All the Time

 I'm tired all the time. I feel like shit all the time. I want to cry but can't...all the time. I hate depression. 

I have a therapist. I'm on meds. I still don't want to do anything. I feel lazy all the time. I have a headache all the time. I just want to sleep...all the time. 

There's nothing really wrong. Depression doesn't care. It lies and it sucks all your energy and it makes it difficult to explain. 

I feel like I'm a burden. I feel like I'm not here. I feel like I could just disappear...all the time. 

I don't know how to express that I feel this way. I feel like I'm trying to explain all the time. I feel so fucking exhausted...all the time. 

I try to fake it. I post silly memes and jokes online so no one knows. I don't tell anyone except the few people I trust but they don't necessarily understand. I try to tell them but it doesn't make sense. They say to fake it till you make it and I fucking hate that saying. I don't want to. I just want to be ok without having to fake it. 

I'm cold all the time. I want to stay inside all the time. I just want it to be quiet...all the time. 

It feels weird to laugh when you have depression. The image most have is not that. It's someone in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and crying. I've been there too but this feels different. And I feel it all the time. 

Things seem to bother me all the time. I find myself irritated all the time. 

I know it's ok to feel this way. I know I'm going to come out of it eventually but I don't know when and that's hard for me. The feeling of unknown. Of waiting for things to feel better...

I just don't want to feel like this...all the time. 

Life Now

 She said I was sad and it's true. I used to be happy and sarcastic and silly and I don't really recognize myself right now. I don't know how to get back. I honestly don't see how anyone can help. Or what I could do to feel more like I used to. Life is different now and I don't like how to live in it. 

I used to be so friendly. I wasn't worried what someone might think about my friendliness. I didn't worry they would think it was fake. Now I avoid people. 

I can't seem to be happy in my skin and just love myself as is. I don't like how I look at all. It makes me feel sad and frustrated and less than. Every time I eat anything I feel fat and guilty about it. Disgusted.

I think entirely too much about what others are thinking about me. 

I spent my whole childhood being told how special I was. The 'miracle baby'. Now I'm an adult and I suck just like everybody else. 

I can't decide if I want to be happy with how I am or if I'm angry for being what I am. 

The fairy tale isn't real. Disney has led us on for years. Relationships are nothing like they are on tv, in the movies, on social media. They're hard sometimes and you don't always like the person you're with even if you love them. 

If I just believe that no one with come through. Or that no one will be kind. Or that anything will work out, well I guess I can't be disappointed that way. Anything good then would be a surprise. 

I'm terrified of failure so I don't try. 

I'm afraid of people getting mad at me or being mean. It's why I don't speak up more. But I want to be brave. I want to say things like, "Fuck you. You're a dick and I don't have to take in what you're saying to me because it means NOTHING." I imagine saying something like that if I saw someone being bullied or treated unkindly. I want to be brave enough to do this without worrying about confrontation. I want to be brave enough to do the right thing. I used to be. 

Life right now is full of these kind of thoughts. I keep a notebook next to me all the time and I write the thoughts down so I can reread them and decide if they're true or not. They are. 

Sob Story

 I'm having a hard time. It's likely pms but I hate always having that as an excuse. Maybe I'm just sad. Maybe I'm just tired of feeling this way. I actually had a dark thought pass through while I was in the shower today. I looked at my body and started crying. It's not a pretty body and I can't seem to love it as it is. 

I have days where it doesn't seem to matter that much but then it does again and I can't seem to shake it. I have people around me, surrounding me with love and it should help but it doesn't. I can't seem to absorb their compliments. It doesn't feel like they're lying anymore which is better than how I used to feel. But I still can't let the kind words mean anything. 

It's not just my body. It's my hair too. And my face. My hair I miss so much. When it was long I could hide behind it. When I got it cut it was supposed to be this great symbol of new beginnings and instead it just made me feel ugly. My face has created more chins than I need and when I look at myself in the mirror, I want to cry then too. Damn video chat has become some sort of torture device. 

I can't find anything to do with myself. I have a jigsaw puzzle and my books and my husband but none of those things seem to be enough anymore. I went away for a few days to gaze at the ocean and feel her calm. It helped a little but every time I was out of the hotel room, I felt the anger and frustrations from those around me. It was just a little tourist town but it was full and I was contributing to it-felt hypocritical. 

I feel like I'm drifting away from my husband because all of the activities we usually have done together were cancelled. COVID is not just a pandemic. It's soul sucking. It's depressing and it puts strain everywhere. And I have it lucky. I don't have kids to try and explain it to or suddenly become a teacher for. I don't have a loved one in the hospital that I can't see. I am not homeless and I am not struggling with no longer having a job. 

That's another thing that I think about and kind of hate about myself right now. I can't work. I mean, physically I could but my mental health holds me back. And because of that, I don't even want to try anymore. When I allow myself to ponder the idea of getting back out there, my heart begins to race. I replay every scenario I went through when I was working and things were bad. I remember all of the harsh words, lack of encouragement, and political nonsense that evidently any corporation has. 

I know hate is a strong word and I don't want to use it when describing myself but there it is. It feels very much like there is no escaping these feelings and if it is just pms, well I hate that too. 

I just want to feel good again. 

I.A.S.

 It's hard to think of it as 'grooming' when you start it. He was 28, I was 17 and didn't care at all. My reasoning was that my parents were 11 years apart, so it clearly wasn't a big deal to have an age difference. And the longer we communicated, the more I was convinced I was falling in love. It always feels like love when you're 17. 

He was the overnight DJ on a radio station I listened to. One night I was up late, cleaning my room I think or just rearranging the posters on the wall-it doesn't matter. I called to request a song. Brown-Eyed Girl, 'because I am one'. And he played it. I called him back to say thank you and before I knew it, hours had gone by and it was nearing 6 o'clock in the morning and the end of his shift.  

I went to school floating that next day. I'd had one of those magical talk through the night conversations with someone that seemed to really get me and it was elating. I felt special. Someone seemed to like me for me. 

We talked every time he was working. I'd be put on hold while he addressed the listening audience and wait patiently for his attention to come back to me. He'd sometimes play songs he knew I liked just because he knew I liked them and I could feel myself liking him more and more. It was easy to do, and exciting. 

I told him where I worked and one night, he was there. We'd never seen each other but I just knew it was him. He was wearing Chucks and a band tshirt and flannel. The uniform of the 90s. He never said a word, just sat in my section. The hostess told me he'd asked for it and then I knew. I was bursting but so nervous to approach him first. 

Before he left, he came up to me and simply said 'Hi Lindsay' and handed me a letter. He told me to read it after he left. I was completely mystified and intrigued and smitten. He'd written me a letter! It was exactly what my 17 year old heart wanted. 

Inside the beautiful stationery were words that I had waited my whole teenage life wanting to hear. He'd written it BEFORE he saw me and that made it so special. He told me he was concerned about the age difference but that my maturity level made it easy to forget. He told me he loved talking to me and that I was the highlight of his day. He told me he hoped to meet my parents one day. I was over the moon and so happy. 

It didn't last. 

He didn't drive and neither did I but I had a friend that did and C helped us see each other by providing rides. She was there with us, IAS and I were never really alone. One night, IAS claimed to not be feeling well and C offered to take him home. I thought nothing of it. She was supposed to drop him off and then come back to my house to stay the night. 

I got in a terrible fight with my dad that night. It was the only time I left the house in anger. I had a friend come pick me up and I walked out the door in tears. After I'd been at my friend's house for awhile and calmed down from the fight with dad, I wanted to talk to IAS. Or C. I paged IAS but got no response. That was the way it used to be then. You just had to wait. I tried C to tell her I wasn't at home. Nothing. And that's when my brain started spinning. 

C was a year younger than me and we'd been friends for a couple of years. Long enough that I considered her one of my best friends. I trusted her. She'd been flirty with IAS but she was always flirty so again, I thought nothing of it. Until they didn't answer their phones. First I thought there was something wrong and then I felt something wasn't right. I knew where IAS lived and I asked my friend to take me by his place. I didn't know what I was going to do when I got there but something in my gut told me I needed to just go. 

The car ride downtown was filled with a pregnant silence. I just had a feeling, I just knew something was going on. Sure enough, when we drove by his place, C's car was parked out front. I could see the exhaust pluming from it so I knew she was in the car. I couldn't understand why she was still there but I wanted to just tell her not to go to my house.  

My friend parked her car down the street and I walked slowly to C's car. As I got near, I could see the windows were foggy and then I just...I didn't want to know. I ripped the passenger side door open and there he was. IAS and C were  holding hands and clearly had just pulled apart from one another. A million thoughts and feelings went through me. I was hurt, surprised, confused and jealous all at the same time. "It just happened, I'm sorry."  "We didn't plan for this to happen, it just did." They tried to explain but I just stood there, my heart breaking. Here was the guy I'd hoped for, longed for and finally had a chance to have, wrapped up with my best friend. I looked at her, saw her guilt and felt nothing. 

"I just wanted to tell you not to go to my house because I won't be there." I closed the passenger door and walked back to my friend's car. I was numb. My heart hurt. 

But I forgave them. Both. I tried to tell myself that it wasn't that big of a deal since IAS and I hadn't even kissed or anything. I made myself forget about the letter filled with promise and decided that I would be fine with them being a couple. Oh but I wasn't. Every time I saw them together my heart ached a little more. He started playing songs he knew she liked during his shift, sending out dedications to his 'sweet 16'. In order to show how 'ok' I was with everything I lied to my parents about where I was going and a bunch of us went and stayed the night at IAS's house. I lay there listening to C and IAS kissing and moving around on the bed in a way that was undeniable. I didn't sleep. I cried silently and asked myself over and over what I was doing there. I wanted to go so badly but I was stuck. I waited impatiently for the sun to rise so we could leave and I could go home to cry in my own bed. 

They dated for awhile. I know they had a sexual relationship. During the school day, I tried to be friends with C but couldn't handle listening to how amazing IAS was. It was a difficult time for me. I wasn't strong enough to stick up for myself, to say all the things I should have said. 

I look back on all of this and I can see how wrong it was. A 28 year old man had no business trying to woo a 17 year old with conversations and letters. And he certainly shouldn't have then moved on to my younger friend.  Eventually she dumped him for another guy and we never heard from him again. I changed radio stations to listen to at night but I held onto the letter for a long time. 

He'd made me feel wanted, desired. And it felt like C swooped in and took that all away. It hurt for a long time. I don't remember exactly what it was that made me stop having feelings for him-likely another boy, one my own age-but I got over him. 

I was watching a show the other day and the relationship was eerily similar to mine. I watched, nearly 30 years later and felt disgust. IAS should have known better. Even if I was the one who started it. 

Scraps

I wish I had something important to say. Instead I'm just here because I like the way it feels when I type. The soft click of the keys and the gentle dispense of the space bar. It makes me more nerdy probably but I am what I am.

Took me a long time to figure out who that was and some days I'm still not sure. I don't think anyone really knows. I'm not good at faking it til I make it either.

I keep trying to push it. I want to make myself better than I am and don't have the strength (?) to try.

Get a Job

There's this part of me that won't let up about having a job.

I'm extremely lucky to not  have to work. For many years I worked paycheck to paycheck and having to not worry so much about finances is a huge relief.

But I still feel like I should be working. A part of me knows that it would likely help rid me of the feeling of restlessness I often experience. It would give me a sense of independence too which I crave. But it also triggers my anxiety.

What if I'm not able to do the very best at the job I've been assigned? What if I can't do it right? What if I make a mistake and it's such a terrible mistake there's no coming back from it? What if I'm not perfect?

If a friend came to me and voiced these concerns, I'd be quick to assure them that no one is perfect. That's it's ok to make mistakes because then we can learn from them. I would encourage them to reach for their goals.

But I'm not that nice to myself and I think I know why. It's not all my fault. I struggle with authority figures. I think it's because I never really had any growing up. My parents pretty much let me do what I wanted and so when someone started telling me what to do because they were my boss, my hackles went up. I also don't like that people often take advantage of positions of power and treat everyone else as less than. No one is better than anyone else.

I've had some pretty heinous bosses.

My first job I started as a busser, then waited tables, hosted and even popped in the kitchen when we needed more toast.
My boss there would walk by and pinch my sides, telling me I should watch my weight. He hired men that leered from the dish pit and cornered us at the bussing station with lewd remarks and wandering hands. He walked the restaurant drunk off wine poured into a coffee cup we were instructed to always keep full. He burned a friend of mine with a pot of hot water because he was drunkenly weaving. He was belittling and unkind. He was selfish and greedy and had no regard for the people that worked so hard for him. He might have owned the restaurant, but we ran it.

Second job was working with kids as a teacher's assistant, then later I became a teacher for 4 year olds
The next boss I had turned a blind eye to any concerns shared. A child bit me but it was my fault. Another teacher was playing favorites with the children and I didn't know what I was talking about. She didn't listen to anything that didn't help her in some favor and the frustrations that came with that were too much. There's right and there's wrong and sometimes they are black and white.

I took time off for awhile due to the extreme stress of working the two jobs and eventually going back to waiting tables full time. I had a hard time in my mid 20s and then when mom died I just needed some time before going back to work. I was grateful to have financial help from my parents. I learned later that it was because my father was selling drugs to support me and my mom. I wish I could go back and be stronger during that time.

When I found the pet store, I thought it would be temporary as I wasn't interested in working retail at all. But this place felt different. They told you were special, important and I needed that. I started as store staff, then was quickly promoted to shift lead and finally as store manager.
I had 3 district managers that I clashed with as a manager. With each of them I received advice on how to run my store better when I felt they had no clue as to how it was being run. In retrospect, I was able to learn some things and by the end of my time as a manager, I was really good at it and my store was happy. But the way I was 'taught' was often done with cruel words instead of support. I remember many days of crying in the bathroom or on the way home. I felt like no one understood that I was trying my best. Of all my jobs though, managing felt like I had the most control. My store, my staff, my customers. But not really. There's always a bigger fish.

I quit my job to move to a different city with my boyfriend, now husband. I wanted back into the pet store industry-specifically to work at the home office behind the scenes. Eventually I got in but my boss was a friend first and that was a near immediate mistake. I was conflicted from the start because I could tell management was not her strong suit and it frustrated me. I wasn't learning anything and I wasn't being acknowledged for the things I did do. I felt worthless and stupid. I even tried to voice these feelings and by the end of the conversation I felt even worse. After 2 years of stressful and emotional days working under  her I got a new boss.

My last boss seemed perfect at first. She listened, supported me and encouraged me. It was as though I'd finally met the best boss for me and I was excited to move forward and try new skills. But I made a mistake. A big one and she treated me differently after that. I felt like I was a child with a parent that was disappointed. I was casually being pushed out of projects and responsibilities but I didn't see it. Each time I showed progress on a project I was working on it was wrong and I was dismissed. It hurt on a personal level and perhaps it shouldn't have. I don't know. I only know that one day I came to work and was happy to see my boss was out for the day. The constant worry of what kind of mood she'd be in was tiresome and stressful.

I haven't worked since. I have days where I hate that she 'won'. I feel weak for letting it happen, for not sticking up for myself. I feel like I was being ridiculous. Who actually likes their boss anyway? But the culture I was groomed in made you feel like you were family even when you were being treated like the cousin no one liked. My last boss affected me more than any other. She showed me trust and kindness and took it away because I made a mistake. I wasn't perfect.

I tried to go back to work to a very low key job. I was an assistant and did just a few errands and things for my bosses. I liked them and since they'd come from a toxic work environment too, they understood me. But I didn't. I couldn't understand why I couldn't shake the skittishness. That feeling of 'what if I do something wrong?' wouldn't go away. I was given a task that I wasn't able to finish, literally because I didn't have the tools and I cried on the way home because I couldn't do it 'right'.

I think about going back to work now and I can feel my stomach jump. I feel my hands go clammy when I imagine that first meeting with a potential superior. Even the idea of an interview makes me nervous. I worry about what might happen if I'm not perfect even though I know logically that's ridiculous.  This is what anxiety does and I hate it. Logically I know I could be happy, have that sense of fulfillment I so desperately miss if only I could work. I've thought about volunteer work too but because of recent events (COVID) so many opportunities are not available. I waited too long. I don't even have my assistant job because it's just not needed. And truly if it was, I don't know if I'd go back. The stress I still feel, the anxiety that still manifests is strong and frustrating.

Find a hobby. Friends have suggested this and I agree it could be helpful. The trouble is, I don't have a lot of interest in finding one. The depression doesn't even let me enjoy the hobbies I already have sometimes so finding something new seems daunting. And again, the fucking COVID makes exploring new things challenging if not down right impossible.

When I feel like this I have to remember that it's ok I'm not working. I am financially taken care of which is something that still feels weird sometimes. Working paycheck to paycheck to not having to work was a huge adjustment. But my husband takes care of me. Not only financially  but with constant reassurance that it's ok I'm not working. That he understands the anxiety that rears its ugly head. I'm very lucky.

But there's still this part of me that can't quite shake that I need to have a job. It's what 'normal' people do. It's what is expected. When people ask what I do, I never know what to tell them. Usually my anxiety won't let me.

Red Caps

The restaurant was crowded. It always was at the conventions but it was one of the only places to eat so we waited. A booth cleared out and we staked our claim. I watched as the waitstaff hurried from table to table, exhausted and no longer smiling for tips. I watched food get delivered and orders taken as I scanned the room and then I saw it. A red cap in a sea of sci-fi costumes.

What the fuck?

I instantly became defensive. Why was someone wearing that hat here? This was a peaceful environment. A place for like minded individuals to gather and talk about all things near and nerdy to their hearts. That red cap didn't belong here.

I shared my disgust with my dining mates and they looked on, amused at my reaction. I couldn't help staring at the back of the cap, trying to imagine what kind of face they had. I watched as others surrounded him, seemingly enjoying his company and that made me angry too. So it wasn't just one of them, brave enough to wear a cap, it was a group.

How could anyone wearing that cap be here? I didn't understand and the longer I stared, the more I got upset.

And then he turned. And his cap said something else entirely. It wasn't one of those caps. I felt like a fool and properly chagrined. Here I was, behaving exactly as I'd assumed that person in the red cap would. Judgy, close minded...I quickly saw the lesson given to me.

Relaying the story later, a friend brought up an interesting point. Why wear a red cap that looks so similar with a 'positive' phrase when you know it's likely to be misinterpreted? I didn't know and I still don't. How does a symbol become so powerful?

I feel my lip curl in disgust when I see a bumper sticker blazing the name I cannot stand. I feel anger begin to rise inside when I see a flag, logo or tshirt stating support for someone my morals forbid me to. It's involuntary. I feel revulsion when I see a swastika, a Hitler salute, a white power hand gesture...it sickens me. And I think about that red cap with a positive message, hidden in a font associated with hatred and bigotry. It felt awkward.

Isn't it already awkward enough?

Tears of a Clown

I've had a song playing in my head for over a week. I don't usually mind when my inner jukebox is on play but this song is depressing.

"Tears of a Clown" by The Miracles

It's about a man that's trying not to show his ex that he's still sad that they're broken up. At least that's how I always interpreted it. But if you break down the lyrics, there's some pretty profound shit in there that could also be talking about depression.

Now if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now, honey, that's quite a different subject

But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really I'm sad
Oh, I'm sadder than sad
You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad  <--- probably about a breakup
Like a clown I pretend to be glad

Now they're some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown
When there's no one around
Hmm hmm, oh yeah, baby

Now if I appear to be carefree
It's only to camouflage my sadness
In order to shield my pride I try
To cover this hurt with a show of gladness

But don't let my show convince you
That I've been happy since you  <--definitely about a breakup
Decided to go
(Decided to go)
Oh, I need you so
(I need you so)
I'm hurt…

Maybe if I write about this song it will get the fuck out of my head. I've been waking up everyday with the lines haunting me and I've had it. I figure it must mean something. It usually does when I'm stuck like this. The only thing I can think of is that I'm battling the sads lately and I don't like to show it. I feel like I'm not worthy of them and try to ignore they're there. I guess I can't deny it anymore. 

Liars

My anxiety is such a liar. You're probably tired of reading about my anxiety adventures. Not as much as I am of experiencing them.

Last night I went online to check the symptoms of a heart attack. Again. Because my anxiety is a liar. It makes my chest tight and my heart beat quickly and then it sends my thoughts into a tailspin of 'oh god, what's wrong, am I going to die?' and the tightness gets tighter and I feel like everything is falling apart inside.

Once I've accepted I'm probably not going to die of a heart attack, I begin to wonder what else it might be because it couldn't possibly be anxiety. I'm not that bad, right? Gallbladder?

I looked up symptoms of an angry gallbladder and sure enough, I have a few. New anxiety. What if something is wrong? So I make a doctor appointment. New anxiety. The doctor's office is not a place I feel comfortable. I hate the smell. It smells like the hospital my mother died in. And they weigh me and I get the sense my doctor feels I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. Every test I've taken has come back positively and there is nothing seemingly wrong. But my anxiety is a liar and it makes me believe differently.

When depression gets into the mix, that's when it gets really fun. I feel sad on top of the anxiety and I feel like nothing I do matters. I tend to do a lot of nothing during these times. I can't even tell if it's better to have them alternate or just in one giant muck of bullshit that eventually fades until it's bearable. The depression is a liar too.

So I'm surrounded by liars.

Random Thoughts

Why is one of my fingernails ridiculously longer than the others?

It feels like time no longer exists. Each night I lay in bed, telling myself that the next day holds promise-that I can go out and do things and then I sleep until noon and nothing happens.

My cat scratches and licks all the time and she doesn't have fleas. I think she has anxiety like I do. Is it fucking catching now?

I read something I wrote 2 years ago about my anxiety and how it lead to my eventual departure from work and I was so blinded. My supervisor was not the right supervisor for me and perhaps for several others.

I want to get away. I want to go to the ocean or the mountains--just somewhere quiet.

I wish my husband liked more of the same things as me.  We have so many opposite interests that it used to worry me. It doesn't anymore. It just makes spending time together a challenge sometimes.

I seem to be having a bit of the ol depression monster on my back again and that's just lame.

My anxiety only flairs up when I have to interact with people so... good thing we're all in quarantine.

You don't realize how fat your face is until you use video chat. Not a good look. I don't even care about food anymore-nothing really tastes good. Unless I'm high and I do that often because I'm fucking BORED.

My hands are dry from washing them so often.

I'm being a whiny shit. There are people working every day and feeling uncomfortable in masks or with cranky assholes that make their job more difficult.

Should I go for a drive? Get out and get a coffee or something? And go where? I used to think I'd just drive places, didn't matter where but now that I can I just don't care.

I don't care about anything right now. Apathy is kind of a dick.

I didn't shower today because fuck it. I don't smell and no one's going to see me anyway.

The weather is my favorite kind and I'd love to be out in it but I'd also love to have company and no one is available and my husband doesn't like the outdoors. Well, that's not true, I do have a couple friends available but I don't call them because I feel like my anxiety would just peak and it's better to avoid that right?

My fucking cat keeps pissing on my office chair. I don't know why and I don't care. I just want the little shit to stop it. It doesn't matter if I clean it with the best cleaner I have, it's stuck in my nose.

I kind of just want to scream at the top of my lungs for no reason.

I could try painting I guess but the last few I've done seemed less than great and I don't want to be disappointed again. I just don't have the talent I wish I did. I can't even think of something to write about. This post is stupid.

I don't even feel like I want to cry. I just...don't feel anything right now.

The world is kind of a shit storm right now and I don't have the energy to be mad about it. I'm so tired of reading things that make me mad or sad or both. I watch the kitten videos to try and wipe out the ick but you know what? It doesn't really help because the world is just ugly too much.

I still think about my old boss and coworkers. I still miss the environment sometimes even though I don't want to at all.

I let go of someone toxic for the first time ever. Like where I told them I didn't want to hear from them ever again. It was hard but not as hard as it might have been years ago.

I'm not sure I'm going to need to continue therapy. Or maybe I need a different kind. I don't know. I just know it hasn't really been an issue to not have appointments.

I want to live somewhere else. I'm tired of the dogs and the blue lives matter flags and the thumping of bass from the neighbors down the street. I want to rearrange the house and all that's in it. I need change but am afraid of it for almost everything.

I have lots of hair on my chin and it pisses me off.

The house smells like jasmine rice because I made some and then didn't eat any because fuck food.

I sleep a lot. A LOT.

My book is good but not reading during the day good so I watch crime shows or star wars cartoons to keep my mind off the fact that I'm not doing anything.

My best friend calls me every day and it's the highlight. Even if all I do it watch her talk to her kids, it makes me feel less alone.

I have a brand new camera that is slowly gathering dust because all the fucking parks are still closed or too crowded with people not wearing masks. I want out but I'm afraid to go.

Things that used to seem like a good idea just seem stupid now and I can't seem to give a shit. I want to care but I'm too depressed to.

Time meant nothing, never would again.
Time's is hard. Even harder than the worst pies in London.

Boundaries

Identify 

physical 

emotional 

mental limits 

Consider 

tolerate 

accept stressful 

situations 

See red flags  

resentment 

interaction 

expectation 

Push beyond 

limits because we feel guilty 

Just want to be a good daughter or wife 

Forgiveness

This is what I felt. The words filled my mouth and I spit them out onto the screen, onto you. This is what I wanted to scream at you:

I forgave you. But I haven't forgotten. I wanted to but it's turned out to be much harder than I thought.

You hurt me. You fucking hurt me so much that more than a decade later it still hurts. Your apology seemed sincere at first, but then I remembered you don't know the meaning of the word. You're selfish and narcissistic and ugly inside. You have anger and hate in your heart that you proudly display.

You destroyed me. You killed my self esteem and any shred of confidence I had. I cried so often, it became strange when I didn't. You broke me. You made me feel that I was nothing and would never be anything to anyone.

And then, 13 years later, you said you were sorry. You told me you regretted what you'd been like with me. I want to believe you but I can't.

You say I'm important to you yet you have no interest in me. Since you've contacted me you haven't asked about me once. You only want to talk to me about your problems and your hatred to another person. You even asked me for a favor. Are you kidding?

I had deleted you from my life. I'd even gotten to a point where I could laugh a little at the bullshit you put me through before. But now it hurts again and all I want to do is hurt you. I don't want to play 'remember when' with you or talk about meeting up 'after all these years'. Fuck you.

You told me that someone said they disdain you. First, I don't think they used the word properly. You didn't when you relayed the story which only confirms that studying isn't something you did all these years. But the definition of the word is 'to think unworthy, to despise' and you know what? I bet they meant every breath of the word. You're not difficult to despise.

I don't like feeling this way about you. About anyone. But you ruined me on a level I didn't know was as deep as it is. Still, I forgave you. I'd hoped you'd changed like you said you had and once more, even after all these years, you proved me stupid for believing. Fuck you.

I decided this was something you needed to know. That our friendship was not capable of keeping any longer. Not for me. I decided to put myself before you and tell you everything I'd always wanted to say. I changed the words a little. I knew that if I sent it to you just like I'd written it you wouldn't see through the 'fuck yous' and the meaning of my words would get lost. They may anyway but at least I've given them to  you. I sent  you this instead: 

When you first contacted me, I said my hard feelings had faded but I was wrong. It's because I can't forget. You hurt me. You hurt me so much that more than a decade later it still hurts. You destroyed me. You killed my self esteem and any shred of confidence I had when we were together. I cried so often, it became strange when I didn't. You broke me. You made me feel that I was nothing and would never be anything to anyone. It took me years to work through that hurt and now it seems...there is still some left.

You say I'm important to you, that you are sorry you let me down. You didn't let me down, you hurt me. You told me I was never going to be good enough for you and said it so often I believed it. You were selfish, narcissistic and unkind to me. I didn't even see it until I wasn't with you and then, looking back, I was embarrassed and saddened.

Years passed and I had deleted you from my life. I'd even gotten to the point where I could laugh a little at the pain you put me through. But now it hurts all over again. I don't want to pretend that I'm ok with being friends again. I don't like feeling this way but you hurt me on a level I didn't know was as deep as it is. I wanted to forgive you but I can't forget. I'm sorry but I think it's best if you don't contact me anymore.

And even though I asked you not to, you responded with a letter than began, "Well that sucks..."  Then a lot of "I didn't know" and "I never meant to" but honestly that opening... I've sent it and this morning when I woke up, I knew there wouldn't be a message from you and it made my heart feel light. I let go. I forgave myself.  

Bitch Fest

I have opinions. I used to share them a lot more. I don't know if I've stopped because I'm older or if I'm just scared of confrontation but I don't say as much as I feel.

Except here. This is my safe space and I'm going to let some shit out that's been building.

Fuck Trump. He's a terrible misinformed bigot that feeds anger and animosity to the world. He can't even form a sentence. He infuriates me with the decisions he makes because they are so self serving.

Speaking of self serving...people that aren't wearing masks are assholes. You're wearing a mask for other people not for yourself. Someone I know said, "my body, my choice" in regards to wearing one and I became incensed. Where were you when they were picketing abortion clinics? I hope your mantra is all inclusive. BUT it's not even about that! The guy at the tire place told me he couldn't wear one because he had a deviated septum and he would 'die' if he wore one because he breathes through his mouth. This 'logic' was so ridiculous to me I ignored it and went about my day.

My days. Well they're less than interesting. I usually get up, make breakfast, scroll and then read. Sometimes I skip the book and go straight into TV. Usually I wait until about 4 or so to light up but sometimes I don't make it that far. I'm bored. But I'm scared. Running the errand yesterday was scary. I felt anxious about being out in the world and that pissed me off, mixing with my fear. Hardly no one was wearing face masks. To me it's a sign of disrespect for all others. Great, you have tape on the floor. What about some other basic steps to help your fellow human be safe?

I miss my friends. I miss hugging them and bullshitting with them over pancakes or coffee. I miss wandering around Target with my girlfriends, buying things we don't really need but totally enabling each other because we can.

I want to go to all the places I've never been and only because I can't now. I miss being free and actually feeling that way.

I want to smack the tree bro guys behind my house. They have taken down 4 of the neighbor's trees and yes, I know it's not the tree bro guys fault. But listening to chainsaws for over a week and knowing that trees were killed for no reason breaks my heart. And I'm fairly certain that's why they're down. Now we can see more of the neighbor and no one wants that.

I don't know if I have a job still. My work isn't as it was before all this shit hit the fan and I wonder if I'll have a role when or if we can go back to 'normal'.

I have gained weight and feel like shit about it. And yet...do I do anything about it? Nope. Most days I don't even get off the chair except to go to the couch and lay down. Yesterday was the first time I've worn a bra in months. I couldn't fathom putting on jeans so I went with leggings. In public and I didn't give a shit. I guess I'm ok about my weight as long as I don't see myself. If only I didn't like food so much.

Is it depression? Who knows? Probably. Who cares?

I sit here, wondering about the state of things and trying not to cry. I don't have anything to look forward to. Our honeymoon was cancelled. The concert I was going to was 'postponed indefinitely' and my birthday will be just another day. I'm mad about it. Sad about it and completely helpless to it.

I have a friend that's suicidal. I have a neighbor that sucks. I have no motivation and I'm sad.

Fuck Trump. Fuck this virus. Fuck the tree bros. Fuck everything right now. I'm over it.

Hurricane

I don't want to do anything but I did some small chores around the house and that seems like enough. I opened up the pages of my book but I can't seem to care about putting them together. I have already broken the promise to myself that I would have it done by the beginning of the year.

It's only February but it feels later. Like it's too late.

I've been having a hard time lately but it doesn't really matter. I can't seem to let myself feel anything but annoyance at my feelings. And sadness. My depression is a hurricane.

I am standing on a beach of white sand when the winds come. They don't start as a breeze, they rage. There is no control over it. The trees bend and the water roars sending huge waves tumbling into one another. It sounds like screaming. It feels like screaming.

When the intensity refuses to lessen I imagine being a block away from the storm. I could still hear it ringing loud in my ears. I could not get away from it. I still can't

The hurricane is my depression. The winds will die down, they have to because I've functioned without them before. But they seem so consuming that it doesn't seem possible. I feel wiped out, broken like the trees that gave up bending and finally broke. I feel like screaming into the storm but I don't want to do anything.

Brave

I can't write. I worked on my book earlier, copying and pasting and editing and thinking about all the reasons the pages were written in the first place. Pain. Happiness. Sadness. Confusion. Memories.

It made me want to write something new, something fresh, something that better reflects where I am now. But I can't. I tried writing about the past, an old situation about a guy that I've wanted to write about for years. But I can't-it's too painful right now. There's a part of me that thinks that's ridiculous. It was over 30 years ago. Clearly though, part of it still haunts me. Fucking guy. Fuck  him.

I tried writing about a recent conversation I had with a friend. It was funny and introspective just like a good conversation should be. But I couldn't write that either. It reminded me of who I used to be  and it made me sad. Since I was hoping to write good things about my growth, I gave up. Fucking emotions. Fuck them.

A song comes on, one the same friend says reminds her of me. The chorus speaks of bravery and hope and about how to speak your mind.
Let your words be anything but empty. 
Let the words fall out. Say what you want to say. 

I worry about doing that. I worry about what people will think of me. I worry.

"You used to have balls dude! You didn't take shit from anyone! You were a badass!"

I was a lot stronger when I was younger. Before life, before people, showed me how cruel they can be.

What would I say if I didn't have to worry? What if I just let the words fall out?

I was 18 years old when my best friend told me she was pregnant and keeping the baby. I freaked out as though I was her mother. I shouted my opinions about the situation without hesitation and I was kind of a dick about it. But I didn't stop there. I went to the father's place of work and told him what I thought too.

I stood in the parking lot of his place of employment and told him what an idiot I thought he was for not being safe with a girl that was still in high school. He was older and should have known better I thought. I was livid. He didn't want to be with my friend anymore, hadn't for a while but he was still fucking her and it pissed me off. I was concerned my friend was going to be hurt and I was fiercely protective of my friends. While I yelled he nodded silently and took it. He never really said anything except, "you're right" which I guess would have satisfied some. It didn't me and I kept ill feelings for him longer even than the mother of his child did. I saw him 18 years later and it took everything inside me not to call him out on all he'd missed with his son but decided then it wasn't my place. Did I lose my balls or gain maturity? I've never really known.

Same friend, different man in her life. Her brother. He was terrible to her. He called her names and made fun of her until she cried. He treated her like she was worthless and it infuriated me. More than just sibling rivalry, he was cruel.  We picked him up from school one day and I laid into him. I did it again later when I was in his house, in front of his mother. I had no right to do that and as I type it I shake my head. Did he deserve it? Totally but should I have stepped in? I don't know. Maybe.

I told people they were making mistakes. I told them they were wrong. I told them why I thought they were and most of the time I didn't care if it pissed them off. Eventually I realized people not only didn't need to hear my opinion, they didn't deserve to be yelled at no matter how much I 'did it out of love'. I made mistakes, hurt people. I talked too much and fucked stuff up like everyone does in their 20s.

I got hurt too. Men and women hurt me with cutting remarks or personal attacks. Every time my 'balls' got smaller until they were gone and I didn't remember the girl that said what she wanted to say. The girl that let the words just fall out.

I still have opinions and I still like to talk about how I feel about them but -and maybe this comes with age- I'm more careful about how. I choose my subjects carefully, take into consideration the people I'm talking to. I keep quiet.

I don't want to do that anymore. I want my balls back. I want to say what I want to say. I don't want to care what others think. I can do that without being a dick. I can be brave.

Growth

She cries a lot, begging to be seen. She's been through a lot already.

She's about 4, clad in overalls and pigtails with those ribbons from the 80s. She's curious, compassionate and concerned. Her everyday life is one that can change in an instant and she's afraid that it will. There is a tiny crease in her forehead from constant worry.

She's vulnerable and she hates it.

She needs to be strong and helpful and make everyone else happy. She doesn't know yet that it isn't fair to have that kind of responsibility. One of her first memories is comforting an adult.

She learns how to comfort herself with drugs, alcohol and food. She gets depression. She battles suicidal thoughts. She smiles and is compassionate and kind the whole time. No one knows. They don't see her. She can't see it either.

Nothing makes sense. Down is up, left is right, nothing is everything. She goes into therapy.

She's vulnerable again. She's that 4 year old in pigtails, begging to be seen.  She doesn't know how hard it will be. How being seen feels like being burned. It feels permanent, like scars being made. It hurts and she cries a lot.

As she grows, she desperately tries to remember there is strength in vulnerability and power in understanding. It's hard. But she fights. She allows herself to be seen from within first. She comforts herself with care and relies on the few that know how to see her.

She still cries a lot, but they are healing tears.  She's been through a lot.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I wanna talk about it. I usually can get through stuff if I talk about it. But I can't right now because the words aren't forming. Maybe they will later so I'm going to keep writing.

I'm scared. I'm scared of being on an airplane. Lots of people have this fear right? For me, it's the whole damn experience. From packing to landing.

I hate trying to figure out what to bring with me. I live in pajamas most of the time so thinking of outfits to wear for a week is a challenge. I don't like going over and over my list of things to bring because I'm sure I've forgotten something.

I have to drive to the airport which  means I can't drug myself as soon as I wake up.  Driving to the airport is scary. It's crowded and angry and full of cars at the pick up/drop off spot. Everyone is in a hurry to leave or to be back home. It's super overwhelming.

Leaving the car with strangers for a week off the airport strip seems sketchy. Doesn't seem right to pay to keep a car in a parking lot. And I'm not too keen on driving home when we get back. Again, my drug intake is limited that way.

And then into the airport. More people rushing to get home or away. The sounds, the smells. It's a weird thing, airport smell. It smells like stale coffee, suitcase and anxiety.

Going through security, wondering the whole time if I've brought the right kind of shoes that will help me get through this quicker. Will my stupid underwire bra set off an alarm? Will they pull me out of line and make me spread my arms like a child playing airplane? Then my arms will be more out there more and you'll see that I'm fat and probably won't fit in my seat.

The seat. Fuck. I have to wait until we get there to see where I'm sitting. I probably won't even be sitting with The Hub because life is like that. I will have to cram myself into whatever seat they give me and try to find the best way to make myself smaller. I don't want to spill over into a stranger but that's going to happen because, wait for it, I'm fat.

I don't want to hear that neverending hiss of air as we fly 35,000 feet (or whatever it is) in the air through a germ infested tube. I don't want to hear babies screaming or people sneezing without tissues, or coughing or any of that. The noises seem so loud already and I'm sitting in a quiet room right now, feet firmly on the ground.

I don't want to have to fold my arm in like a wounded bird if I find myself on the aisle. I don't want to plaster myself against the window, irrationally hoping it doesn't open if I'm in a window seat.  And I sure as hell don't want the middle. Spillage on both sides, potentially onto strangers. I will have to cross my arms because that's the only thing I can do with them without awkwardly touching someone.

I don't want to crash. Pretty normal reaction to this excursion.

But my reactions aren't normal because I have fucking anxiety and I hate it. It does this shit to me 3 weeks before my trip. It gets me all worked up into panic at what might happen. 

"Everything will be ok."  I know this because everyone says so. It's very hard to explain that the fear of public humiliation is as strong as someone that fears flying in general. The same? No. But just as strong. My emotions are freaking the fuck out right now and it SUCKS.

I want to go on this trip. I like the person I'm going to visit. I'm looking forward to being somewhere I've never been and exploring new places. But getting there....

I want to be able to assure myself that I am not the only person in the world that looks like me that flies to places. Surely not all of them can afford 1st class or 2 seats to have more room. The airline will not look at me and shake their head, ask me to leave or switch sides to even things out. I am not a bad movie. I am a person goddammit not a freak show.

Then why so freaked out? Because any positive, reassuring stuff is a whisper going against a goddamn bullhorn of anxiety. I fight but that is quiet too. I want to give up louder.

I started writing this post  and I was scared. I still am but I'm angry and frustrated too. Anxiety keeps me from doing things I enjoy. It throws panic in before I can try and that makes for a lot of missed opportunities. Hate is such a strong word but I do. I hate the way anxiety makes me feel and who I am right now because of it. It makes me feel ugly and worthless and pointless too. And that's the fear.


To try and help myself get through this, I used tools from therapy.

What is the worst that can happen?
Besides crashing? Being humiliated.
What's so bad about being humiliated?
Are you kidding? It fucking sucks to be humiliated. And it hurts.
What's the worst that can happen if you get hurt?
I cry. Or have a panic attack. Or both.
What's so bad about crying? Or having a panic attack?
People will see me.
What's the worst that can happen if someone can see you?
They'll see I'm broken.
What's so bad about being broken? 


And it goes on. My main fear is being humiliated. I can't stop that from happening. If someone chooses to be a dick, that's on them. I can only be myself, even if I'm broken.

See that's a good place to stop except there will be another day, another entry where it will be much more like the top half of this blog. Because I might forget how to talk to myself like I did above. Or I might forget that I'm a person goddammit. Or I might forget that I have an amazing tribe of people surrounding me with love and support. I might forget and I'll need to come back here and remember.

Time to Share-Trigger Warning

Right. This one is going to be a tough one to read for some. It's going to be a tough one to write but I started talking about it in therapy yesterday and it's time for me to get it out.

I was sexually abused.

I think I was about 6 or 7 when it started but I honestly can't remember. There were several different instances that I can't figure out were innocent childhood exploration or if they were also abuse. I know for sure that a few of them were. Different people, different situations, different times. Some I blocked from memory, some I just tried to forget. I'm learning now that these circumstances have affected me in ways I didn't realize. I was built, in a way, by these situations. I am who I am because of them.

He was my next door neighbor. Just a little bit older than me and he wanted to 'see my parts'. I was hesitant, I knew that part of me was private. But I was also curious about why his were different. He told me to take my clothes off and because I did what I was told, I did. He took his off and we stood there, looking at each other for what seemed an eternity before he started to touch me. I knew that wasn't ok so I ran. That night, when my dad was tucking me in, he leaned in for a kiss goodnight and I scurried-I distinctly remember scrambling against the wall-away from him. My mom saw this and immediately knew something was wrong. It took a while, but they got me to tell them what happened. Dad went to the neighbor's house and it was never brought up again.

They were the daughters of my mom's friend. I thought they were beautiful and exotic. African American girls with skin and hair different than mine. They liked to pretend. One of them was always the 'boyfriend', one the 'girlfriend' and I was the 'other girlfriend'. I still don't know if the groping and kissing were something I was genuinely curious about and possibly enjoyed.  I remember that one of the girls used a product in her hair that made it kind of greasy and I didn't like it when she kissed me. She always wanted to lay down together and I remember that feeling weird. It was the middle of the day and I was too old for naps.

She was a girl from church camp. My grandmother made me go every year with the pastor's family. She was his daughter. We'd spend the day doing harmless camp things, the whole time her whispering to me that she couldn't wait to get back to the cabin to 'play house'. Or maybe that was me. I don't remember. After a while, I thought this was what all girls did. It was mostly kissing but there was fondling too and I still don't know if this was another one of those exploration things or actual abuse. It was a secret, that I remember. 

She was a neighbor. We'd been friends and then not friends and then friends again like you do when you're a pre teen. She came over one day and we were watching a movie. She started touching my hand and stroking my body gently. It felt nice, but scary. Familiar. She played with the waistband of my pants, her fingers rubbing and prodding. I began to protest, things didn't feel nice anymore. But she told me to 'Relax. It'll feel good.'  But I pushed her off of me. I didn't like it. She didn't stay long once I said no and we were never friends again after that.

They were sons of my parents' best friends. They had one of those mini arcade games-Frogger and I thought it was the coolest thing. I wanted to play it all the time and they knew it. They took me to get sandwiches one day and told me I could play Frogger all I wanted when we got back to the house, as long as I did something for them. Not knowing what it was, I eagerly agreed. This response haunted me for years.  I told them it was ok. When we got back to the house, they led me to a back bedroom and tossed me on the bed. They were older, teens I think, and they were rough housing with me, tickling me. At first it felt like I was their little sister and we were just playing. Then they threw me onto my stomach and pulled my pants down. It felt like their hands were everywhere. They took turns putting them inside me and touching me. I didn't like it and I didn't want to play Frogger anymore. When they were done, they told me not to tell and I never did. I couldn't tell my parents, I couldn't tell their parents...they would have gotten in trouble.

He was a boy I liked. I thought he was so cute and couldn't wait for him to kiss me. He was at my house one night, watching movies with some friends. We were both at the age where a little touchy feely under the blankets was ok. He had his arm around me, and I didn't mind. It was when he pushed me down into the couch cushions and began grinding against me, pulling at my pants that I wasn't having fun anymore. I told him no. My mom was in the next room and I remember wanting to call for her but not being able to. He felt so heavy and I struggled for what seemed an eternity to be free from him. I finally managed to push him off and he immediately became angry. He asked me why I'd asked him over to my house, why he let me kiss him if he wasn't going to 'get some'. I told him no. Told him to leave. His dad picked him up and I threw all my clothes into the wash. I could smell his cologne on them and it made me feel like vomiting. I saw him again a few times. He worked at the mall and my friends didn't know so they teased me about my 'boyfriend' when we went there.


I blocked a lot of these situations. When I was 15, a little older than with the boy from the mall, I had my first boyfriend. He was handsome and he threw great parties and he had a giant Buick that made me feel like I was in one of my parents' cars. I felt safe with him. I liked it when he touched me, kissed me. He gave me my first hickey. I was having fun. One night at a sleepover, one of my girlfriends suggested we sneak out to go see him. I got scared. I remembered the boys that liked Frogger when I hadn't thought of them in years. I remembered everything and began crying. My girlfriends weren't sure what to do with me and I felt bad I was scaring them but I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what was wrong, just that I knew I'd been hurt by boys before and I didn't want to go see my boyfriend and his friends. I didn't know what they'd do to girls at night that had sneaked over to see them. I never brought up my crying fit again and neither did my friends. He broke up with me soon after that, telling me he wanted to be with someone 'more experienced'.

I held in my secret for another 10 years. In time, the parents of the boys both died. One from cancer, his wife by her own hand. I went to the viewing for her, saw her cowboy boots and dyed blonde hair resting in a casket. I was terrified. Not because it was the first dead body I'd seen, but because I was afraid her sons would be there. They weren't and we didn't have to stay long. I never saw them again.

When I was 25, I held a bottle of pills in my hand and contemplated the end. A friend just happened to stop by and see me. She took me to the doctor and the journey into therapy began. Eventually, my therapist encouraged me to tell my parents even though I couldn't understand why. It had been so long, I didn't even know where they were, who they were. By then I'd been able to forget their names. All of them. Even the girl from church camp or the girls that liked to pretend. I still don't know them.

It took some convincing but eventually I told my parents. My mom cried, apologized for not knowing. I tried to assure her that there was no way she could have.  She felt it was a good idea to tell me her father had gotten drunk a lot and he'd sometimes come into her room at night by mistake. It was then I remembered my own father doing the same once. And my parents slept in the nude. When I told my dad about the boys, he vowed that if he ever saw them again, he'd kill them. And that was all that was said.

Over the years I've had a weird relationship with sex. I lost my virginity later than most. I was 27. Since then,  I've made love, I've fucked, I've had sex. Sometimes I liked it. Most of the time I liked it. But there are still some things I'd rather not do because of what happened when I was a child.

I learned how to keep secrets. I learned how to keep the boat steady. I learned how to forget. I learned how to push things deep inside so that they were kept hidden for decades. And yesterday, I learned it was ok to talk about it. New therapist, new issues.

I was abused. I survived. It's time to share how.

Stoner

"God bless you pot," I think to myself. I'm cutting up pizza-chicken bacon ranch if you're curious. I know it's going to be a delicious pizza. The green stuff makes that happen and I love it. I feel good about being stoned because I finally feel good.

"Your therapist doesn't think you should smoke." The voice in my head is such a killjoy. My therapist doesn't want me smoke. She's not "opposed to it" but she also talked about statistics she felt strongly about that seemed...unimportant to me. I feel guilty though. Like I've been lying to her and she's gonna find out and I'm going to get in so much trouble. The guilt sits there and grows every time I take a toke.

"Ok. She might not think it's working, but she's not you and you are the only one that knows if something is working or not. Besides, people have been smoking marijuana a lot longer than they've been swallowing pharmaceuticals. Also? You can just not tell her. People have been doing that a long time too."

I have this brief conversation with myself as I finish cutting the pizza into 8 even triangles. I've rationalized a behavior by convincing myself it doesn't matter what I do, as long as it's what I want. There's a part of me that knows that's exactly what I should be doing but another part, a louder part thinks that's awfully selfish. So I ignore it.

Confrontation ( A CursiveVerses Post)

She hates me

"I can't believe this. I can't believe how fucking irresponsible you are. Do you even know what you've done? You should fucking know better than this!"

She's right. 

"You are fucking ruining EVERYTHING, don't you get that? NOTHING will ever be the same!"

She's so angry. I've never seen her like this before. What am I going to do?

"What are you going to do?"

I have no idea. I'm so scared. I can't believe this happened. I can't tell her that.

"You just going to run like everyone else?"

Where would I go? Why is she crying ? I don't understand why she's so upset. Why is this happening? 

"You can't just pretend this didn't happen. It's not going away."

I want to go away. I can't leave. 

"Why are you even here?"

I don't know. I should go. She's sad now. Her eyes meet mine finally. 

"Did you ever want...?"

No. 

Right Now

I can't tell if I"m reacting to the med change or if this is what it feels like to be happy.

But right now, I actually want to do things. With people. I want to go outside. I want to walk down the street and let the other person move aside instead of me.

My relationships are strong. It doesn't feel like I'm sucking their energy anymore. I don't feel like a burden. I believe people when they compliment me.

Right now it feels like I'm getting better. I left food on my plate today. People do it all the time but I've been in the Clean Plate Club since I was a kid. It's weird how hard it is to push away a plate with food on it. Years of hearing that children in other countries will die because of your wastefulness...well, I didn't want to kill anybody. The other point taken was that I wasn't going to waste food that was bought with hard earned money. So, I cleaned my plate. But not today.

When I feel anxious, I ramble and that's ok. I stumble over my words sometimes because my brain is going faster than my mouth.  I usually interrupt myself, say nevermind and get all fidgety. That's ok too because I've surrounded myself with patient and loving people that will wait until I can say what I want to say. Like today when instead of giving up, I took a deep breath, sorted my thoughts and said what I wanted to say. 

I got some blood tests back and all signs point to healthy.  The results made me feel like I could flip off anyone including myself, that thought I was unhealthy because of my weight. Cholesterol, kidneys, blood sugar, all that stuff is fine. My doctor has no concerns and didn't bring up my weight at all.  I am not unhealthy. Today, I accepted myself a little more.  

When I have an anxiety attack,  I can feel nauseous. I sometimes break out in a cold sweat or start shaking.  I usually feel tightening in my chest and have trouble catching my breath. It feels like I'm going to die. I can't tell you how many times I've googled the symptoms of a heart attack. But I've learned that these are physical reactions to an emotional trauma. I won't have to google next time. Right now, I know I'm healthy. 

Errands

The day started out pretty good. I got up, dressed, had breakfast, brushed my teeth and hair. These are big steps sometimes. I had an errand, an oil change. Woo. But it was something out of the house and I was looking forward to driving around a bit. The oil change guy was nice, funny. And an older man that was also waiting was kind and picked up my phone when I dropped it. The book I started was good-grabbed me right away and I love that. I was looking forward to going to Target, because who doesn't? The oil change took less time than I thought it would.The day seemed off to a good start.

I felt optimistic about being out in the world today, around other humans. I haven't had a lot of days like that recently. I stick close to home and if I do go out, it's with people I trust and know well. Sometimes even surrounded by those people it isn't  enough to push away the feeling that everyone is staring at me. I'm paranoid about people looking at me, judging me about my appearance because it's happened before.

I was in elementary school when the name calling started.
I had a circle of friends one summer. They told me things like, 'You'd be pretty if you'd just lose weight', or 'I've never had a fat friend before.' I didn't know that wasn't a nice thing to say.
I was in middle school when a car drove past me while I was walking and hollered out the window that I needed to look into Jenny Craig.
I was in high school when I stopped eating because I was invisible and thought 'if only I was thinner...'
I was in my twenties when a guy I thought I loved told me he could never have an intimate relationship with me because I was 'too big'.

I know I've been judged for my appearance. 

But it's been awhile. I'm lucky to have people in my life that tell me over and over that they love me just as I am. I've even started to trust they aren't lying to me. I started a slow journey within to accept who I am just as I am. I've learned tools in therapy to help me stay on that journey. I read books and join support groups to learn how to accept myself. I'm not there yet but lately it's felt like I'm closer. 

It's been a long time since anyone has said something ugly to me. I was almost convinced that people like those from my past weren't in my life because I chose it that way. And then I went out to run errands.

I was looking for a parking space when a guy was pulling out of one. I saw his reverse lights and he didn't see me. The kind of thing that happens a million times. I waited patiently for him to leave the spot and as he passed me he yelled "FAT BITCH" out the window.

Why?

That was my first thought. Did I not give him enough room to get out of the parking space? What had I done?

I found a spot and pulled in, turned off the engine. I sat there feeling the words. All of them. From elementary school up to now. I felt the guy was right. And I cried. Hard. In the shade of a parking lot tree I cried until I couldn't anymore.

All the good feelings from earlier were gone after that and I remembered I still had to go into the store. I needed things.  But now I'd be making myself vulnerable to more judgement. More comments, sneers, looks of disgust. People moving their carts so I can get through. People glancing into my cart when I pass the candy aisle to see how much I got, even when I was just passing through it.  But, we needed things so I went in.

I walked by the women's clothing and heard "FAT BITCH" echo through my mind. I felt my anxiety rise, tears start to build and I knew I had to stop. Breathe. Take a pill to avoid a breakdown in the middle of a store.
I could have left but there was still a small sliver of 'I won't let this get me' left.

I texted 2 friends I trust and told them what happened. They responded just the way I needed them to but it didn't quiet that guy's voice. I wandered the store, getting only the things I needed, avoiding any aisle that might have 'bad' food.

I paid for my things and left. I drove home the long way and then double backed and did it again.
When I got in I fed the cats, put away the stuff from Target. Except that voice. I wish so much that I could let it go, not let it bother me, accept that the guy was just an ass...but my brain rarely lets me do that. I'm trying.

At least I finished my errand. That's a big step sometimes.

Issues

It's very hard to embrace this pro-body era when I've never liked mine. I see posts online of women that call themselves 'fat' and don't understand why they're proud of it. I can barely write the word 'fat' without feeling a twinge of pain from past taunts. It is not easy being a bigger person. Larger. Heavier than the 'accepted' population.  Jesus, maybe 'fat' is the right word because the others just seem like words trying to be kind when they still sting just as much.

Going to restaurants is hard. If it's a smaller place with no booths to hide in, or small chic chairs surround a table that I could fill on my own... I feel discomfort. And humiliation.

I feel it when I have to move the table in a booth especially. Even worse if the table can't move. I try to pretend it doesn't matter and ignore that my belly spills over onto the table. I can feel it when I see the server wince when I  decide to splurge and order a meal and dessert or an appetizer or both. 

 I feel it when I clean my plate.

I can feel it when someone scoots their chair in for me to get by or when I squeeze past someone in a theater's row, hoping no part of my body touches them.

I feel it when I catch my reflection in a building's glassy front.

I feel it when I'm rocking out alone in my car and I remember people can see me.

I feel it when I am shopping for clothes and find myself in the 'regular' size section. I feel like I'm trespassing in a foreign land. I feel it confirmed from the glance of another woman shopping.

I feel it in the look of disgust from the person in line before me at the grocery store. 

Really, any public place has opportunity for humiliation and too often I am hesitant to even risk the pain it can bring so I stay inside. But inside isn't safe either. Humiliation mixes with guilt and the past.

I feel it when someone mentions 'Miss Piggy'. A childhood comment from a bully lingers in the name of  a Muppet.

If someone says 'Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Keto diet...' I'm reminded of all the times I failed.

I feel humiliation and guilt when I remember the time I ate an entire box of cookies and then hid the box, shoving it far down into the garbage so no one would know.

I feel humiliation with every creak and groan from the springs in the couch. I feel it when I purposefully avoid chairs that might break underneath me.

I live this way. I feel these feelings every time I leave the house. I feel these feelings when I'm around my friends, my husband, doctors, strangers. I feel these feelings when I cancel plans.

These feelings of humiliation, guilt, self hatred are painful. They remind me of the past, mix with the present and make the future seem bleak. I avoid going out into the world to avoid these feelings.

Someone might see me then, see how I see myself.

Others

I haven't written in a long time because...well, I didn't think anyone would care. Somewhere along the way in this weird ass journey I'm on I really started caring what other people thought and I hate it.

It makes me afraid. And sad and so very anxious all the time.

I have a select tribe of friends that I trust and know that I can be myself with. These are my Safe People and I'm beyond grateful to have them in my life. But occasionally, when things in my head get weird, thoughts drift in like, 'Stop over communicating with them. They don't want to know every thought as it drifts into your head. They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs, you don't. Quit bugging them all the time.'

And then the not working thing gets all loud. 'Why aren't you working? What the hell is wrong with you? Why can't you just let shit go like everyone else? You worked for literally half your life, what the fuck is wrong with you now?' It's not a nice voice.

So then I get sad. I feel bad. And I start thinking about what others think and it gets worse.  'She's lazy. It's a good thing her fella has money. Must be nice to not have to work. I mean, so she has anxiety and depression (complete with air quotes) -big deal, who doesn't? No wonder she's so fat. All she does is lay around all day.'

And then I feel ugly. I think about how others see me when I venture outside. It's especially bad when I visit the grocery store.  'God, gross. Look at how her chins wobble when she talks. I'm sure she really needs the cookies in her basket right? Oh my god, she actually has a ring on her finger-that means someone is into that.' Ugh, look how she moves. She walks so slow because she can't move any faster. She's SO fat.'

Those aren't nice voices either. But I know them very well.

When they all seem to be shouting at the same time, I become vulnerable. I hide. I put on the Face of  Everything's Fine and send silly memes or include lots of laughing emojis in texts. But I don't talk on the phone. I don't watch dark television shows or read scary stories. I avoid loud places and stop wearing perfume because the smell is too strong. Food becomes ash in my mouth and I feel happy I don't want to eat (because then I might lose weight) and then I remember that's not healthy but choose to eat a piece of pie for dinner.

I talk to my therapist who tells me over and over again that I'm just in the middle of a rough patch, a journey, that a portal has opened up and past hurt is pouring through, right into my face to deal with regardless of if I want to or not. She reminds me I'm planning a wedding and that shit's stressful. She's not wrong.

I talk to my friends who tell me over and over again that they understand and I know they do. They tell me they love me, support me and remind me to be patient, kind and gentle with myself. They're not wrong.

I talk to my family who tell me that I worry too much, that I don't need to stress, that everything is fine. But they don't understand...they're wrong.

And they're right. I worry all the time. About everyone else, even my cats, more than myself. I put all my energy into what others need so I don't have to focus on my own needs. It's easier. And honestly, it makes me feel a little better. If I can help someone, it makes me feel validated and needed. Things I evidently need desperately.

And if I'm nice to everyone, maybe they won't think those not nice things. The stupid part is that I'll never know. And as others have said, it's not really my business what others think. Still, I go out of my way to be friendly and kind, even when I'm literally hating myself on the inside. No one needs to see how I feel, or hear about it. They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs. I don't want to bug them all the time.

I go back to that beautiful tribe of friends, and I try. I try to remember the support and the love. I try to feel the support and patience and genuine caring they show me. I believe it's there, and that in itself was a mighty challenge to beat. But when things are hard and the voices are loud, It feels too hard to try. I need reminders. I need assurance and validation. And I feel vulnerable asking for it.

I ask my fella to sit with me when I feel this way and he does. He shares space with me, puts his hand on my leg or laces his fingers with mine. And then I want him to leave. I don't want him to see me being like...this...again. And then I start thinking about how whatever this is, it affects him. It affects our relationship and it affects our future. I'm not the same person I was when we met, he assures me no one is. I argue, what if he falls out of love with this 'new' me.

And then I remember all the people that have left before. I think about the hurt I felt, the not understanding why, the pain of never having answers. And I try to remember, that's in the past. He loves me. And then I think about how one day, he will leave. Death is a part of life after all. All those we know will die.

So then I feel sad. I think about those that are already gone. I think about what will happen when my family dies. I wonder about how I'll handle everything from the loss to the assets left behind to the funeral itself. For all of them. Mostly dad, but all of them. My fella's family too. And the cats. And my friends...

And then I think about mom. How much I miss her every day but especially lately as the wedding gets closer and closer. And truthfully, I wonder if I'm using that feeling of missing her to stay in this sadder state. When people ask, it's a great way to get them to stop asking if I'm ok. 'I'm just missing my mom a lot right now' I say and they say they're sorry and we change the subject. It's easier that way.

They have their own shit to deal with. They have jobs, I don't.  I don't want to bug them.

Sorry Not Sorry

This should be interesting. I took a pill to help me sleep about 30 minutes ago and it has failed to kick in. But I can totally feel it making my eyelids heavy and my brain a little foggy so I thought I'd just do one of those stream of consciousness blogs. I can't promise this will make any sense at all.

I've recently read a couple of story collections by women that I relate to very well. One, I admire quite a bit-Jenny Lawson, or The Blogess. I really like the way she writes. She is strong in her words, and yet vulnerable too. She shares a lot and doesn't keep things in the way others might. I try to write that way.

The other author I read was Laurie Notaro and while there were similarities, I didn't like her stories as much. A lot are written with a self deprecating tone and I think I'm too empathetic to read them. I understood that she exaggerates to enhance the story but I don't think you have to do so in the extent that the meaning of your words gets lost.

Of course what the hell do I know? They're published and I'm on a blog with 24 followers. Unless you count Facebook. Maybe. I don't know, I don't really know how my page on there works.

It's getting increasingly more challenging to type and my cat just found a bottle cap that evidently is his prey. Earlier I found a pinecone just inside the cat door and a twig in the kitchen so...this is better I guess?  Cats are weird.

I think I'm finally a real resident of this town now. I've lived here for 4 years and it's taken awhile for me to stop using my gps every time I go to the store. (Not all stores. I'm still not sure how to get to Fred Meyer but I know where Target is and really, do any other stores really matter?). But I've been drinking kombucha so it's pretty official that I am now a native.

I was going to say something witty here about how welcome baskets for PNW would have salmon, coffee, I don't know, mushrooms or something and definitely kombucha.

But see, there are tons of different kinds and not every palate can handle the carbonated vinegar goodness. The first time I tasted one I vowed to never again defile my taste buds in such a horrific fashion. But then a friend said, "Try this one. It doesn't taste like the other ones." And because I trust her, I bought one and holy shit it's delicious. I have since bought half a dozen more and in super tasty flavors like blueberry acai and mango pomegranate. It's so good AND it cleans out the pizza I had the night before. So, if you're one of my 24 followers, Humm brand kombucha, I'm a fan.

I'm NOT a fan of Justin Timberlake's juice. That Bai stuff is just...weird. The first sip and I immediately tasted peach which is good because it was in fact a peach flavored drink. But then the sick sweet FAKE taste of not sugar hit the back of my throat and I just cringed. I checked the label and saw stevia was there, lurking in the list of organic natural flavors. Stevia was great when I was doing keto and living off of wannabe brownies but now that I've changed my eating lifestyle and just limit myself to real sugar stuff, the alternatives are just awful. I respect Stevia for what it is but it tastes like shit. Sorry.

Oh wait, I'm not supposed to be apologizing. And actually, I'm not sorry. Who cares if I don't like Stevia or Justin Timberlake's juice? You can like it. I don't have to be sorry we don't agree. If we don't. But if we don't, you're wrong and then I'm sorry FOR you because you eat things like Stevia.

I saw a good human today. Well, I saw several but this one wasn't a friend or anyone I knew. She was just a nice person. It was so exciting to see they still exist! I felt like Dr. Grant when he sees the first brontosaurus in Jurassic Park. 

This good human was our server at lunch. It was extremely crowded and it took a very long time to have anyone acknowledge us. I mean, at all. And I usually get pretty pissy about that kind of service. I could see they were busy but I was also being judgy and could see that they were all over the place. I saw one server...and that was it. Then a cook came out from the kitchen. Yikes. And then I saw another girl taking orders and I was feeling a little better, despite the hangries. My friends and I were discussing the potential danger to our loved ones when we were suffering from hangry-itis when the good human came to our table.

She greeted us warmly and took our orders. One of my friends had a question and the good human responded, "Well, yes, I think we can do that. I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure... I don't work here."

My friends and I were stunned. She explained that she felt sorry for the lone server and had gotten up to help. Just because she could and it was a good human thing to do. We all became less pissy about waiting, even though it still took a super long time. But when the food came out, it was hot and good and the good human left us our check right when the food came and wished us a good day. We left a big tip and a renewed faith that there are still good humans out there.

Good humans that hopefully are sleeping because not sleeping sucks. Turns out writing on a sleeping pill is a little weird and writing about an actual occurrence instead of just rambling is hard. Writing under the influence may cause side affects. <== like typos.

I think I'm gonna try the whole sleep thing again since my current thoughts are just about how to make words out of the letters I'm pushing.

Hopefully at least a little bit of this made sense. But if it didn't, I'm not sorry.

Just Coffee

It was just coffee.  Some might even argue it wasn't coffee because it was decaf. I had to switch when my anxiety levels peaked. At least it tastes the same.

She and I had dinner right after it happened and I was terrified. I didn't know what to expect and that fear of the unknown has always paralyzed me. I went anyway and it was fine. Nice in fact. We talked to each other as though we were finally friends. We parted ways with plans to meet again soon but soon turned out to be 3 months.

She asked how I was, I asked how she was, we hugged. There were a couple of pauses that felt weird and I wasn't sure what to think of them so I tried not to think about them at all. I rambled on about the wedding instead. About the dress and the people coming and all the little things I still had left to do. I tried not to see that her face changed when I showed her the picture of the dress and then with me in it. I told myself it didn't mean anything but there was a small hesitation before the compliment and it felt like hours. A million thoughts of 'I knew I didn't look good' flew around crashing into the earlier lovely thoughts of 'I look pretty good in this'. One of those pauses happened then as I sipped my drink. She looked at her phone to check the time.

She asked how my health was and I knew she had genuine concern but I couldn't explain so I turned the conversation to her. I'm really good at that. And she told me about her mother.

Her mother is in a home that caters to elderly folks suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia. I didn't realize the difference could be so slight but I could tell she'd asked that question long ago by the way she described it to me. I swallowed my own fears of Alzheimer's-it's the one thing I'm most afraid of happening. I would be nothing without my memories of who I was.

She talked about how each time she visits, her mom tells her she wants to go home. That she doesn't want to make friends with the other people there-that they aren't her family. Her mom misses her house, doesn't understand that she's in a locked facility and that when her daughter visits it hurts to see her that way and it scares her and it drains her when she's done.

I listened. I knew what it was like. It had been the same with my mom. Telling her it was time to go was terrifically painful. She would cry, tell us how unhappy she was, how much she just wanted to go home. But we couldn't. She needed the care she was getting but it was never enough. It wasn't me and my dad.

I told my friend that I understood. That I was so sorry she was holding on to all of that along with everything else. I thought about how when it was my turn I was barely functioning. I only went once a week and each time I needed 3 days to recover after. I needed the time to wade through the guilt and the sadness. I needed to grieve but I usually numbed myself instead. I told her I was proud of her.

Our chat ended soon after that. Bringing the subject back around to anything else just seemed unimportant. She looked at her phone again and I gave her the out. We stood up, hugged, and told each other how nice it had been to spend time together instead of making plans to do it again.

That's ok. It was just coffee.