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.