time focusing on that--what gets done? We spend years and years in the same chairs with the same angry banter getting no where.

Instead, we must begin the work of reconciliation personally, and within our own communities. And if we do this simultaneously as we also build relationships and repair broken structures; there may be more room for the spaces of peace we ourselves create to be filled with meaningful transformation.

Furthermore. On a more specific note:
Labeling oppressor and oppressed is really tricky, and we probably shouldn't ever do that.

instead, what I found helpful today was going through a process of identifying things within communities which maintained myths of: victimization, superiority, power, and historical narrative. As myths are identified, I think the grey issues in conflicts become a bit more manageable and the reconciliation process above becomes more attainable. Identifying key points also elimiates our need as peacemakers and justice-seekers to choose sides, and we become fluid-actors, truth-speakers, and agents for change in all contexts.

On a more fun note:
We played games as a class for about two hours. I have not laughed so hard, yelled with joy so much, or felt so comfortable as I did tonight. Perhaps the greatest blessing of this trip is the small-haven it has provided of personal restoration and re-sprouting.

More to come later,
KC