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.

ABC

A: accept who I am
B: believe in who I am
C: control is not always possible
D: depression is a liar
E: expect anything
F: forgive
G: grow
H: heal
I: inspire others
J: joy is not impossible
K: Klonopin does not mean you're weak
L: love yourself
M: mend your mind with laughter
N: new discoveries can be scary but they're mostly good
O: only you can prevent forest fires (I don't know, O is weird)
P: pace yourself for healing
Q: quiet the inside voices with love
R: read
S: someone is always there
T: try
U: underneath the layers are more layers
V: very very frightening me ( V is weird too)
W: weird is ok
X: x-men are cool (I mean, can you think of a good X word?)
Y: you're beautiful
Z: zebras think so too

Tunnel Vision

I went back and read the top 5 viewed blogs I've written. I cried. There's a lot of emotion in those words. A few grammatical mistakes too but I write like I talk and I don't always use proper pronunciation. How boring would that be? 

I really wanted to write something happy today. Especially after reading those top 5. I guess even though I feel it, I didn't know I was full of so much...feeling and right now, happy isn't one of them. Happy hasn't really been something I've felt in a while. I've laughed and I've done things that have been fun but I haven't been full on, totally consuming happy in a long time. If you asked, I wouldn't be able to tell you when the last time was.

It's hard feeling this way. It's tiring. It's confusing. It's frustrating and maddening because I don't want to feel this way and I can't make it stop. The good days seem so few and far between, if ever.

I feel like I'm trapped in a tunnel where the world has stopped. The tunnel is dark and crowded with cars that hold the corpses of my past. I have come into the tunnel out of light and now am engulfed with the unknown. Am I alone in this tunnel? Is there something waiting in the shadows to pull me down even further? Why does the darkness feel so thick?

I know there's light at the end but it seems so very far away. Too many obstacles block my path to find the light. I may be able to move them just a bit, squeeze between two of those empty cars holding past hurt and when I do, two more blocking my path. I have to figure out how to move them, or work around them and each time I push or try to climb, I fall, exhausted from the effort. Sometimes I try again. Sometimes I sit on the ground and let the darkness talk to me.

It's hard, knowing there is a light. That I am simply going through the darkness and while it seems I'll never go forward, that I'm stuck in this terrible place, I know otherwise. I know that each time I can get between the cars, I'm making progress.

But this is a long tunnel. It's frightening and dark and full of hopelessness and I hate it. I wish I'd never traveled this way. I miss the light. I miss laughter and peace of mind and enjoying little things that I seem to overlook now.

I want out.



The top 5 that I read this morning:

Own It
Clouded
November 2016
Clunky Girl
Words

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.