Marital Relations.

The end of last year--losing so many people we cared about in such a small time frame--was incredibly difficult on my marriage.  Despite the fact that we have been together and present for each other's traumas, it is difficult to understand the individualized experience of another person.  I often find myself trying to push my grief aside, thinking "Well, no matter what happened, you didn't lose your mother...You need to be strong for your husband."  My husband, meanwhile, told me his thought process is similar; he finds himself pushing aside his emotions, thinking "She just lost two people, now she has to hold your hand through this.  You need to be stronger for her."

While this is a form of distraction--an easy way not to focus on the barrage of insane emotions these losses have brought up--it has also made me open my eyes to one of the most difficult conflicts I've ever faced: how to balance my need for support with my marital oath to be a supporter.

In the beginning, when our wounds were still fresh and we were flitting in and out of denial, we encountered a level of tension that we'd never felt in our relationship before.  We were each in a highly emotional, vulnerable state.  We each felt as though we'd been locked in dark rooms, and as we searched for a way out, we became more and more frantic....  Unable to handle our own feelings, we put all of our effort into ignoring them.   My husband withdrew emotionally--thinking that refusing to acknowledge his grief might prevent him from experiencing it--and I threw myself into my every day life with a vigor, trying to wrap myself up in a blanket of routine and monotony.

Suddenly, and for the first time in our relationship, it felt like we were no longer partners.  It was as if he was standing a few feet away from me, but I was unable to reach him because the earth was splitting apart between us.  I felt scared and helpless and powerless as I watched this great divide grow into the grand canyon.

I wish I could say that we recognized the need to communicate immediately, but we were both so wrapped up in our own experience of loss that we were unable to see clearly or think rationally.  Instead of turning to each other for support, we turned inward.

We each found ourselves in a place of righteous indignation; each of us bitter with the other for failing to see our desperation and misery, for being unable to save each other.  Our home, usually filled with laughter, was quiet.  We each clung to our side of the bed at night, making the distance between us palpable.

We went on that way for a couple of the most miserable months of our marriage until one day it all just came out.  I don't remember exactly what spurred the conversation, but all of a sudden we were speaking to each other again and finally saying things that mattered.  Instead of talking about what to make for dinner or what had happened at work or what we'd heard on the news that day, we began talking about what we were feeling--what we were experiencing.

It turned out to be the the same.

We discussed how hurt and lost and unsupported and alone we felt; how scared we were about the growing space between us.  We talked about how we had no idea how to proceed--how to sort through everything and heal.  We were finally able to take off our bandages and be vulnerable with each other.

I wish I could say that every day since that conversation has been perfect, that we've figured out how to balance our personal needs with the needs of the other, but the truth is that this is new territory and we still stumble frequently.  What I've learned, however, is that I need to take my husband's hand when I'm falling.  I've learned that I need to share with him in order to create safe space for him to share.

Yes, the earth is still cracked between us and there still is some distance to overcome, but now that we've built the bridge, it's just a matter of making our way across...

We probably should have went with a more sturdy model, huh?

I'm not sure how long it'll take us, but I do know that we'll get there.  While I wish things could've played out differently---that we had more time with our loved ones, that we'd been able to process each experience individually instead of sifting through a pile of grief--but I can't get hung up on all of that.  I have an obligation to myself and my husband to get through this in a way that is healthy.  I have no choice but to accept life despite the terms and conditions in the fine print.

I've learned that our love is stronger than we ever knew and that honesty, vulnerability, empathy and compassion have a lot to do with that.  I've learned that grief makes you do and feel some fucked up things--things that aren't even close to the scope of reality.  I've also gained a lot of perspective; I've realized that every day my loved ones are breathing is a day to celebrate.  I've realized that in the scope of life and death, not a whole lot really matters....  The important things are the people you are surrounded by--the people who let you lean on them when the world gets dark, the people who love you despite the fact that humans can be pretty unlovable sometimes. Cherish them.  Appreciate them.  Don't take them for granted.  Everything and everyone is finite.

What do I do?

I often get discouraged by my own depression.  I suppose that doesn't make sense, but I don't know how else to articulate it.  I mean, depression is kind of like being discouraged all the time.....  What I'm trying to say is that I hate taking my depression seriously.  I tend to be incredibly hard on myself, and instead of wallowing for a minute, I'm always pushing.

When I feel tears start to form, I think to myself, "Okay...you have five minutes to feel panicked and depressed, then you need to get your shit together and figure this out."  Sometimes I even set a timer.

It's just that, I know what the bottom looks like and I have every intention of avoiding it for the rest of my life.

When I went to the mental hospital seven years ago, I was diagnosed with a myriad of things.  Panic disorder, anxiety, agoraphobia....you name it.   My Axis 1 diagnosis was listed as Major Depressive Disorder (you can read about it here).  It's a different kind of depression that what you most generally hear about and it's categorized by recurring periods of depression.  When I was in the loony bin, I was told that without proper medication, I would almost certainly find myself experiencing these cycles for the rest of my life.

I tried the pharmaceutical approach for a long time but it was so hit and miss.  When one medication made my feelings worse and my thoughts darker, they would change the dosage or change the medicines all together.  They told me it was all a matter of trial and error--that by process of elimination they would eventually find one that worked for me.  Any pill that was able to lift my mood left me feeling bogged down by the side-effects.  Welbutrin would stop me from sleeping, so they had to prescribe trazodone.  Trazodone gave me crippling panic attacks, so they had to prescribe ativan.  Ativan left me feeling zonked and it made me gain weight, so they wanted to prescribe a diet drug.....

After a while, it got out of control.  Not only did the medicines fail to improve my mood, but they left me unable to take pleasure in anything.  Food didn't taste good, I was unable to have an orgasm, I was gaining weight despite the fact that I had no appetite, I suffered chronic headaches, I was distracted and unable to focus....  Eventually I gave up on the whole thing.  I stopped going to my appointments and I stopped taking my medications.  (I certainly don't recommend this!!!!)  I started reading philosophy and forcing myself to get out of my comfort zone--out of my shell.

That's when things started to change for me.

Now that I am experiencing a similar (though very different) kind of a depression creeping up inside of me, I am reminded of all those small changes I made to my life.

When I first began making changes, one of the things that I did when I found myself in a situation that caused me to react with sadness or discouragement, I'd ask myself, "What is my responsibility here?"  And then I'd just kind of follow the bread-crumb trail and reverse-engineer a solution.

Grief is such a different kind of sadness.....  It's not just about removing yourself from isolation and finding pleasure in small things (although that is a part of it),

What is my responsibility in terms of dealing with grief?  Beyond taking care of myself and allowing myself to mourn and be sad, I am at a loss.

And, to be honest, I really suck at allowing myself to feel negative emotions.  I find it indulgent.  My ego kicks in and a little voice in the back of my head starts saying things like, "Suck it up," "get over it," "get your shit together, there's no time for this."

I don't know why my self-talk is so harsh....  I'd never speak to someone I loved that way, yet...here I am, berating myself for feeling emotions that, I think, are pretty fucking valid.

It's kind of ridiculous when I think critically about it, but I don't know how to proceed from here.

If it doesn't fit, don't force it.

I have this awful tendency to stand in my own way.  I think it's something that everyone struggles with at some point in their life, and, generally speaking, I don't think it's a purposeful action.  I think we just want what is best for ourselves, and so we find ourselves racing toward the outcomes we desire...  At least that happens to be the case with me.

See, ever since being faced with the loss of my loved ones, I've been desperate to move on.  Instead of letting myself go through the stages of grief naturally, I tried to push myself through.  I spent hours and hours pouring over articles on how to cope, how to grieve, how to process, how to heal.  I performed the recommended exercises like writing letters and making lists, but somehow it all ended up making me feel more empty than when I began.  

Foolishly, I started to measure myself against my friends and family.  While it was apparent that they were still impacted, I saw that they were able to carry on with their day-to-day lives.  Their grief didn't seem to prevent them from doing dishes or cleaning the carpets or, you know, getting more than a couple hours of sleep at a time.  

I started to question myself.  Was something wrong with me?  Was I grieving wrong?  Was I thinking about it too much, or perhaps not enough?  Why did I feel so sad about everything?

Finally, I approached my father for advice.  Aside from being the wisest person I've ever met, he also has a background in counseling and a knack for giving people a dose of perspective.  He listened patiently while I cried about how I couldn't seem to kick the depression, how I was having trouble sleeping at night, and while I prattled on and on....he smiled.  It wasn't smug or snarky, it was patient.  When I was done crying and vomiting insecurity all over him, he told me to go easy on myself.  "You and your husband both went through something traumatic.  You're a young woman, and you've been fortunate enough not to lose many people up to this point.  Unfortunately, not only were you forced to deal with mortality and loss, those experiences were multiplied before you were able to examine the individual experience."  I hadn't thought about it like that.  Instead of giving myself time to morn each loss, I lumped them all together as if they all had the same effect on me.

The real truth of the matter was that each situation was unique--each loss was devastating in its own way. 

"Also," my father said, "you're hiding behind the loss instead of facing up to the real trauma.  You found your grandmother.  You were there for your mother-in-law's passing and you saw what it looked like up close.  You watched the struggle....  Instead of focusing on writing letters to the people you've lost, you need to come to terms with what happened before you even began to feel the loss."

There it was--the answer staring me in the face.  All of my desperate attempts to cope with the loss and feel the pain of losing a loved one was my attempt to hide from what I saw.  The truth was, it was easier to deal with depression than fear.  What I saw in the hospital room with my mother-in-law scared me.  What I saw when I found my grandmother scared me.....  I'd never been that close to death before and I didn't know how to process it.  I still don't.

What I do know is that now that I've stopped trying to expedite the healing process, I've been able to sleep again.  

Sometimes I still have nightmares--I see my mother in law's face, her eyes desperately trying to convey a message that I just can't understand or my grandmother's face, swollen and puckered, yet peaceful.  Mostly, however, I wrap myself in a deep, dreamless sleep.

I don't know if I'm doing it right--grieving and coping, that is--but little by little, I'm realizing that there's nothing to be self-conscious about.  As much literature as there is about moving on and healing and recovering, it's mostly a guessing game of what provides relief.  

I need to stop forcing myself to feel or process emotions and memories that I'm just not ready to deal with now.  I'm not doing myself any favors, and my husband can bear witness to just how unhelpful it really is....  

Besides, I'm kind of a big girl....  If there was a one-size-fits-all fix for this, it would probably be too small anyway.

If you're not happy, change your life.

I've struggled with depression for as long as I can remember.  Attending a small school in a small town didn't help as I was a bit of a pariah...  I'm sure there were loads of things I could have done to make my life easier, but I never bothered thinking about it.  See, my biggest preoccupation in those days was getting through the day.  The entire population of my high school was around 250, and I had--on a good day--probably 3 friends.  I was so monstrously unpopular that when kids brushed by me in the hallway, they would recoil as if I was infected with some sort of loser-flu.  If contact was made they would theatrically jump away in horror and repulsion.

Imagine for a moment: you're young, you're insecure with yourself, and at a really pivotal point of self-development and the only reaction you illicit from your peers is disgust.  It's the kind of thing that sticks with you, ya know?  It's the kind of thing that, even after a decade, makes it hard to look in the mirror.

I don't think I have to say too much more for you to get the point that, upon graduating, I was kind of an emotionally insecure wreck.  I had no self-esteem to speak of, and felt as though that would never change, so shortly after graduating high school and moving out of state to attend college, I tried to kill myself.

I was hospitalized in a state funded in-patient facility for ten days.  As dark as things were at that point, I maintain that those were ten of the best days of my life.

Recovery wasn't instant, but my experience being hospitalized taught me one incredibly pivotal thing:  if you aren't happy with your life, it is yours to change.  From then on, I took a very active role in my mental health and emotional well-being.  I took complete responsibility for my happiness and was able to keep that momentum going for a long time....

Until just short of six months ago, actually, when life threw me a series of curveballs that have left me reeling.

August 19th, 2014, one of the best friends I've ever had passed away.  He was an Airborne Army MP with a future brighter than the sun.  He was also one of the greatest humans I've ever known.  He visited me in the mental hospital shortly after I tried to kill myself and he gave me a piece of advice that changed the way I thought about the world.  He said, "You're going to die.  That's the one and only thing that you are guaranteed in life.  It's the one certain.  Yeah, you could kill yourself...  You could take that one thing that you know is coming right now.  Or you could go fucking live.  You can go out and do all of those things that AREN'T guaranteed.  Fall in love, get married, start a family, go to college, run a marathon, write a book....  Whatever.  Death is always going to be there, so go chase the things that aren't promised."  We fell out of touch when he joined the military, but I always remembered those words--that talk.  I always assumed that we would find each other again---that our friendship would be rekindled and we'd pick up where we left off.  I shouldn't have taken that for granted....  He was 26 years old.

Four days later, on August 23rd, 2014, I received a call from my aunt and uncle asking me to check on my grandmother--who they'd left by herself while they went on a day-trip.  When I arrived at their home, I discovered that she had passed away.  It didn't seem real at first.  I thought that if I pulled on her hands or shook her arms enough that she might wake up, but she didn't.  I was alone in the dark with her body for what felt like several minutes before I was about to think straight again...  When clarity set in, I dashed to my parent's home and called for help. She was 81 years old.

As traumatic as it was to find a body, it wasn't the end of the saga. In late September, my husband and I received a call from his step-father.  We were told that his mother was in a medically induced coma and on life-support.  We were able to make the trip to Michigan to visit, but when we got there, the prognosis was grim.  So, on October 5th, 2014, my husband, his step-father and I, all gathered in her hospital room and held her hand while they took her breathing tube out.  We watched her struggle to free herself from her mortal bonds for over an hour before taking her last breath.  She was 54 years old.

In the wake of these tragedies, I find myself once again in the recesses of depression and grief and trauma, only this time the answers seem to illude me.  I'm not sure of how to take responsibility of my happiness in this case.....  I don't know what changes to make in order to find happiness once again.

I guess, in a round-about way, this leads me to the point of this whole blog: Finding happiness, finding self-acceptance, learning how to become a whole person again, healing from trauma, learning to laugh, learning to open myself up, learning to take life less seriously because, when you've looked death in the face, you realize how little anything truly matters.

I apologize for the heaviness of this post, but know that things will get lighter because that's the whole purpose of what I'm doing here.  This blog is about my journey back to myself and, hopefully, how to help yourself stand up straight again.