Not Always

I wasn't always like this.

I didn't think of myself as vulnerable, sensitive or introverted. The word 'trigger' meant something that was on a gun and therapy was something crazy people did in the movies. I wasn't susceptible to being hurt or dependent on others to feel self awareness.

I didn't wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, or just because. I didn't eat candy for breakfast and nothing for dinner. I didn't watch the television on low volume, or read in soft light, or avoid perfumes and scented candles. I didn't feel so tired after running errands. I didn't yell at strangers from the safety of my car or drive with my knuckles white on the wheel. 

I didn't hope for bad weather so I could have an excuse to stay in. I didn't have to force myself to be around people, to smile and laugh. I didn't feel lonely when I was surrounded by friends. I didn't think I was being judged or laughed at when my back was turned.

I didn't stumble over my words or ask the same questions over and over because I forgot what the answers were. I didn't reread sentences in books to avoid losing the plot. I didn't hold back my opinions from fear of being judged. I didn't wince when voices got loud.

I didn't monitor what I watched on television, or read or talked about. I didn't drink decaf. I didn't avoid mirrors. I didn't frown so much. Or cry. 

I wasn't always like this.  But this is what anxiety does. This is what happens when depression grasps it's hand and leads it into a twisted emotional dance.

Every day I wake up and tell myself I'm going to be ok. I tell myself that the clouds inside will break and hope will flood back in.

It won't always be like this, that's what they say. You're going through something, that's all. You have to go through it to get out of it. It takes time, they say. And I nod. I use the tools I've been given. I say that I understand. And I try to remember, I wasn't always like this.

The Anxiety/Depression Monster

I guess it was around midnight when I realized sleep wasn't going to happen. I was yawning and my eyes were bleary but my mind was in full gear.

I gave up the coziness of my bed and came downstairs, intending to write all the thoughts in my head onto the screen, hoping to get them out somehow.

I opened up The Spreadsheet. I have 10+ tabs on this bad boy and they are all about the wedding and what it entails. I'm on a strict budget and every time I have to add something to the list, I want to cry. Every time I have to take something away, I want to cry. I don't want to think about how much everything costs. I want to be one of those people that doesn't have to worry about finances and can do everything they've ever wanted.

I was not the little girl that dreamed of her big wedding. I never even thought I'd fall in love. But now that I'm lucky enough to have both, I want it all. I mean, not EVERYTHING. I don't want a horse drawn carriage or black tie dinner or a string quartet playing in the corner. I just want to have decorations that represent My Fella and me. I want our guests to have food options and drinks to drink and music to dance to when the drinks have kicked in. I want to have a dress that makes me feel pretty and friends surrounding me that will help me feel calm.

I'm not doing the party favors-I don't think anyone really wants those. I'm not doing the bouquet toss, or the garter belt fling-both traditions are ridiculous and ridiculing.  We're not doing the 'exit walk' except to get out of the ballroom and into the bar. We're not doing the first dance, the daddy/daughter dance or the mother/son dance. We're not having 60 million photos taken in uncomfortable and unnatural poses.

We're doing it our way.

I need to find a dress. Soon. I'm getting married in less than 5 months and 'they' say that you should have 4-6 months of time to order your dress, make any alterations and to I don't know, have in your closet until your wedding day?  And then what do I do with the dress after the big day? Put it back in the closet? I'm not planning on children to pass it down to. I don't think I'll have the heart to cut it up or use it as a Carrie costume. So...donate? Probably. But it will have to sit in my trunk for the mandatory 3 months first.

Ugh! I don't want to shop for the dress. I was really struggling earlier today with....well...feelings. I imagine not being able to find one that fits. Or finding one that fits and it's too expensive. Or not finding one in my size. Or finding one in my size but having to go up like 3 sizes because evidently wedding gowns are sized small. Who does that? EVERY bride I've talked to has told me this and it makes no sense. If anything they should size them big so that women can feel super good about themselves squeezing into a 12 if they're normally a 20. I'm afraid I won't find one that I feel pretty in and I desperately want to feel pretty on my wedding day.

I KNOW that My Fella loves me just as I am. I KNOW that my friends and family do too. I KNOW that it's widely believed that there is no such thing as an ugly bride. I KNOW this but my anxiety/depression monster doesn't and it really wants to win the conversation.

My arms. It's my arms that bother me the most. I confessed this to My Fella and he got me some free weights and taught me how to do stair push ups. I love him for this. I also hate that it doesn't feel that it will ever be enough. I used to refer to my arms as manatees. It made others giggle and it made me feel I was jumping the gun on any insult someone might think (or say). I stopped doing that a while ago and switched it to saying that 'my arms bother me the most'. Means the same, isn't as funny.

Not liking how you look isn't funny. It's sad. And I KNOW that too. When I feel this way I try to think of positive things. If I can find one, I can scream it back at that cruel taunt of, 'You'll never be good enough' or 'You're ugly'. It's SO fucking hard to hear positive things when that voice is screaming at you. If I hear them at all, it's a miracle. I usually have to coax them out of a whisper. I have to help them build into a shout that matches and eventually overpowers the loud mean anxiety/depression monster. I haven't been able to do that in a very, very long time.

Someone asked me the last time I felt pretty. I don't know. I have moments, little ones where I'll catch myself in a reflection and think, 'oh ok, you're pretty cute'. It doesn't last long. Usually a picture is taken and when  I see the image I instantly feel that shred of self love disappear. I have shirts I will never wear again that I thought looked good until I saw myself in a picture.

Writing about this makes me anxious. It makes me think that the person reading it-you-will think I need to be reassured about my looks. Or that you might think that you need to tell me that everything will be fine and that the wedding will be perfect and everyone loves me and I'm going to look beautiful.

And you might be right. I'll let myself believe you might be. But until I know it myself, I'm going to have trouble hearing you above that screaming monster.

My Brain is a Dick

My brain is a dick, even when it's trying to be nice.

It says things like, "You can't do that!" or "That's a stupid idea!" or "You will never be able to do that!" or "Just forget trying, you're only going to fail."

Total dick.

And I've listened to it for years. I've believed it and I've held myself back, feeling stuck. I've been afraid to try, afraid of failure and judgement. Afraid to be anything but less than what I could be.

It says other things too. Things like, "You will never be pretty in a wedding dress." or "You have always been fat, you always will be fat and fat=ugly."

It doesn't matter that My Fella feels I'm beautiful just the way I am. It doesn't matter if I've had people call me pretty or say I looked good. It doesn't matter because my brain is a dick.

Sometimes it gets really mean. "Don't trust them" it says, or "They can't mean that, they're lying."
It tells me, "Don't you dare rely on them." or "Everyone will leave you eventually."
It says, "If you do that, think that, for yourself... it's selfish."

"You're hopeless. Broken. A wreck."
"Your friends, your Fella, your family...they'll figure out how broken you are and leave."
"Everyone leaves eventually."

That last one is recurring. It screams my fear of abandonment and sends me into a spiral of what ifs that terrifies me.  I become desperate to believe anything else so I tell people I love them, waiting in torture for them to return the sentiment. If they don't, doubt sinks in and takes over and I fall into that spiral, spinning. I become afraid they have left me.

This is where therapy starts to help. Slowly.

Somehow, that dicky brain part of me is trying to protect me. I think, if I build a wall, if I know I'm already broken, I won't risk being broken again. I won't have insults hurdled at me about my weight if I already believe them or if I say them first.  If I don't learn to rely on others, I can close myself off, isolate myself from the loved ones that want to help. I will never learn that asking for help, accepting help, is ok. If I build that wall.

I've been building that wall a long time. It's hard to listen to that part that says my brain is a dick, but easy to believe. It's so hard, so exhausting to try and change what you've believed for so long. I tried other things first. When I was young, 11 or 12 or 13, I'd drink dad's Crown Royal mixed with kool aid in the shed out back. When I was a little older, I smoked pot to quiet that voice of cruelty.  A little older than that, sex with men that were not good men to me. I was self destructing and had no strength to stop. I hid in depression and food and my apartment while on the outside I smiled, worked and tried. I thought no one noticed because why would they? I'd already told them through my actions that they didn't have to.

It worked for awhile, except when it didn't.

I 'protected' myself so much, I forgot to take care of myself. I let my brain and it's harsh words control all of me. I stopped trusting the kindness from others. I began to believe all the things I'd already known and it hurt. It immobilized me.

Somehow I sought help and that's when I started to learn that my brain isn't really a dick. It just doesn't know the right way to help. It's a slow lesson, a hard lesson. But I'm trying.

I think about how I'd respond if a friend was saying those things to themselves. I'd be shocked and dismayed, saddened they could ever feel that way and I'd do my best to help them feel otherwise. I'd tell them it was ok to have those feelings but that they didn't have to believe them.  I'd tell them they were braver than they knew and that I would be there to help them realize it.

I'm trying to say those things to myself, to believe them. It's not easy but I'm going to try to be kind to myself. I'm going to be that friend to myself I've been to others and reassure my brain that it doesn't have to 'protect' me anymore. I can believe the kindness and support. I don't have to self destruct.

I'm going to try.
At least I'll try today.
And that's one more day forward.

All of It

The other day a friend said something I can't get out of my heart. 

"Maybe it's time for you to just move on and let it go."

He was talking about my mom. 

His parents are both gone and he's mourned them, seemed to indeed moved on and let go. 

I am not him. 

Every year, as soon as the leaves begin to change into beautiful reds, yellows, oranges and every shade in between, it starts to come back. It doesn't matter how long it's been, I remember every detail as though it were yesterday. 

It's been 12 years now. Twelve. I know children that age. They were coming into the world as my mother was leaving it. There's something beautiful about that. And sad. 

Sad. That's the main emotion that haunts me right now. But this year it's mixed with anxiety from recent struggles that have only brought up past struggles and all of this is tumbling around inside me, threatening my sanity. I often don't know what to do to wade through it. So I write. Or I talk about it. Sometimes I talk to the wrong people. People that have moved on. 

I was in the bathroom, trying desperately to pin back my unruly bangs. They were in that awkward stage, much like I was, even at 29. I'd had many people recently tell me how much I looked like her and I wanted to make that real by pinning my hair like hers. I couldn't do it. My hair was too thick. 

My uncle knocked on the door. "It's time." and I knew she was leaving. 

I ran to her room, only to be stopped at the door by a nurse. "I need you to put on the gown." I looked at her incredulously, desperate to get into my mother's room. I could see her and I needed to get to her. I hurriedly threw the gown on-the protective gown to not make her more sick- and moved quickly to her bedside. I knew immediately she was gone. 

My father was there already, holding her hand, but I don't remember if he was crying. My uncle, her brother, was there too. He stood at the foot of the bed, silent. If you've ever seen a loved one leave, you know the instant they are gone. The light was missing from her face. I stood there, feeling the piece of my heart that was her, leave and turn to a missing piece. I felt my father leave the room, then my uncle, and still I stayed. The machines were off, it was quiet. It felt like she was in the room, but no longer in the hospital bed. I looked away from her body, into the space around it to tell her goodbye. Before I left the room I told her I loved her, but she knew and whatever I'd felt surrounding me was also gone. She had moved on, let go.  

I still feel her sometimes, but not often. I feel like she's proud of me when I write. Or when I'm taking photos or doing anything creative. She would say she wasn't creative, that I must get that from Dad but I know the truth. Her creativity was bright in other ways. It was in how she spoke to others. She knew how to diffuse an angry child with a smile. She made you feel like you were the only person in the universe and that she loved you with ever part of her. Even if you weren't hers. And she was strong. She fought for what she believed in, for others and for herself until she couldn't anymore. 

I still want to talk to her. Every. Day. I wonder if she'd be a mom that texts or if she'd get annoyed at my emojis and tell me, "Just call me you twit." I wonder if she'd still be working at the school, or visiting the library or if she'd be a mom with a kindle. I wonder what TV shows she'd like and if she still did crossword puzzles. I wonder if she would have liked the new Stephen King novel or had tried using a keurig to make her coffee in the morning. 

I miss her. I won't move on from that. I won't let go of her. She's still a missing piece inside of me. As I grow older and of course others around me do too, other pieces will be added and it will hurt. I will move forward, not away from their memories. I will hold on to them and cherish them and remember. 

All of it.  

Advice

"Maybe it's time for you to just let it go. "

"If you exercised, that would help."

"Have you tried yoga?"

"Well, maybe if you got out more."

People have good intentions. And I understand how much it hurts to see someone you care for struggling. I know too, that for many, the first instinct is to fix the person hurting. I don't always remember this either, but the truth is....You can't. They have to fix themselves.

What you CAN do is support them. Listen and give gentle advice when they ask for it. Let them cry or sleep or eat bad food or not eat anything at all if that's what they need to do.

But there's a line right? You want to let them get through on their own and be that super supportive friend, but you also don't want to watch them self destruct. Make phone calls or texts often. Let them know you're thinking about them, or even that you're worried if you are. Let them know over and over again that they are not alone.

Sometimes, you can't see it. The person is laughing and smiling and working and eating and throwing parties and living. Nothing seems to be wrong at all. But underneath all of that is a simmering depression, waiting to be alone with the person again.  So, ask things like, "How ya doing?" or "What have you been up to lately?" or even something like, "Do you want to get a coffee?" Even if the person doesn't want to go out, that simple question can sometimes help you see where their mood lies and it shows you still want to spend time with them. For me, sometimes that helps.

This isn't supposed to be an advice column but I've struggled with depression for years. Anxiety too. And while I know what I need, another person may need something different. Just don't stop trying.  And don't try to fix them. Just listen, support, believe and ask questions if you don't understand.

War Within

Up and down. Back and forth. Side to side. Awake all night, sleeping all day. Eating everything, hating food. Craving companionship, needing to be alone. Feeling excited for new things, dreading change.

It's all the fucking time. Everything.

I'm struggling with panic attacks and nightmares and stress and frustration almost daily. I cry, I sit and stare at the TV, I try to fight it and sometimes I let myself give up. I'm disappointed that the logical part of my brain can't be stronger than the emotional part. I'm struggling with accepting I can't do anything about it. I'm struggling with allowing someone to take care of me. I'm struggling with allowing myself to be sick with an invisible illness. Logically, I get it. But my emotions are flipping the logic off.

It feels like my brain is at war. I'm happy and blissfully in love with my Fella and planning our wedding. But I'm also so riddled with anxiety that I jump at my own shadow.

Depression comes in too. Depression is pals with anxiety and when the two of them get together, my heart feels like an awkward third wheel that just wants to leave. It becomes too much. It pushes all the happy thoughts I might have out and demands that I pay attention to everything that's wrong.

And it makes me afraid. I am fearful of loss the most. I've experienced it and my heart and mind want to protect me from ever feeling that pain again. So I spend time thinking about it, wondering what I might do...if. I send myself into a terrible spiral. I worry about what will happen if the Fella is suddenly gone. I worry that my Dad won't be here to walk me down the aisle, or that the Fella's parents won't be there. I worry about the cats getting hurt or dying. I worry that when I leave my friends from a brunch that they won't make it home safely.  I worry and think about everyone else that when I start to think about myself, I back away from it. It's too hard.

I know to put my oxygen mask on first but I feel more comfortable being the one trying to calm everyone down instead of trying to breathe. I want to change that and some days I feel like I'm taking strides to do that. But when you're at war with yourself, it's hard to imagine victory.

Emotion Overload

I haven't written in awhile. I've had lots of things on my mind but the words needed to stay inside. This morning I realized that not only did I have a lot of words tumbling around in my mind, aching to finally be let out, but my emotions were also longing to burst forth.

I'm mad. I'm mad at politics and racism and close minded people. I'm mad at people that don't signal when changing lanes, people that are rude to customer service workers and people that don't return the shopping cart. I'm mad at people that say one thing but do another and people nice to your face but not your back and people that are mean simply because they want to be. I'm mad at my sock for sliding in my shoe and my hair for being poofy and for cat litter for being a substance that knows no home. I'm mad at neighbors that play their music loud and neighbors that let their dogs roam and neighbors that leer when you walk passed. I'm mad.

I'm sad. I'm sad because of politics and racism and close minded people. I'm sad because I've known people that have died in car accidents because of someone else's carelessness. I'm sad for the customer service folks that are just trying to live and are treated unkindly and blamed for things completely out of their control. I'm sad that people don't understand how much it hurts to be talked about and I'm sad that some people just don't care. I'm sad that dogs are roaming around, unleashed and in danger of cars, animals and people that don't like dogs. I'm sad that neighborhood watch means something different than it's meant to. I'm sad because this time of year reminds me of death. From the leaves dying and falling to the ground to the painful reminder that my mom is gone. I'm sad.

I'm anxious. I'm anxious because of politics and racism and close minded people. I'm anxious because not everyone treats driving as a privilege but instead as their own personal video game. I'm anxious because confrontation makes me uncomfortable and people are angry, unable to hold it back and willing to take it out on innocents. I'm anxious because being around insincere people makes me feel insecure and vulnerable and paranoid and full of self doubt. I'm anxious because the fear of the unknown is always looming and I can only learn to accept, adapt and move forward instead of avoid, dwell and ignore it. I'm anxious because dogs can get hit by cars, neighbors can be violent or death can come at any time. I'm anxious because these thoughts are not everyday thoughts, but they are present enough. I'm anxious.

I'm happy. I'm happy because I have faith that politics can change, racism can be lessened, maybe even eliminated in time, and that there are close minded people that can change their views with communication and patience. I'm happy because I'm driving, exploring the world one mile at a time. I'm happy because I have worked customer service for most of my life and I know how to treat others because of it. I'm happy because I love dogs and especially meeting new ones as they walk through the neighborhood. I'm happy because I know a lot of people that care and have kind hearts. I'm happy because I can wear different socks and have my hair trimmed if I want to and that I occasionally get a smile from a grocery store clerk that appreciates I've returned the cart. I'm happy because my fella proposed and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with someone that I know is exactly right for me. I'm happy because I'm writing again but differently. I'm happy because I am learning to be. I'm happy.

All of these emotions at once can be overwhelming, but I'm beginning to recognize them for what they are, accept them for what they are. I am learning to identify triggers that can send me into an anxious spiral or depressive state and I'm not ignoring them. I'm learning how to manage them. I'm learning to forgive myself for being mad, sad,  or anxious and allowing myself to embrace happiness without feeling guilt. I'm allowing myself to accept compliments, well wishes and love. I can't do it all at once, I can't expect it to always feel progressive and I can't imagine it any other way. I see moments of improvement in myself and desperately try to remember them when the other side looms. It doesn't always work, but I try.  I try.

Inside

Every time I do something and I don't do it precisely right, I fear the result. I am afraid that I will be looked down on, thought less of, disliked or teased.

As a result, I strive for a trait that doesn't exist: perfection. I stress myself out. If I'm criticized, even constructively, I break down. I don't always let it show--I've learned not to let it show at work--but it's there. Inside, eating at my already fragile state of mind is that feeling of 'you're not good enough'.

I want to tell people that I feel this way, I want to ask them to try and understand but the fear holds me back again. I'm afraid I'll be seen as weak, erratic, irresponsible or ridiculous.   It's a terrible feeling. I know where it stems from but knowing that doesn't make it feel any better.

In a lot of ways it makes it worse. Because in addition to accepting, and trying to understand these feelings, I have to acknowledge where they came from and that they've been here for a long time. Buried, afraid to come out but very present. And loud inside my head and heart.

In the Process

Jesus, my mind is buzzing. I have ideas on what I want to do around the house, what I want to write about, what I want to do when I go back to work on Monday, food I want to cook for the BBQ next weekend, what I'm going to wear when I finally change out of my Star Wars pajamas.

I'm literally twitching. I want to run and walk and swim and do all kinds of exercise I usually try my best to avoid. I swear to god I could paint the entire house today, build a gazebo, pull the sneaky blackberry bushes out by their invisible roots and then run around the block.

In January, I went to the doctor. I told her I wasn't myself. I told her I was quiet and distant and cold on the inside. I told her I didn't think my medication was working. She told me to go to a psychiatrist. I tried.
A little.
I looked online at a few shrinks in the area and then when no one looked like someone I would want to talk to I gave up. It's not easy to take that step when you are feeling like you'll never walk again.

I guess I had a follow up appointment with my doc to see how things were going with the psych I was supposed to find, but I forgot about it. It's not easy to remember commitments and follow through on them when you can't seem to care about anything.

In April, I was put in charge of a project at work that changed me. Because of my role, I was able to look at my career path differently and finally admit to myself that I was headed the right way. I immersed myself in the project, desperate for success. And things happened, as they do, to delay a feeling of accomplishment. Halfway through the project, I injured my back. Or rather, the disks in my low back finally made it known they needed attention. My body got delayed too.

In early May I started physical therapy (physical torture).

Now, on the last day of June, I feel better. I feel the energy described above just itching to get out.

But I can't expel it. I need to rest my back and take it slow. I know this because I've tested it.

On Monday of this week, I moved some tables. They were very light, round tables that slid across a carpeted floor with ease. I felt fine. I did not strain or push too hard. When I finally felt (too soon) the slightest hint of pain, I stopped. I iced my back. I hobbled slowly around the office, dodging looks of sympathy and 'are you ok' glances. And I knew, I wasn't healed. Wasn't even close.

On Tuesday, I went back to my doctor. I told her I'd been in pain for 3 months. Pain that has limited me to do anything and has allowed all the weight I'd lost come back to disfigure the confidence I'd begun to build. I told her I felt that I was always taking 1 step forward, 2 steps back....in my mind's health, my body's health...I told her I wasn't healed.

We talked about the psychiatrist I was supposed to see and why I didn't. We talked about the weight I'd gained and why I wish I hadn't. We talked about the energy soaking pain that my back and mind took turns gathering and how to make it stop.

She suggested a new medication. I ignored the 'fuck, another pill?' feeling and started taking it the next day. My fog lifted. I was singing along to the radio again (sad songs but something at least) and was writing some great stuff at work. I felt good (almost) the rest of the week. I stayed up late and watched my shows, slept (sort of) and got up with no responsibilities waiting.

This morning, right now, my fingers are flying across the keys, writing about how I can't stop or go.  My mind is still thinking about what I'm going to do next but my body won't let me. I'm limited.
I'm not entirely healed.

Battle

Self care is hard. And it's different for everyone. Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're practicing self care or being self destructive. It's exhausting.

Self care isn't fair. It means you have to say no to things that you want to do because deep down, it's the right step for yourself. It means exploring feelings that hurt to try and understand.

Self care is not selfish. It's necessary to survive.

Getting to that point can be a difficult journey. It was for me. And my god it took a long time. Actually,  I'm still on it.

I was probably 25ish when I finally faced some childhood demons. With the help of a therapist, I learned that it wasn't my fault, that I was still able to be loved, that I might feel broken, but that I could heal. It wasn't easy to believe.

When you've felt undesirable, ugly, broken, or empty for most of your life, learning you can feel otherwise is overwhelming in its freedom. I battled with some intense feelings. I didn't think I deserved to feel any differently so I couldn't accept it was possible.

Self care is easy to procrastinate. When you're in a place that you're used to, why change? The anxiety can be too much.

It was for me once. I held the bottle of pills. I had the thoughts. A friend stepped in--I was lucky.

I am lucky. I have a support system to help me push forward towards new and more challenging aspects of self care. But it has to start with me. I have to accept that I can even begin to try. And it's hard. It's so hard. It's like going against everything you've been taught, felt, experienced.

When you learn that the things you were taught, felt or experienced were not aspects of care...that's when it gets really hard. You have choices. You can act, you can ignore. You can dwell, you can practice letting go. You can hide, you can confront. You can do anything in between. This is when self care and self destruction sometimes dance.

My feeling is that if you're battling some inner demons, you need to do the best things for yourself to help win. Sometimes though, the things that feel good are not the best things for you to do in order to heal. Drugs and alcohol are easy solutions, numbing agents.  Like a child that's hiding in plain sight, "you can't see me!" Maybe they've masked the demon, for a little while but you know they're there. Food was my numbing agent. I ate because it was the only thing that I enjoyed--and it wasn't broccoli and salads. I ate terribly, all the time, and still struggle with it sometimes. I smoked a LOT of pot. I drank too for a little while.  I did whatever I could to feel better. I cried a lot and eventually realized what I was doing wasn't helping. I wasn't better. The numbing agents were just cover ups. I fell into a spiral of helplessness.

Once you know you're not ok, things get scary. The fear of not being able to get over the past, to heal from it is overwhelming. It means I had to finally confront the demons and begin to truly fight. I was terrified. But for me, that was the first step. I didn't realize it at the time but looking back, I can see that's where it started. The self care.

One of the first things I did was tell my parents about a childhood trauma I'd kept hidden. I wasn't sure how I wanted or needed them to respond but I told them anyway. I did it for me. I had to let some of the demons out and let them die in honest air. I practiced self care by sharing my story and it was excruciating.

I wish I could say that all the other demons just fell right out after that and that practicing self care became easy for me but that's not true. I still struggle. I doubt telling people things for fear of their reaction. I've been learning that individual past behaviors can help me with that but the truth is you never know how someone will respond.

Self care for me is strongly tied to communication. I try to be honest and open with people from the start. I pay attention to how they respond to others so I can learn how to talk to them in a way that works for me, in a way that won't aggravate a demon.  I talk to my therapist, and I write about my feelings until I can find the right way to express them aloud. Sometimes they never go from the paper, but I've still communicated them. I've released them.

Self care is hard. And it's different for everyone. It's exhausting and sometimes disappointing and challenging and painful at times too. But it's for me. I will keep fighting the demons, even if they're never gone, they will not control me.

When I Forget

All I wanted was for someone to notice. I wanted someone to see that I was a good person, kind and thoughtful. That I wasn't like most people. Since I was small, I ached to be recognized for more than what I was. 

I've learned how to do that for myself a little bit--though I forget sometimes. I've learned how to accept compliments and believe them--though I forget sometimes. I've learned that I don't need to have others' approval for me to approve of myself. I've learned that I'm a good person, kind, and thoughtful--though I forget sometimes. 

The people that help me remember...they're my family. A beautiful circle of support that has grown stronger over the years. I am grateful for them and appreciate them more than words could ever express. It's a sentiment I often find myself reflecting on. The love they have for me is strong and powerful. Knowing it's there is sometimes the only thing that gets--especially I forget. 

But I still want more. I want just one more to ask me how I am. To care about what I'm going through and support me when times are hard. I want to be able to call any time to talk about all the things I'm afraid of. The things I'm excited for. I still want more.

For years that wish felt selfish. How could I be sad or upset or confused about not having that from one person when I was surrounded with it by others? I felt childish, needy, weak...for years because I had that wish. It's been only recently that I've begun to understand that the difference between what I have and am so grateful for is not the same as what I'm still longing for.

I realized, no,accepted...I may never have my wish come true. Not because I don't deserve it because I do. Not because it's impossible to give because it is. But because maybe it doesn't matter. Not really. Because I have my family. I have support. I am not alone. It still hurts sometimes but that's kind of just life-wouldn't be real otherwise. But no...it doesn't matter. I don't need it anymore. 

Lost

I get lost in my own thoughts often. I over think EVERYTHING. I instantly feel like a failure when things don't go quite right. I punish myself with eating food but tell myself it's for comfort. I feel disappointed most of the time and I don't really have any motivation. For anything.

I'm jumpy. The Fella yelled earlier and it sent terror through me. The source of his anger wasn't towards me but it was very real and I felt it. The fear stayed, even after he apologized. It brought back memories and pain and inevitable disappointment in myself.

Because it must be my fault. It always was before when voices got loud like that.

But it isn't. And it's not the same as then. I breathe and cry and tell myself over and over again. It's not my fault.

I'm sad. I don't want to do anything. I can't seem to ever feel rested. I second guess myself because my confidence fell away again.

Every time I start to feel good, to feel the way I should feel...something happens and it's gone like smoke in the air.

The cycle begins again. I beat myself up and struggle to find self worth. I care too much what others think. I avoid conflict and harsh words. I'm discouraged when it feels like 'thats just life' because then life isn't what I desperately wish it was. I wish it was kind and good and gentle but it's not. It's angry and harsh and exhausting so often...

The older I get the more I see how true that is. And it hurts my heart. This 'life'.

I can't find good parts as easily as I used to. I feel clouded, cold.

Just Listening

Sometimes I just listen to the quiet. Listening to just under the quiet to all the little sounds that make the hum of background. I break them up, separate them until I hear everything.

Traffic from the main road. If no one is honking, I close my eyes and pretend it's the ocean.
A neighbor is sawing? Raking? Something yardy.
Birds are singing. Lovely calls to one another creating layers of song.
The bubbles in my soda water burst against the sides of the can. A soft, crackly ping.
Traffic is the loudest. The most varied in levels of sound. Motorcycle noises because it's a nice day.
Refrigerator humming, ice machine groaning, laptop breathing softly.


The Fella's chair creaks from downstairs.

I see the wind first. Staring out the dining room window the neighbor's evergreen waves to me. Then I hear it. Sounds like the cars at first and then it builds and I can tell...Those are my trees roaring quietly.

My wind chimes join in. The wooden one from the beach is barely hanging on but I can hear it. Sounds like the docks from when I was a kid.  The tiny chime from a friend a long time ago.  And then the wind dies.

A crow starts screaming. It's caw mingles with a helicopter. A military bird. For a moment the world sounds angry. A dog barks one time. The chop chop chop fades into the city and the crow quiets. The other birds sing again.

Another dog bark. It's the dachshund two doors down and I can instantly picture the little shit strutting down the middle of the street like he owns it. Makes me nervous when he does that.

The yardy guy has started using a weed eater. whirrrrrr whirrrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrr whirrrrr-rr  Sounds of summer in April. I can't tell where it's coming from-sounds like everywhere. He must be close by. It's not entirely unpleasant but it's louder than the quiet from before.

The Fella's glasses being set on the desk. Water running, splashing in the sink. He yawns--loud like a child and then I hear him come up the stairs. His feet on the carpet, slippers scuffling. He touches my back on the way to the kitchen. I hear him toss ice into a glass. The pop fizz from a can of soda, liquid being poured and then the hollow clink as the can is set down onto the counter. A pause and then his feet move towards the doorway. He must have picked the can up because he's crushing it now and then tossing it into the bin.

I am listening to him. I know exactly what the sound is from, yet I jump.

"Will it bother you if I watch television?"

I smile, "Nope. I'm almost done."

He touches my back again as he passes behind me.

Leslie Knope starts squeaking.

Sometimes I just listen to the sound of home. Listening to just under the hum of background to all the little sounds that make it home.

Big Girl Brain

My back hurts. 

That's the first thing I notice when I wake up. I swallow and my throat is dry, scratchy. I've slept with my mouth open and probably snored. Loudly. The kind of snoring I should probably have a mask for but I tried and I just can't wear it. I know it's supposed to help me breathe but I only feel like I'm suffocating.

The clock says I should get up soon but I like laying there listening to morning sounds. Outside the birds are waking up in the cool spring morning and I can hear the Fella downstairs futzing about. The bedroom door is open but the kittens haven't realized it yet so for the moment I can stretch my legs and wiggle my toes without the fear of attack.

I hear the Fella come upstairs for his shower and that means I have about 45 minutes before I have to leave. I snuggle down in the covers and close my eyes. Just a little longer.

My back still hurts.  I take a deep breath and literally pull myself out of bed. My body creaks with the bed frame and I sigh. You should lose weight.You'd sleep better and your back wouldn't hurt and you wouldn't have sleep apnea and have anxiety that you'll die in your sleep. It's because your fat that your back hurts.  

I take my time in the morning but still leave with plenty of time to stop and get a Starbucks before heading into the office. It's not my favorite barista working the window but she's nice.  I order my usual and then before I even realize I've done it, I order a blueberry muffin too. "Oh, you're having a muffin today huh?" Why? Do you think I'm too fat to have a muffin? I probably am. Maybe I shouldn't. You're probably already judging me because my drink is made with cream instead of milk. As soon as I get up to the window you'll see how fat I am. How much I don't need that muffin but you'll give it to me anyway because it's your job but once I'm out of earshot you'll giggle with your coworkers about how big I am. 

The smell of the warm blueberries meets my nose and I realize I'm not even hungry. I sing along to the radio. It's Friday.

I'm five minutes late for my first meeting. He chose the table that has the uncomfortable chairs. I make a joke as I sit down. Did he notice that I don't really fit in this chair? Can he see my belly peeking out from under my shirt? I can't have my skin showing. That's gross. Does he notice the arms of the chair digging into my thighs? He can't see the bruises that are there from before can he? From other chairs in other places? 

Coffee break. Regular black with cream from the table this time. I forget to push the plunger and joke it away, "Helps if you open it, ha ha." There's a guy in the line watching me as a rush of cream spills into the cup. "Or you could just take it all ha ha, " and he walks away. I shouldn't have cream. He thinks I'm too fat to have cream in my coffee. He meant I would take all of it because I'm fat and that's what fat people do, don't they? 

Another meeting and now I'm late for lunch. Still not hungry but I'm supposed to be so I take my 30 minutes. Eating with a friend, laughing about The Humpty Dance. She's watching me eat. She probably thinks I'm so gross for eating. It must be disgusting to watch me eat.

The day continues, then ends and before home-- a quick errand. I'm tired. I don't want to be in the car anymore. I want to be on my couch. That person in the car next to you at the stoplight thinks your fat. The girl in the grocery store does too. The guy you passed on the way in moved out of your way because you're bigger than he is. You're bigger than most guys. 

A good song comes on and I start to move with it. I tap the steering wheel, and for just a split second I forget everything else. The car is shaking with your weight. People in cars that are in nearby lanes will look over because your car is bouncing. Because you're fat. 

I pull into the garage and sit for a moment. I let another song play, trying to find the feeling I had only minutes ago. It's gone and I turn off the engine. I take a deep breath and literally pull myself from the car. "Pretty soon you'll have to roll me into the car." I said that in my sleep one night and the Fella reluctantly told me next morning. I never forgot what I already knew.   

Dinner is on it's way. Take out again because it's just easier that way. If you ate better, or even ordered better from the menu...I eat the food quickly. I don't remember if I was hungry or not. I eat ice cream because it's there and watch tv because it's on.

Bed time comes around and I push my way off the couch to lay down on the bed instead. My back hurts. It's the last thing I think before I go to sleep. You should lose weight.You'd move better and your back wouldn't hurt and you wouldn't have to make such an effort to get around and have anxiety that you're going to die of all the things your mother died of. Because you're fat. 

The other day, a friend said," You're not fat. You have fat." I rolled my eyes and she noticed. "I know, I know but listen... You have toenails. You're not a fucking toenail."

I want to try and believe that. Toenails are gross. 

P

We were friends in high school. Our circles often intersected and I thought he was cute but I thought other boys were too. He liked my friend, I liked his friend until we changed our minds and found other circles. High school.

When you turn 21 and don't leave the town you grew up in, going to the neighborhood bars becomes like a high school reunion. That was true for us anyway.

The tavern was next to the restaurant I worked in so it was easy to finish a shift and go next door to spend my tips. Many a night was spent there, playing pool with friends and singing along to shitty 90s music on the jukebox. I lived around the corner so I was often hosting after hours parties. I was pretty social. 

When he walked into the tavern, I noticed him immediately. He looked the same, but different too. Wiser somehow.  People I'd gone to school with were often popping in and out of our regular haunt so I wasn't too surprised. But I was definitely interested.

We ran into each other a few times. We drank, played pool. He lit my cigarettes, making me feel like a lady. We flirted but I didn't let myself feel too hopeful. I thought he was beautiful and the more I got to know him as a girl in her 20s instead of a girl in high school, the more I knew it. I felt my hope rise.

One night, he'd had more drinks than he usually did. The bar was loud. smoky. so we went outside to get some air. Air turned into kissing pretty quickly.  I didn't expect it. I had hoped, if I was being honest with myself, but I didn't expect it. It was perfect. I can still see his face. His eyes were intense, serious and pure.

He told me that night he'd always had feelings for me. All through school, after graduation and throughout the four years he was in the military. I felt like I was in a movie. I thought it couldn't be possible-for me to 'get the guy'. I was always the friend, the one that was safe to flirt with. Suddenly,  we had just moved into the 'more than friend' category. Standing in the cool summer night, I felt myself believe in romance, maybe even love, for the first time in a long time.

We spent a lot of time together after that. He was often waiting at my door when I got home, as eager to be with me as I was him. We pushed and teased and pulled and breathed into each other intensely, deeply, but never anything more. I was drunk with him.

One night he and I were in bed not sleeping when I realized I was ready to be with him completely. He felt the same and I told him what I wanted. He paused. I paused. We had nothing to be safe with and so...we didn't. Instead we lay next to each other, fully clothed, listening to each other breathing. Our hands stayed linked and eventually, we slept. It was both the longest and the shortest night.

He took me to work the next morning, kissed me goodbye and drove away. I never saw him again.

He didn't die or go back into the military. He abandoned my hope.

I tried calling him, he ignored the calls. This was before cell phones and pagers. This was leave a message after the beep, a message with my roommate, maybe try emailing me. And I did all of those things. He never returned my messages. I wrote an actual letter but that too, went unanswered. Time kept going and my heart stayed broken for a long time. I had so many questions but more than needing an answer, I needed the hurt to stop. I felt rejected, abandoned, betrayed. I had offered all of me and he ran.

Eventually, a friend told me they'd seen him with someone. She was an old girlfriend he'd once told me about. They were married soon after and are together still.

I know this because we're social media friends. Enough time had passed by the time all of that came around that when he requested, I clicked confirm. He doesn't post much. Mostly photos of beer. Occasionally an awkward selfie with the wife. He looks happy and I'm glad.

For other reasons too. The most recent picture I've seen was of his face. It didn't look the same. Older, not wiser now. And drunk. One of his eye lids drooped slightly, his once beautiful brown eyes bloodshot and bleary. For a moment I let myself wonder what if and then quickly realized I was glad they didn't.

The pain I felt when he left was heartbreaking. It took me a long time to realize that I hadn't done anything wrong and that he chose to leave for his own reasons, not because of who I was. I was deeply affected by his actions and the hurt left behind.

But I wouldn't change a thing.  I have learned who I am since then and that who I am will be right for the right person. Not just the person that's right there.

Being in your early 20s isn't that much different than high school really and I graduated a long time ago.

Emotional Girl

I get mushy. I tell people what I'm feeling when I'm feeling it. I do nice things for others because I genuinely enjoy making others happy. I cry when the underdog wins. I think about how others might respond to my words, or  my actions. I put myself in other people's shoes, walk around in them for miles and then back again. I am sensitive. I am thoughtful and caring. I am an emotional girl. I know this.

But tonight, I didn't trust it.

It wasn't the first time.

The Fella is in the next room, online with some of his friends. His laughter drifts from the open doorway and into the room I'm in. It's a great sound. When he laughs, my heart swells like the Grinch's at Christmas. I fall in love with him every time I hear it. My heart wants to tell him all of these things and before I can think of how to, my mind interrupts.

He doesn't care. If you told him all that, he would think you're 'over the top', 'too much', 'ridiculous'. That's what the others said.

My heart knows better. It really does. It knows that he loves me and would never say those things. But my mind, linked to the past so strongly, sometimes lies.

Once, in a conversation, the other person said, "I don't need people to like me, you know?"

My mind screamed, "She's talking about YOU!" It reached into my memories, gathered another comment from another time. "You're so fake. You're needy."

I doubt myself, my actions, my empathy. Am I really just an emotional girl? Or am I desperate, needy, aching for attention I haven't always had? I go so far into my thoughts I get lost. I hear things from my past. I feel them.

And I hesitate. I worry that what I want to say will be too much.

Sometimes.

I can also be strong. I can remember that I don't know how much time I have, how much anyone has. So why not share the thoughts? When I'm strong, I don't ignore the screaming past. Instead, I gently acknowledge it and mourn it healthily before moving on. I learn from it, and I listen. I don't have a choice sometimes.

Maybe I am over the top, too much, ridiculous. But not for those that count. Maybe not for me.

Copy/Paste

Crave 
and need predictability.
Needs met consistently 
to feel safe 
and develop secure attachments. 

This didn’t happen.

Blame yourself 
and feel crazy 
because your experiences didn’t line up  

Stress levels through the roof
overt tension 
and conflict.
Sensed all the tension.

You never knew 
what mood they’d be in.

Highly sensitive to criticism 
and conflict.
Work hard
prove your worth 
make others happy.

Because life felt out of control 
and unpredictable.
Try to control everyone 
and everything 
feels out of control.

Transitions 
and changes 
Sudden change of plans 
anything 
out of control 
trigger
anxiety
and anger. 

Routine 
and predictability
These things help you to feel safe.

People have let you down 
and hurt you.

You’re bad
or wrong
and unworthy of love. 

There is something awful about you. 
You’ll be judged 
and cast away. 
Unworthy 
Can’t love yourself 
can’t let others love you either.

You’re unlovable 

Internalized. 

Hard on yourself. 
Struggle to forgive
or love yourself.

Be perfect. 
Avoid criticism 
internal 
and external 

Prove your worth 
Perfectionism 
and low self-esteem. 

Strong need to be liked 
and accepted.

Rejection
Blame
Neglect
in your core

People-pleasing in an effort 
to avoid conflict.

Sensitive to criticism
Highly compassionate 
Caring person.

Took on responsibilities
practical or emotional.
Continue 
to take responsibility
other people’s feelings 
problems that you didn’t cause.

Hyper vigilant state
Problems when 
there aren’t any.

Anxiety keeps you trapped.

Coping strategies
and personality traits 
to deal with dysfunction.

Common

You aren’t alone

Healing can start.

Treat

I don't remember how old I was, just that I was small.  It was just me and mom-dad was gone for the summer. It was hot and mom had been drinking. I don't remember what kind of glass she used, like I can with my first boss--he used a coffee cup for his wine. But I can tell you how it smelled. How her words slurred when she drank it. She either got sleepy or giggly. I don't think she knew I knew and it would be hard to tell if you didn't. But I knew.  Burgundy wine in a jug by Carlo Rossi-- hidden under the bed, next to the couch, on the window sill behind the fridge.

I liked getting treats so when she asked me if I wanted to go get one, I leapt at the chance. We got into her giant '76 Catalina and headed to the local Dairy Queen. It's funny, what you remember. The smell of the restaurant-fries and something sweet-sticky floors and crowded booths. Hot summer night. No, evening-there was still light in the sky. A feeling of excitement-almost as though we breaking the rules a little bit and I suppose we were.

She paid for our ice cream and we headed back out the car. I remember my flip flops on the sidewalk-a cheap pair with an uncomfortable plastic piece between my toes. They were wearing thin and I could feel the tiny pebbles in the gravel of the parking lot. Balancing my ice cream carefully, I pulled open the car door and slid into the front seat. The window was down and as we headed back to the house, the wind carried my hair outside and into the summer air.  I held my plastic red spoon with the little swirled cone on the end, waiting patiently to get back home so I could eat my treat.

I wasn't really paying attention but it seemed like all of a sudden the cars on the side of the road were very close to me. And soon, they were closer still. We hit the parked car, crunching the passenger side fender to the wheel. Mom quickly corrected our car and then pulled into a nearby parking lot so she could find the owner. Before I could process what happened, she was ordering me out of the car. She made me leave my ice cream on the dash.

Holding her hand, I went with her into the store the car was parked in front of and watched adults talk. I wasn't hurt at all. I was bored and I wanted my treat.

After the adults were done, we went back to the car. I was excited to get home, to eat my ice cream. I climbed into the car and noticed right away it was gone. Someone had stolen my treat. They'd reached in the open windows and taken it from the dashboard.

That's when I cried. Not because of the accident, or because I was hurt. Because my ice cream was gone.

It wasn't until years later that it even clicked with me that mom had been drinking when she hit the car. I was so young that I barely remembered it being wrecked. It seemed like one day there was a big hole in the car, the next day it was fine.

Time doesn't mean the same when you're a child.

I enjoy treats now quickly. as much as I can--it's part of why I'm not a thin person. I don't know if this particular circumstance made me such a fan of instant gratification but the other day I told this story and knew I needed to write about it. I started writing it two days ago and couldn't figure out how I wanted to end it. I just skimmed it--didn't even edit so there are probably some bumps to the flow of my words but I'm done writing about that summer night.

I don't need the treat.

J

He was awful to me. For years I fawned over him. My friends tried to tell me he was no good. His friends too. I ignored them all. I thought I could love enough for both of us.

He was arrogant. He told me people thought he looked like Brad Pitt but that was just ridiculous. He was lazy even though he worked with his hands--various odd jobs that never quite fixed anything. He talked entirely too much about his bowel movements, masturbation and porn and smoked pot constantly. But we laughed a lot together and he liked the same movies as me and told me I was smart. Never pretty, but smart.

Until one day he did... and everything changed.

We were on our way home from an amusement park. We'd spent all day and most of the evening there, riding the Scrambler in the October rain but now we were on our way home.

Home at that time was a basement apartment with 3 windows and a cat. It was depressing but I was too depressed to notice. He had his own place but was always at mine. Flirting. I'd liked him for a long time. I wanted to see him happy. It's why I did all the things I did for him.

The heat was cranked up in the car, drying our rain soaked clothes. I rested my head against the door and watched him drive. Soon, the sound of tires on wet asphalt and gentle wump wump of windshield wipers lulled me and I closed my eyes. I felt content, calm. I smiled a little to myself. Right there in that moment, it felt like he was mine and I was his.

"Shit."

I felt the car move into the next lane. I opened my eyes to see him exit the freeway.

"This isn't my exit." I sat up, noted we were about a mile out of the way.

"Yeah. I know," but he didn't sound annoyed like he usually did.

He spent a lot of time annoyed with me. I was too fat. Inexperienced. I didn't drive. All of those things annoyed him. I would pour my heart out to him and he'd get annoyed. I thought it was supposed to be like that. That he was right when he said I was too emotional. I couldn't see things being any other way. He never called me his girlfriend. He never said he had feelings for me. He teased me, played with me.  He took me to meet his mom, he made me believe things were different than they really were. He moved in with me and slept next to me, built a home with me and that night, in the car when he missed my exit, our exit, he told me I was pretty.

"Maybe if you weren't so pretty when you sleep, I wouldn't get distracted and miss the exit."

Warmth spread through my body and I knew it wasn't the car's heater. This one comment was enough to convince me we could finally be the couple I'd imagined us to be. I made up my mind to do something.

I smiled at him from my side of the car and at a long red light, I reached for him. When I kissed him he tasted like cigarettes. It felt like the movies. Perfect. Not quite real. The light turned and the kiss stopped. At the light close to home I saw him turn to look at me but I kept my eyes forward, still and silent the rest of the way home. I felt the kiss ripple through me.

We pulled into the parking lot and parked in my spot. I unbuckled my seat belt and sat next to him for a moment, breathing in the electricity from just one kiss. His eyes met mine and it felt like he was seeing me for the first time.  I grinned and threw open the car door. I heard him chase after me, laughing and calling for me to wait. I reached the porch first and let us both inside. I pushed the door closed and then pushed my body into his. I kissed him again and again and felt him move against me. Finally.

I begged him to love me.

He never said he did. I told myself that he wouldn't spend so much time with me if it wasn't love. Or that when he asked me to do things for him--to him--it was because he trusted me.  I thought our meals together meant that he liked being with me, so I didn't mind picking up the check or buying the groceries. I believed he was touching me because he wanted me. I convinced myself it didn't matter when he was crude or inconsiderate or rough with my body.

He didn't love me. He took advantage of me and it took a long time for me to know it. He shattered any shred of confidence I had. He was outwardly cruel. He humiliated me, belittled me and diminished my feelings. And then one day, he left.

Just like the day we shared our first kiss, I will remember the day he walked out. I was sitting on a green mushroom shaped stool. I'd had it since I moved out and it reminded me of home. I had been extremely depressed. I remember that.  I remember looking up at him, literally crying for help and being met with a look of disgust.

"I don't want to deal with this shit anymore."

I watched him walk out the door and up the stairs through one of the windows. I began to mourn what we'd never really had.

After my mom died, he reached out to express condolences. I don't remember much about that time but I know he did.

A year or so later he came by my place. We'd been talking a bit on the phone, trying to be friends I guess.  His arrogance was oddly comforting in its familiarity. He sat next to me on the couch and told me I looked good. He apologized. I forgave. We were friends...a little. And then he met someone and I met someone and we drifted. We'd call on birthdays and holidays, always on Halloween. We became Facebook friends. Then...nothing.

He was my first.

But not the last.

Words

Words stay. I can remember things told to me when I was a small child. I thought everyone could. I know a lot of my challenges (issues) stem from things said to me as a child. I heard them, trusted they were true because of who said them and then internalized them. I absorbed them, believed them...lived them.

"You know, Daddy might not come home." 

"Your Mom is very sick and can die if she eats sweets too much."

"You're too emotional. Too sensitive. Too nice."

"This summer you're either going to lose weight or stop sucking your thumb. You choose."

"Jesus is the only one that truly loves you."

"You're not good enough."

"You can't cut your hair! You'd be so ugly with short hair!"

"I don't want to be with you. You're fat, you don't drive and you don't have enough experience in bed."

"You'd be pretty if you weren't so fat."

"You're fake."

Words hurt. When they're repeatedly spoken or actions are made that reflect those words...the hurt gets inside and stays. I've carried it inside for so long, adding layers of painful words like nesting dolls that I didn't even notice that the words became who I was for a time. 

Words aren't always the worst part. I saw the sneers, leers or looks of disgust. And I saw the sympathy when harsh words or situations were overheard.  I felt all of it. 

It started to change. I began to learn otherwise, began to heal. Some of the words I've started to forget. Some I never will.

Recently I spent some time with a group of women and the conversation turned to discussing our fears. We were sitting around a fire pit so naturally, we recognized that nearly all of us had grown up with, "No don't touch! That's hot! or a variation of the warning. It led us to realize that a learned behavior absolutely can start with words. One woman shared that her child's first word was 'hot' because she'd had a wood fire stove in their home and wanted to make sure the babe didn't touch.

As I sat there, listening to these women share their stories, I thought about a conversation I'd with my dad. I'd told him that when I was little, having everyone tell me that he might die wasn't exactly comforting. It led me to have a near constant fear of loss and abandonment.

 I also told him that despite the fear it created, I appreciated the honesty. My parents have always told me the truth. About what might happen, about what did happen, about sex and religion and all the conversation topics that I imagine parents don't easily navigate. That kind of open dialogue has allowed me to do the same as an adult. I say things how I believe they are and if I'm wrong, I'll be the first to admit it. I listen to other opinions and ideas openly, even excitedly.

I wanted to share this with the group of women around the fire. I wanted to share that although words can form us, hurt us, scare us, affect us for our entire lives....they can also teach us and help us develop positively.

But when I opened my mouth, another story came out.

My dad's job had him on the rough Alaskan waters for months at a time. I was reminded often that his life was in danger while he was away.  The ocean became an entity that I could respect, fear and even fall in love with a little.   I absorbed all stories about the ocean. Hans Christian Anderson's story of The Little Mermaid impacted me immensely and I begged to hear it over and over again. I remember watching Splash for the first time...That silly little 80s movie with Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah convinced me I could breathe under the waves. Maybe I was a mermaid too and just didn't know yet. If I was a mermaid, I could protect my dad. 

"You need to learn how to swim." My grandmother stood over me while I splashed in the shallow end of the community pool. I liked going to the pool and playing with the other 'summer kids'--grandchildren of my grandmother's friends. I didn't care that I didn't know how to swim. I was never going to do what dad did, so why did I need to learn? I already knew the ocean was scary and I had no desire to do anything but admire it from afar. My grandmother felt differently.

"Your dad works on a boat. You need to learn how to swim." And then she threw me into the deep end of the pool. Not a mermaid. 

I hadn't remembered much about this story until I started telling it to that group of strangers around a fire. They gasped when I repeated her reasoning. I didn't understand why at first. I mean, that was just grandma. But then they asked questions.

"Oh my god, did she jump in after you?" No. She yelled at the lifeguard that was on duty to help.
"Did you lose consciousness?" I think so. I remember waking up in the locker room with a lifeguard above me. 
"Did you go back into the pool?" No. We went home. Grandma was angry that it took so long for me to be 'saved'.  

As I talked, I realized I was angry. Her decision to teach me how to swim was not hers to make. And the way she did it was wrong. But as a child, I didn't know that. She was grandma and an adult so I did was I was told. I 'learned to swim'.

The conversation around the fire eventually shifted and I was allowed to sit with my story a bit. I hadn't remembered before that she'd been angry at the lifeguard's response.  Or that I'd woken with the lifeguard standing above me on a bench in the locker room. Or that we rode home in silence, me shivering in a towel on the car's leather seat. I suddenly saw all of it and sat quietly, staring into the fire.

After a while, one of the women turned to me and said, "I just wanted you to know...I heard you. I heard your story.  And I'm sorry that happened."

 Other women piped in. They chose words that were kind and assuring. They held me with those words in a soft embrace. Strangers. Even now as I type it, I can hear the gentleness in their voices. I felt comforted and supported and...heard. I felt validated.

How unfortunate that words from someone we love can mold our very selves, creating situations and even lifestyles that reflect their unkindness. 

And how wonderful that a voice from someone we've just met can bring such comfort. That they can reach into a part of you maybe you'd forgotten was there and touch it just very gently, carefully letting you feel.

Words stay. Good and bad.

Clunky Girl

She wears those charm bracelets from the 80s. Clunky, neon colored plastic around her neck, bright against tattoos and olive skin. She has earrings up the cuff of one ear and her hair is platinum blonde, shaved on the sides.

She's fantastic at her job but you can tell she doesn't like it much.  Her eyes are heavy with a story she hasn't been able to tell in a long time. She laughs and jokes, interacts with her customers and coworkers but there's sadness. I saw it (felt it?) the first time I went through her line.

Time went on and I saw her frequently as I made that store the one I usually go to. I chit-chatted with her about where I work, told her to apply if she was interested. I even gave her a card once, a move I rarely make. I don't know if she ever called.  She might not be happy but her customers never know it. And she's fast. She knows what she's doing.

It had been a long day but seeing her in the 15 items or less line cheered me. I noticed her jewelry--less today but still the same bright plastic--and I wondered if a child made it for her or it was just her style. The line moved quickly as it always did when she was running it and I was soon close enough to see she was fighting back tears.

The person in front of me didn't notice and I held my breath. She was usually so joyful, even with that sadness. She was really struggling to keep herself together and I felt my heart reach out to her immediately.

"Tough one today?" I asked her gently.

"Tough life."

I nodded, debated if I should say anything more. I could tell she didn't want to talk and I respected that but there was this part of me that just ached to comfort her. I don't know why, I don't know her...in fact I'm not even sure I know her name. But in that moment, she was hurting and I wanted to make it stop.

"Can I show you a cheesy meme to try and make you laugh a little?"
She looked at me warily, "I don't think it's going to work."
I fidgeted a bit, started scrolling quickly through my phone. "Ok, well I'm gonna try."
I turned the phone towards her and she looked, read the silly line. She gave me a sigh that might have been a chuckle and focused on finishing the transaction.

I felt a little like I'd pushed too hard and I left her line feeling foolish. Poor girl probably just wanted to be left alone and here I am with my invasive memes. I thought about it a lot. About her. About how she had to keep working through whatever she was going through. Smiling and nodding and being polite to strangers that don't notice she's falling apart.

I went to the store again of course. I looked for her every time and sometimes she was there. Tonight she was the checker next to mine. During some friendly chatter I was able to turn to her.

"It's nice to see you smiling. Doing a bit better these days?"
"I am better today! Thank you. I'm not quite there yet but definitely better than I was."

I felt a rush of relief flow through me. I could tell she was being honest. She wasn't quite where she wanted to be but I think she'll get there.

I have no idea if she even remembers me. If she did, she never let on.
She wouldn't though, it's not her style.