I was a victim. I am a survivor.

When I was in first grade, I was molested.

This is something I have carried with me and kept close to the vest for nearly twenty years.  My parents know, my husband knows and with the exception of one or two close friends, that's it. 

This is my story. 

We had assigned seats on the bus, and I sat next to a girl slightly older than I was.  She had big glasses and wore skirts to school every day.  I was bullied quite a bit, but my seatmate was one of the few kids I encountered every day who was nice to me.  I liked her, and I liked sitting next to someone who left me alone.  Since she was older than I, she had the option of choosing whether she wanted to sit by the window or by the aisle; she chose the window, leaving me with the aisle seat.

It's funny how such a small choice--one made by someone else, someone completely unrelated to you--can shape your life.

I can't tell you when it started.  I just know that one day, a boy three years older than me got on the bus and paused when he passed my seat.  He reached down and touched me between my legs.

I felt an immediate sense of shame.  I knew that what he was doing was not okay, but I was still confused.  I knew this boy a little.  He was a friend of my brother, someone I always considered to be nice, someone I wanted to be friends with.  He was well liked.  While he wasn't exactly a popular boy, he had enough friends to navigate the playground without drawing too much attention to himself.

I decided not to say anything. I was embarrassed and surprised and confused.  I didn't know what to do. 

The next day, the same thing happened.  He got on the bus, stopped next to me, and touched me between my legs again. 

From that moment on, I began plotting ways to prevent him from touching me.  I tried to put my backpack on my lap, but that didn't stop him.  Instead, he shoved his hand under the weight of the canvas bag filled with books and grabbed me, hard.  I'd never felt something so scary before.  Nobody had ever touched me like that, and I hated it.  I tried to switch seats with the girl who sat next to me, but even that didn't work.  He just reached over her, rubbing me between my legs, pushing the seems of my jeans against my skin in a way that stung and pinched.  Even today, I remember that feeling.

That's how things continued for several weeks.  I vividly remembering walking to the school bus and feeling afraid.  I begged my parents to drive me to school or let me stay home all together, but I couldn't bring myself to tell them what was going on.  My parents, not knowing that I was in danger, grew annoyed with my constant bargaining.  Eventually, I just stopped bringing it up.  Eventually, I just got on the bus every single day knowing that he was going to touch me.  

At some point, I worked up the courage to tell the bus driver that this boy was touching me, but nothing came of it.  Maybe I didn't explain that he was touching my "private parts", or maybe the driver didn't understand what was happening.  Either way, when I finally worked up the courage to reach out to someone, it was swept under the rug.

Sometime after that, it began to escalate.

The boy and I shared a recess together, despite being a few years apart.  When he first started molesting me, it was isolated to the bus.  He would leave me alone at school (I still wonder sometimes if was because I was so unpopular that he didn't want to associate with me or if it was because I was so much younger than he was).   As my "encounters" with him continued, however, he grew more and more bold.

On our old playground, there was a piece of equipment we called the "Jack and Jill slide".  It was smaller and less thrilling than anything else out there, so it was largely ignored by most of the kids.  It was basically a platform with a A-frame roof and the slide came off of the top platform.  The most novel thing about this piece of equipment was that underneath the platform, there was a large amount of open space.  You could crawl under the slide, into this little nook and nobody could see you.  I loved that space because I could go hide during recess and nobody would be mean to me.  I could go there and be safe. 

One day on the bus, the boy told me to meet him under the Jack and Jill slide at recess.

I don't know why I went.  It's hard to say for certain.  Maybe I wanted that boy's attention because he was well liked and if we were friends, the other kids would be more kind to me.  Maybe I was desperate for someone, anyone, to like and accept me.  I suppose it doesn't matter now, and any reasons I provide are products of speculation and a desire to make it all make sense.

He had gotten there before me.  I crawled under the slide and he was already sitting there, waiting.  I'm not sure of the sequence of events--if he talked to me, if he held my hand, if he was nice to me.  The truth is, after I got under the Jack and Jill slide, I don't remember much of anything.  Most of my memories are like video clips, they are little pieces of action.  In most of my memories, there are moving pieces, sounds, feelings, tastes, smells....  The memories of what happened under the slide are just 3 still-frame images; one of him pulling my pants down, another of him getting on top of me and grinding his pelvis against mine, a final picture of him climbing out from under the slide.

It's odd, because I have depersonalized these memories so much that it's almost as if I'm watching it happen to someone else.  I see this little girl, I see these things happening to her, but I'm not always able to process that it's ME--that those things were real and that they really happened.

That was the final straw.  I came home from school and told my parents about what had been happening on the bus.  I wanted to tell them about what happened under the slide, but I was too ashamed and embarrassed and afraid.  As a child, all I could see that I made the decision to meet him there.  In my head, that one was on me.  That one was my fault, and I was so afraid that my parents would be mad or worse, disappointed.

My parents were irate with the bus driver, but they were even more livid with the boy.  They were amazing with me, though.  They talked to me about what happened, they talked to me about how I felt and assured me it wasn't my fault. 

For the most part, I believed them.  I knew absolutely that it wasn't my fault that he'd touched me on the bus, but I knew that what happened under the slide was my fault.  I never told a soul about it, until today, I guess.

The boy who abused me lived with his grandparents, and my parents called them right away to inform them about what had happened.  His grandpa came to our house and talked to my parents about it, he assured them that he would deal with his grandson--that there would be consequences.  He apologized to me, and that was it.  That was the last it was ever acknowledged.  The boy never apologized to me or, to my knowledge, recognized that he'd done something wrong.

 

.....

Ten years later, when I was a sophomore, that boy and I were still going to the same school.  We were involved in the same activities like band, theatre and speech.  He was the school's theatrical superstar, landing leading roles in every production we put out since his freshman year.  His popularity had only increased since our bus-riding days, while my stock had plummeted.  (I've written before about my experience in high school, so I won't go into it again.  Needless to say, I was a fucking loser and it was commonplace/accepted/expected to bully me).  When he began to show a romantic interest in me, it was the first time I'd gotten that kind of attention from anyone. 

I'd largely forgotten about what had happened when we were children.  Suppressed might be a better word for it, actually, because while I didn't think about the abuse, I'm able to look back now and realize how much of my personality was (and, to an extent, still is) defined by the fact that I had experienced sexual abuse in my childhood. 

We began seeing each other, and after a couple weeks, he asked me to be his girlfriend.  There were 2 conditions to the relationship, however.  The first was that nobody could know that we were dating, the second was that our relationship would end when he graduated high school.  Blinded by "love" and bogged down by low self-esteem, I accepted these terms.  From the very first moment, I was under his complete control.

The boy who molested me as a child became my first boyfriend, and after dating for less than two weeks, I lost my virginity to him.

.....

It's only in hindsight that I see the sickness of it all.  It's only in hindsight that I realize the brutal, demeaning sex acts I "consented" to were part of his game of control, manipulation and abuse.  It's only now that I realize how that relationship damaged me and all of my relationships after that point.

For years following our relationship, I thought I enjoyed being degraded.  I thought I enjoyed being submissive and being treated "like a whore".   It's almost as if claiming to enjoy those things made me empowered.  If I asked for it, then it wouldn't be abusive.  If I asked for it, I wouldn't be a victim.

When we were together, the boy who abused me and I never discussed what happened when we were children.  I always wanted to, but I couldn't bring myself to say the words.

Looking back, I wonder if I was so in love and so attached to him because of the abuse.   Our romantic relationship made those horrific, scary, uncomfortable memories easier because all of a sudden, they made sense.  He didn't abuse me, he loved me.  He had always loved me.  He had always wanted me.  I was special, and he was the only one who saw it. 

Of course, that, too is speculation, but if it is the reason, my heart breaks for myself. 

The truth--my truth--is that I was molested when I was a child by a boy who was old enough to know better.  My truth is that I spent most of high school in an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship with a manipulative abuser who knew, absolutely, what he was doing.  My truth is that my virginity was not given away to someone I loved, but taken from me by an individual who had robbed me of my power and innocence long before I laid down and gave it to him.  My truth is that, until I met my husband, no man had every truly loved me. 

.....

 

For years following the end of the relationship (he broke up with me after almost two years of dating), I didn't think much about the abuse.  I looked back on the relationship the way most people look back at their teenage romances, fondly but without a sense of longing.  Until about a year ago.

 

That's the funny thing about trauma, it tends to resurface.  The fortunate thing about this is that it usually (in my case, anyway) takes place when you are in a safe enough (or far enough removed) place to be able to sift through it all and deal with it. 

 

And, that's where I am now.  I'm in this place where I'm trying to deal with it, but it often feel so overwhelming. 

 

I still have moments where I blame myself---my childhood self--for allowing this to happen, for not asking for help, for going under that fucking slide.  I still have moments where I feel like that little girl again, moments when my husband's hands lovingly touch my skin, and I feel myself rising out of my body--watching everything happen. 

 

I can't seem to forgive myself for entering into a relationship with him, knowing what he did to me.  I can't seem to forgive myself for loving him, for telling myself that I enjoyed the painful, degrading things he would ask me to do, for telling future partners that I enjoyed those same acts.  I can't seem to forgive myself for letting that abuse mold me.  Mostly, however, I can't seem to forgive myself for holding onto it so long.  Why am I still processing this?  It's been twenty years since he molested me on the school bus, ten years since I entered into that relationship, eight years since it ended, eight years since I've even seen him.....and yet, here I am, obsessing. 

 

Here I am, letting it affect my life and love and relationships and sexuality all these years later.

 

Everything I've read about abuse and trauma says that this is normal, but it still feels so alienating and frustrating.  Mostly because I never shared my whole story.  I wanted to protect both of us--my abuser and me--from any fall out. 

 

Well, fuck that. 

 

When I was a child, I was a victim a sexual abuse. 

 

Now that I am a grown woman, I realize that I am a survivor. 

Self doubt, vulnerability and the collapse of confidence.

I have this tendency to "put the cart before the horse", as my father would say.  I develop intricate plans around hypotheticals and when they don't come to fruition, I find myself crushed and rudderless.

While I'm probably the biggest flake you'll ever find, I have this deep, substantial yearning to live a normal life and have normal emotions.  I want to relate to others.  I want to interact without a crippling feeling of anxiety.  I want to have, like, an ounce of confidence in myself and my abilities.  I don't want to feel things so deeply and irrationally. I don't enjoy questioning and overthinking everything. I want to express myself without the use of metaphors and similes.  I wish I could see the world in black and whites and absolutes.  I want so badly to want a white picket fence, 9 to 5 job, and 2.5 children.

I have so much resentment toward myself for being unable to be that girl.

When I look in the mirror, all I see are the things that I am not.

Barista Blues (Don't Be a Dick)

Today I stopped and got a cup of coffee before work.  I stopped going to my old place of business a long time ago because the quality fell apart and all of my favorite people left.  Now I go to a locally owned drive-thru.  While nothing beats a shot of espresso brewed yourself and frothing the milk to perfection by hand, they are decent java slingers and super nice people.

So, I just got done at the speaker-box and I'm waiting behind this dark green jeep when I see the barista attempt to make contact with the occupants.  He folds open his little windows and waits for a few beats while the driver rummages around.  They make the exchange.  I'm waiting for the signal to take my foot of the break when the barista, beginning to slide his window shut, is stopped suddenly.  At this point, all I hear is someone yelling.  I'm not sure exactly what she's yelling, but it's pretty obvious that she's upset.  The barista, initially reacting with calm aplomb, leans back out the window.  A few moments later, he begins taking empty, dripping cups from the the green jeep people.  All the while, I can hear them screaming.  It's indecipherable and it's angry.  It's hitting this dude like bullets.

I'm just far enough away to be unable to make direct eye contact but still able to see every emotion flicker over his face.  It's eight in the morning.  This is probably the very first customer of his day and he's getting pelted with sopping, empty cups and being publicly berated by a stranger.

My heart goes out to the guy, and I immediately flash back to a few months ago when I was working at a coffee house.  I remember how, despite all the little things I loved about the job, I always came home feeling discouraged that people thought I was less than they were.  I was constantly down on myself because people would make comments about how I was "too smart to pour coffee" and how I "should get a real job".  I remember how, because I was a server, people treated me like a servant.  I remember getting screamed at by people who ordered macchiato and became enraged when they got a stained espresso shot instead of some franchised bullshit bitter shot and cheap syrup orgy.  I remember being treated like an imbecile by people who asked me to put sugar in their "expresso".  I remember how all the things I loved about the job couldn't make up for the fact that a lot of people are cruel and miserable and uncaring.  I remember how--on the worst days--I would take little breaks to cry in the bathroom because I just needed, like, four seconds of quiet to put myself together.

I see him slink away from the window feeling a thousand different kinds of defeated--looking like someone sucked the life right out of his veins.

I slide my car into park, knowing it would be a minute.

When the green jeep's new order is up, a different barista came to the window.  This time, the hand off is seamless.  Green jeep drives away, ready to fuck someone else's day up full of vigor and caffeine.

I pull up to the window am immediately greeted with an extra dose of cheer and an immediate apology for "such a long wait".  Check the clock--four minutes passed.  Considering the machines I used took thirty seconds per shot, I'm pretty impressed.  I tell him it's no big deal.  I ask him what happened to the other barista; he says that he needed a minute.

My total is $4.75.  I'm still a couple days from my paycheck and this is the last of my coffee allowance, but I give him the ten and tell him to make sure that barista gets it.  I tell him it seems like it's been that kind of morning and that I know it's not much, but I hope he has a great day.  He smiles, assures me it'll be taken care of, and that's it.

I go to work, hoping that pumps just a little bit of air back into deflated barista and saying a prayer that green jeep finds something to smile about today.

We're all fighting different battles, there's no need to be a dick about it.

Snowflakes and deep truths.

I want my words to be pretty.  I want them to be articulate and beautiful--shimmering pieces of wisdom and profound truth.  It's impossible to write with that purpose, though.  The muse can be pretty fickle; she catches you off guard.

Inspiration doesn't come when you're sitting in front of a computer or notebook, scanning your brain for things you know to be real.  It comes at 4 AM when you're laying in bed on the precipice of sleep.  It comes on an empty, rolling highway when the light hits the cornfields in a way that makes everything look golden and hopeful.  It comes when you allow yourself to be quiet--when you are able to connect to the voice inside that lives simultaneously in your heart and mind.

At least that's how it is for me.

I've never started writing anything with a clear endpoint or thesis.  I have no idea where any given piece of prose or poetry will take me, and that's why it's so therapeutic.  There is this sense that it's not really me writing it--not me as I know myself, anyway.  When I am compelled to write, it's as if the words are coming from my intrinsic self--straight from my soul.  They uncoil themselves from my ribcage, taking concrete shape sometime after they've been splayed onto the paper or screen.  A lot of the time, I feel like they are escaping---like there is some kind of poison inside of me and the words are drawing it out as they appear before my eyes.

When I try to write something grand and dazzling, when I try to weave golden threads out of contrite, pretentious bullshit, the words never come from that place.  Instead, they come from a place of self-consciousness and fear of judgment.  They come from a place of self-defense, from a desire to be vulnerable but only in a way that is safe... They aren't profound or powerful or especially striking because there's no emotion behind them.

Real beauty comes from rawness and realness and honesty.  Real beauty is scary and messy.  Real beauty is easy to connect to because it makes us feel like we aren't alone.

I am slowly but surely learning that the human experience is universal--that people aren't the terminally unique snowflakes we make them out to be.  And I want you to know, that's tremendous.

The things about myself that I am the most scared of, that I'm the most ashamed of, are things that exist in the hearts and minds of thousands of other people in the world.   The things I don't want to admit to myself are the same things thousands of other people are repressing.  We all feel like misfit toys sometimes--we all become convinced that we're broken or defective or unusual because we all have something inside that scares us, some deep truth that we don't want to face.

But as I write--as I share the deep, dark things about myself that fill me with shame and insecurity and fear--I get amazing feedback.

I have people reaching out to me saying, "Hey, that monster that lives under your bed....well, he shows up at my house some nights.  He scares me, too."

I'm not alone in my shame or fear.  Neither are you.

And so I'll keep showing it to you.  I'll keep digging deeper and deeper into that strange darkness inside of me because I see now that we share it.  It's ours.

The most isolating thing about that darkness is that we're desperate to hide it--to stow it away and keep it only for ourselves.  Well, I say "Fuck That".  Take my hand.  Let's figure this out together.

Fear.

One of the biggest hurdles to writing is my intense and immeasurable fear of being vulnerable.  This has always been something I've struggled with.  Although it's been a repeating theme for me, it's only lately that I've noticed these fears have begun manifesting themselves in my life and my relationships.

I've built so many walls around myself as a measure of protection, that when I share a deeply personal piece of myself with someone---when I take off my armor and show off all of my soft spots--I immediately feel cornered.  I feel trapped.  I become hyper-aware of just how thin my skin is, how susceptible I am to any sort of attack.

And so I get scared.  I get protective.  I get defensive.  I get angry.

As a result, I find myself in a place of self preservation when I should be reveling in an intimate moment.  Instead of enjoying my husband's love and touch, I'm dissociating from the present, trying to think about anything but the fact that I'm unguarded.  Instead of basking in the glow of his adoration and existing in the moment, I'm lost.

In my mind, vulnerability and strength are mutually exclusive.

This causes a lot of friction in my life right now because I'm at such a fucked up, tender point of being.  I'm still reeling from the loss of my friend, from finding my grandmother's body, from seeing my MIL pass.....  I may be able to cope with these feelings and images some days, but I still have nightmares.  I still get sad. I'm more scared of the dark than I ever have been, because now I know exactly how terrifying it can be and what might be lingering there.  And I hate it, almost as much as I hate feeling weak because of it.

I made the conscious decision to sort through this madness--these feelings, these experiences.  To think about them, to meditate on them, to sort them out.  When I began this emotional cleaning process, I took it for granted that I would only be dealing with the issues that I wanted to work through, but soon realized that there is an ocean of repressed thoughts and feelings inside of me, spanning several years.  I realized that dealing with one pretty much meant dealing with all, and it's been a horrifying experience.

I'd much rather cherry-pick the wounds I heal and the wounds I ignore.  I'd much rather not think about why I did the things that I did, about how past relationships and abuse and abusers have shaped me and my life....but that's not an option.  Not if I want to come out on the other side of this a whole person, anyway.

Because that's what it's about, I think.  It's about becoming a whole person for possibly the first time in my life.  It's about realizing that not only do I have the tools, I am the tools.

All this time I really thought I was protecting myself from the world, from other people, from outside influence causing me pain, but I've really been trying to protect myself from my own experience.  The things that scare me the most are all things that have happened to me and if I can use that experience to grow and learn--if I can examine it and reflect on it--then maybe one day there won't be anything to be afraid of.

Driving Forces.

I've slowly come to discover that my 2 biggest emotional drivers in life are fear and shame. 

Despite how vastly different these emotions are, they come from the same place---the place inside of me that believes I am no good, broken and unworthy of love.

How sad.  

I want the driving forces in my life to be love, kindness, happiness, compassion, empathy and confidence.  

There is something to be said about writing these things down.  About looking at them honestly.  

I have some serious work to do on myself, and I need to get started,

cursing the waters

I've been very quiet lately because I am in the midst of a tumultuous sea of emotions, and it's something that I'm feeling incredibly self conscious of.  See, for the majority of my life, I've reacted inwardly.  Typically, when something happens that makes me feel anxious or sad or scared or unhappy, I collapse into myself like a dying star.  I write, I examine, I hide.  Basically, I change the batteries on my confidence and move on.  I never used to be angry.....not that I remember, anyway,

Recently, I've been a volatile mess.  There's this unfamiliar and overwhelming anger that bubbles up inside of me for the most random and ridiculous reasons.  When I say it "bubbles up", I mean it quite literally.  It's a physical sensation unlike anything I've experienced.

I have no idea what it means or where it's coming from either.  I feel a lot of shame and guilt about these feelings, especially about my inability to identify the cause or process them in a way that is healthy.

I don't know where to start.  I'm just so ashamed and disgusted and annoyed and disappointed in myself for feeling these things.  For being this thing.  I hate it,

I am standing on the bow of a ship, screaming at the ocean and there's just no point to it.

Bucket List

 I've never really thought about a bucket list before.  It's the kind of thing everyone else around me obsessed over for a while, and occasionally, I would join in on the discussion.

I've been in this weird state of transition for the past few months, and as I turn inward to examine myself and what has got me feeling so out of sorts, I've begun to realize that I don't know me as well as I used to.  To remedy this, I've been spending a lot of time on self reflection.  I read about an exercise that suggested writing a bucket list as a way to figure out the things that are important to you, so I gave it a shot.  At first, I found myself with a lot of stereotypical answers.  At one point, I even included running with the bulls.  Then I thought about it....  Like, why in the world would I want to do that?  Aside from the sheer cruelty of the whole thing, I fucking hate running.  I think it should only be reserved for the gravest and most dire of circumstances (and, I don't know about you, but those circumstances definitely won't be my own choosing!)

Anyway, my first draft ended up with all of the things you've ever heard anybody include on their bucket list.  While I don't mean to imply that those things aren't interesting or incredibly or awe-inspiring, it's just that, none of the things on my list were things I felt compelled or drawn to do.  None of them were things I would pay money or make grand sacrifices to realize.  So, I went back to the drawing board and really thought about it.  I thought about what I like to do and what I value  and what inspires me and what I find beauty in, and I think I've got a start.

*Place a prayer into the Wailing Wall
*Volunteer to work with victims of intimate partner violence/sexual assualt
*Attend/participate in a Pro-Choice rally
*Volunteer with hospice unit
*Visit Chichen Itza
*Witness the Northern Lights
*Find and visit the worlds largest library/book store
*Become comfortable enough in my skin to visit a nudist beach
*See the Pacific, Atlantic and Indian oceans
*Perform slam poetry
*Snorkel/scuba dive/swim with sharks
*See untouched/undeveloped coastline
*Visit all 50 states//Have a cup of coffee in every state
*Build a cabin
*Find a way to publish my mother's book
*Learn exponentially more about wood working from my father
*Send my parents on an elaborate and lavish vacation (Ireland, Caribbean)
*Fish in the ocean with my father
*Take Devon to a concert at the Red Rocks
*Adopt an animal at the shelter that is about to be euthanized
*Find and crack open a geode.

Musings of a dry-drunk.

Before giving up alcohol completely, my husband and I were a part of the music festival/indie jam band scene.  We'd spend our summers touring ours and the surrounding states just to witness our favorite bands and take part in the incredible community that exists within this subculture.  In the winter, we'd pack ourselves into our vehicle once a month and take a three hour drive just to see those same bands play tightly packed shows in dive bars.  It was always a blast....

Then we got sober. Suddenly, these shows were just booze-fueled headaches.

Here's something that nobody seems to be talking about: Music festivals and concerts can be an incredibly difficult and isolating place if you are sober.

(I want to take a beat here and clarify what I'm trying to say.  Music festivals and concerts have a notorious reputation for drug use and abuse, but I'm fortunate to have been in a community that either did not participate in or sheltered me from such things. I am talking specifically about my experiences with alcohol.)

Drinking doesn't just seem to be accepted, it's encouraged.  Prior to sobriety, I had made several good friends by "slapping the bag" (a term for when one removes the bladder from box wine, carries it around with them and offers individuals the opportunity to slap the back and take a drink).  When I got sober, I still received offers, but when I said, "No thanks!  I don't drink," I was often asked why or  told that it was "just wine" and that it "didn't even count".

That bothered me.  It didn't bother me that someone was being polite and making an offer, it bothered me that my experience was being discounted.  It bothered me that my voice wasn't being heard.  It bothered me that I was being asked to explain or justify my reasons for abstaining from alcohol and changing my life to a stranger who was breathing alcohol in my face....

We stuck it out for a while, though.  We tried to remain a part of this counter-culture and community for almost a year after giving up drinking, but we were never able to find our place.  Maybe we weren't looking in the right places, maybe we didn't have the right attitudes, but we just couldn't find likeminded people.

There were some who thought we were judging them for drinking, others who made it their mission or goal to get us to break our commitment to ourselves (it was like an early 90s ad for peer pressure!)  Most frustrating though, is when someone says, "Oh yeah, I don't drink either except for weekends/holidays/anniversaries/parties/special occasions/days that end in y."  Whenever someone says that to me I just want to say, "Yeah? Because I don't drink.  Ever.  Because I can't use alcohol the way you do."

It's not that I have a problem with people drinking (I actually enjoy using my sobriety to ensure the safety of people that I love.  I don't mind being the DD, or lending a shoulder to steady a friend, or talking to someone who is feeling emotional.  I mean, it's not exactly my first choice to deal with vomit, but if someone is sick, I am actually able to help them these days) .  I have a problem with people not recognizing MY problem with drinking.  I choose not to drink because I don't know how to moderate use.  I choose not to drink because I use it to self medicate.  I choose not to drink because I don't know how to stop.  I choose not to drink because I get weird and self destructive and hypersexual.  I choose not to drink because it did nothing but lead me down a path of abuse and depression.  I choose not to drink because I love my life more than I love not feeling things that scare me.

And I hate feeling like I'm the odd girl out just because I've made a decision to change myself and my life for the better.  I hate feeling like I don't fit in because I don't have a glass in my hand.  I hate being considered a "downer" or a "buzzkill" for being able to walk someone through the events of a night.  I hate being isolated and ignored and not invited to parties simply because I'm making a decision that is healthy for me (and my relationships!)

I wish that I could consume alcohol in a way that was healthy, but I can't.  I don't know how, and I know, deep in my addict-heart, that there is no way to learn.

Most people don't realize that I've chosen sobriety over socialization.  Most people probably don't realize that those were the only options I had at the time.

I'm sad that this has caused me to become an outcast in the only world I ever felt that I belonged in, but I guess that happens.  So it goes, right?

Thankful Thursday: Puppy Love

Outside of my family and a select group of friends who stood by me when I decided to get sober, my longest and healthiest relationship in the world is with my dog, Clementine.  She's an eight year old Rottweiler/Blue Heeler mix, and we've been together for almost seven years.  Today, I am grateful for my beastly baby and all she's taught me.

My darling Clementine, 4 years and 40 lbs ago.

She was found wandering skinny, hungry and alone in a blizzard by a family my father worked with.  They took her in and tried their best to make things work, but she was too much for their 3 bedroom home and family of 5, so they began looking at other options.  When they mentioned the possibility of getting rid of her in front of my father, he thought of me immediately.  Not only have I been an animal lover and rescuer my entire life, my birthday was coming up.   When he called and asked if I would be interested in adopting a dog, he explained that she was "a few months old", but that no one knew her exact age.  He also told me that she'd been found abandoned during the winter, and my heart melted.  I agreed to be her human before meeting her or even seeing a picture.  I had no idea how to be a dog-person (up to that point, I'd always been a cat person), but I liked the idea of having a dog, and her story broke my heart.  I knew she had to be mine.

So, four days after my birthday in April of 2008, I loaded a small kennel and a good friend into the car and set out to pick up my new baby.  When I finally arrived at my destination, I discovered that the puppy I had expected to take home was actually some sort of half dog-half puppy hybrid, not to mention the most gangly creature I'd ever laid eyes on.  She was wearing an old, faded red collar with extra holes punched in it in order to fit her properly, and she cowered when the children of the house wandered by.  She was so desperate to be please, so pitiful and tentative....It was love at first sight.

Playing copilot.  She rides better these days,

I was told that her name was "Kitty", but that she wouldn't answer to it.  I was relieved to hear that, because when I decided to adopt her, I'd already had a name picked out.  I remember scratching her ears and chin and asking if she would be my Clementine.  She may or may not have had any idea what I was talking about, but she smiled and wagged her tail.  I took that as a good sign and officially renamed her.  From that moment on, she was my little baby citrus fruit.

When everyone had said their goodbyes and it was time to load her up, I realized she definitely wouldn't fit into the kennel that I brought along.  I stashed it in the trunk and opened the back door of the car, ready to welcome Clementine to her new life.  She was so unsure as she climbed into the car.  She was hunched low to the ground with her tail between her legs, and she quickly folded herself into a tiny ball on the floor of the back seat.  There was absolutely no amount of coaxing that would get her to move onto the seats themselves, each time I tried to place her there comfortably, she would wince and whine.  Finally, I gave up, deciding that she probably knew what would make her most comfortable.  It was a boring, quiet trip home.  She didn't move a muscle or make a sound, she just laid in a sad little ball on the floor.

The first several weeks were HARD. Clementine was a difficult dog to train and a difficult creature
to contend with.  After all, she was young and full of energy.  She was in that horrible teething stage

that dog's go through when they're growing up.  She'd gone through at least 2 other owners and had no sense of who her master or pack leader was.  She had no sense of stability or home.  She was timid and emotional, as though she'd had an owner who screamed at her rather than training her.  She was also sneaky, stealthy and faster than a speeding bullet.  Within the first month, she managed to destroy over half of my wardrobe and several pieces of furniture.  She also had an incredible knack for escaping.

Despite any and all of her flaws, my love for her only got stronger as time went on.  There's nothing quite like the feeling of coming home after a long day to see your dog's eyes turn into cartoon hearts the moment they lay eyes on you.  The relationship I was in at the time, like most of my relationships up to that point, was built on a foundation of loneliness and an inability to stand on my own.  We were companions (bad ones) and that was pretty much it.  Clementine was my first experience with unconditional love.

That was also when I was in the beginning stages of working through my depression after the mental hospital.  I was going to therapy, I was taking a plethora of different medications (for a plethora of different mental health ailments), I was reading a lot of philosophy....  Basically, I was just trying to learn how to be a happy, healthy person.  That's when Clementine started to change my life.

Grown up, going gray, and too fat for her chair.

It started with getting active.  Having a dog isn't exactly the same as having a cat.  It's not a sedentary activity, especially if the dog is young.  When I realized that Clementine was chewing everything in
my life because she was bored and all hopped up on youth, I started taking her for walks regularly.  Not only did that seem to quench her thirst for  destruction, but I noticed a marked improvement in my mood after our walks.  After a week or two of consistent walks, she began to leave slack in the leash.  She stopped worrying about every passing smell and squirrel and we were able to walk the entirety of the town without me feeling like my arms were going to fall out of their sockets.  She began listening to me at home, she began coming to her name 10 times out of 10.  She started to understand how to sit, how to lay, how to roll over. I'd never been so proud of anything.  Each time she learned or accomplished something new, my heart would swell with pride.  It took her a while, but she finally accepted me as leader of the pack and as a consistent presence in her life.  I may have decided that she was my dog the day I got her, but it took Clementine a lot longer to decide that I was her person.

Eventually, the relationship I was in fell apart.  He had been seeing another woman, and even though I had suspected for some time, I was devastated.  We were living together, so we had to divide the assets and figure out who would take what to their new life.  It wasn't exactly amicable, but he knew better than to fight me on dog custody.  He moved in with his new girlfriend while Clementine and I moved back home with my parents.

It ended up being the ideal situation for the two of us.  She loved my parent's ancient Collie, and it
wasn't long before she started imitating their dog's behavior.  In less than a month, that frail, graying puffball had my dog better trained than I had in almost a year.  My parent's house also provided Clementine with a dead-end street and almost an acre of property to explore.  I was able to trust her outside without a leash or tie-out in almost no time.

Once I was able to trust her without a leash, I started taking her to parks.  We would visit parks and wild-life reserves in every county surrounding us.  I'd let her off the leash and explore while she ran and danced in circles around me, like I was her Sun and she was stuck in my orbit.


She still acts like that when I take her out, though her run has slowed to an enthusiastic trot.

Throughout the last several years, my dog has been a constant source of smiles, happiness, cuddles and companionship.  On my darkest, saddest days, when I feel low and worthless, I just look at her face and take comfort in knowing that I sure did something right with her.
The gangly little dog that I brought home from that trailer park in 2008 has swelled into a 95 lb cuddle monster with a passion for car rides, cuddles and blankets.  She is jealous and bashful and protective and fierce, but she's also gentle and self-conscious.  She helped teach me about what it means to loyal and trusting.  She helped me realize what unconditional love actually looks like.

More than anything, though, Clementine has taught me that you can solve any problem and face any obstacle as long as you have patience, compassion and a sense of humor.  I'm so grateful that I took a chance and adopted this ridiculous, emotive little beast, but I'm far more grateful to be her person.

Learning to be enough.

Have you ever gotten a compliment and had no idea how to take it?  It seems odd and a little ungrateful to just accept it, to say "Thank you" and move on, but it seems just as bad to deny it--to be bashful and coy.  It seems like the worst you can do is just agree.  If you're going to go that route, you may as well just start calling yourself Narcissus, find a nice little bit of standing water to stare into  and just commit. Whenever I receive a compliment, I get all wide-eyed and panicky, desperately searching the person sending it for something that I like about them, something to return the aesthetic appreciation they showed me.  I realize that this may come off as insincere, but it's the only way I really know of to accept a compliment.

This anecdote, now that I think about it, is surprisingly representative of why I have trouble talking to people and making friends.

See, it's not just compliments that I don't know how to deal with.  Generally speaking, I have a really difficult time with smart, nice, interesting and funny people.  I freeze up and get awkward; I fumble over words because my brain is moving at a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out something worthwhile or witty to say.  I start asking stupid questions like, "So, are you the type of person who eats breakfast?"  Basically, the minute I realize that I'm talking to an awesome person, everything goes tits up.

It's probably something that's rooted in low self-esteem, at least that's where I'd put my money if life was like a roulette board.  The thing is, I don't like myself very much. Don't get me wrong, I can see that I have good qualities--I am a good cook, a fantastic baker, I can be funny sometimes, I know a little bit about a couple things and I can type really fast--but I'm also incredibly hard on myself.  I mean, nobody can see my flaws as obviously as I see them!  I know that I can be flaky and irrational, moody and lazy.  I know that I often make excuses rather than taking action; I know that I'm not the best that I can be.  Because of that, because I'm so in touch with some of the darker, less pleasant sides of myself, I just assume that everyone else is probably MORE in touch with and put off by these traits as I am.

I am blessed in life to have some truly remarkable friends.  I know that everyone has a bit of a superiority complex about the people they love, but trust me, my friends are incredible.  They are insightful and strong and smart and funny, generally speaking, some of the most intimidating people in the entire world.  Sometimes I can't bring myself to follow through on plans with them because I just feel so unworthy of their presence.  Sometimes I don't text back or don't show up to a party simply because in my ridiculously skewed through process, I'm doing them a favor.  I'm saving them the hassle of dealing with me.

You're probably thinking, "That's just plain backwards!"  And, you're right.  Also, logically, I know this.  I know that my friends love me and think I'm great, but I'm always wondering how long they will think that.  I'm always wondering, "Is this going to be the day when they stop?"  And I'm always bracing for it.

This fear of abandonment--this feeling that I'm unworthy of love or friendship--has cost me dearly.  I've lost great friends and I've missed out on potential friendships.  I push people away before they can leave me...  And while I think that I'm protecting myself, I still end up alone...

The thing I'm most afraid of still appears.

Throughout my life, most of the people I've been surrounded by told me that I was worthless.  They told me that I wasn't special, that I was ugly, that I couldn't do this and that I couldn't be that, and at some point I started believing it.  Then I started preaching it.  I became the leader in the anti-me movement and for a long time, I thought I was being empowering.  I thought that by saying all of the horrible things about myself that other people said, they would stop talking.  Then I grew up.

The people who pushed me down and made me feel awful about myself didn't care anymore (thank God).  They had lives to lead and shit to do and suddenly, it was just me against myself--locked in the stupidest, most imbecilic battle to have ever been waged.  And the longer it continues, the more people get hurt.

So now that I'm able to identify the problem--able to point to it and say, "That right there!  That's what's mucking everything up!", what's the next step?  How do you build confidence?  How do you realize that you're worthy of love?  How do you accept that you are enough?

I really have no idea, to be honest, but I'm playing around with a few different things.  Meditating has proved to be helpful, though I still can't shut my ego up all the way and worry that I'm doing something wrong.  It helps because it's quiet, because it's an escape into myself.  Also, it's one of the only times I am truly able to be gentle with myself.  When I'm repeating my mantra or singing or whispering a prayer, it's all kindness.  It's all light and love and positivity.

Because of the way I was treated for so long--because of the abuse I endured both with intimate partners and with friends, acquaintances and peers--I try to treat everyone I come across with kindness.  I always try to be reverent to the fact that everyone is struggling, that the intrinsic worth and value and fragility of everyone should be recognized, but I cannot seem to extend it to myself.  In fact, I would never speak to another person the way I speak to myself.  It's actually hard for me to even think about looking someone in the eyes and saying some of the things that I say to/about myself.  I don't understand that.

I read a quote once that really inspired me, it went something like, "You, as much as anyone in the universe, deserve your love and affection."  I think it's true, and  I want it to be my truth.  I'm just not sure how to get there yet.

Thankful Thursday: Music Festivals

I've been thinking a lot about the things that I'm thankful for, and there are so many obvious things that I actually struggled with narrowing it down a bit.  So today I'm giving thanks for music festivals and the wonderful ripple effect they had on my life.

My first music festival was just a few miles outside of the town I went to school in and it was being thrown by a fantastic guy who helped coach our individual speech teams in high school, Hippie Bill.  I believe it was the first year that events were being held at Hidden Acres Music Farm, and it was the last event of the year: Fall Frolic Festival.  At that time in life, I was fresh out the mental hospital and pretty fragile.  I was still depressed, unsure what to do with my life, unsure who I wanted to be or how I would ever be happy (you know, typical 19 year old stuff!)  I saw a posting on Facebook about a contest for free tickets to the festival, so I entered and won 2 "VIP passes". 

I gave one ticket to a friend, bought one ticket for a friend, and then loaded up a tent and a bag of chips and a bottle of water and got in the car, having absolutely no idea what to expect.

When I got to Hidden Acres, I experienced a huge deal of culture shock.  There were women running around in tutus with wings and bells on, shirtless men with long hair, beards, tie dye and face paint.  There were children handing out flowers and giving people hugs.  Each time we passed a stranger, we were greeted with hugs and smiles, with "welcome homes" and "have fun's".  An entire flock of people put up our tent and then pranced off into the cornfields.  For someone who grew up in a small community, being universally hated and mistreated, sticking out like a sore thumb, it was wild.

I remember wandering around the grounds over and over.  I walked past the stages and the food/jewelry/clothing vendors.  I didn't care about the music or the entertainment, I just wanted to see more of these people---my people.  I remember thinking, "Oh my god, my fellow freaks!!  Where have you been my whole life?!"

Eventually, I kind of settled into the experience.  Being that I have always been anxious and socially awkward, I didn't go out of my way to make friends or even talk to people, really.  I had a few conversations throughout the night, but mostly I just wandered around in awe, trying to take everything in.  I ventured through fairy and pirate themed camps, sitting down when I found a fire surrounded by other quiet contemplatives.  

It was the first time I'd ever experienced a sense of belonging.  I'd never, ever felt like I'd had a place or a tribe before, but as I looked around at all the free-spirits, freaks, hippies, gypsies and flower children, it occurred to me that THIS was exactly what I had been searching for.  

I remember trying to go to sleep that first night.  My friends and I laid in the tent giggling hysterically for hours.  We developed a closeness and bond that I don't think we would have been able to discover otherwise; it was just kind of understood that it was where we all belonged.

After that I was hooked.  I became a regular at Hidden Acres, volunteering every chance I could.  I still felt a bit out of my element, but I knew with absolute certainty that I belonged there.  

More of my friends started trekking out to the festivals and suddenly we had transformed from a group of friends to a family.  Instead of hanging out and watching a movie, we were building fires together, cooking together, going on road trips, dancing and playing together.  We were gathering in this beautiful place with beautiful people, finally realizing that without judgment we could be whoever we wanted.  We were opening our minds, learning about new religions and philosophies and ways to identify ourselves.  We got to learn about each other and ourselves in the safest, freest place I've found (in the Midwest, that is.  Perspective, people.)  

Even now, though it's been almost 2 years since I last went to a festival, I see the lasting effects of this lifestyle all around me: it's in the music I listen to, the books I read, the art that I enjoy, the people I relate to, the friends that I have, the activities I enjoy.  In fact, I owe Hidden Acres a huge debt of gratitude because that's where my husband proposed to me--it was a safe place for us to be open and vulnerable with each other when our relationship was still new and unsure.  Had things turned out differently, we would have been married there....

But that's a story for a different day.

I have so much love in my heart for those immortal summers at Hidden Acres, and I owe so much of who I am to the path I started down at Fall Frolic 2008.  If there was a time in my life I could go back to, that would be it.....

I'm so glad I got the chance to experience it.

Regret.

Facebook is kind of like a philosophical dumping ground where quotes by famous thinkers and feelers go to be misinterpreted until they fade into irrelevance.  Not a lot of topics make this more clear than the one of regret.  It seems like someone is always talking about how life is too short to have regrets.... And while that's all great in theory, I think that we can learn a lot from our regrets.  I know I have.

When you lose someone you love, regret is kind of an instant reaction.  Your mind starts spiraling as you wonder about the last things you said, the last things you did, the last thoughts you had....  In the case of my grandmother, this is a particularly difficult subject.

My grandmother was the strongest human being I've ever met.  She may have been "past her prime" when I knew her, but I don't think anybody had bothered to mention that to her--probably because they were scared.  She grew up on a homestead, so growing up she was a bit of a tom-boy.  Her favorite toy was her BB gun, followed by a shotgun when she was old enough to upgrade.  She raised chickens and pigs and cows and goats, she planted and picked vegetables in the garden.  When she grew up, she became a nurse.  I think out of all of the things she saw and went through, that may have hardened her the most  She used to tell me stories about working in the neo-natal unit of a hospital early in her career.  She didn't get to work with the beautiful little cherubs who had all their fingers and toes; my grandma took care of premature babies, ones with birth defects and abnormalities. (I think it left a mark on her, because one of the only things I knew about her for a long time was that she wasn't entirely fond of children....)  My grandmother went on to get married to the man who would become my grandfather.  I don't know much about my grandfather, really, since he died when my father and uncle were children.  I know that he was received a Presidential Pardon from Nixon that allowed him to work at the Post Office, and I know that he was very fond of the booze.  I also know that, on occasion, he would get drunk and mean and abusive with my grandmother.  Being that she was a strong, independent, woman that didn't sit well with her...  She didn't believe in divorce, and she had a great deal of love for my grandfather, so instead of leaving him or going to counseling, she started hiding baseball bats in corners.  My grandfather would get drunk and go to hit her and my grandma would have a baseball bat in her arms, ready to come at him swinging.....

That story always makes me smile.  I mean, it's a horrible, unhealthy situation and abuse isn't a laughing matter, but it just shows the woman's tenacity.  She was fearless.  She was strong.  She was willing and able to defend herself and her family, regardless of what or who she was up against....  When I think about my grandma, that is what I like to think about.

I suppose it's because the realities of our relationship were kind of harsh and severe.  I don't want to make it sound like there wasn't love there, but the way my grandmother showed her love was difficult for a child to understand.  She could be cold and cruel, sharp and cutting.  I remember being very scared of her when I was a kid because she was incredibly hard on me.  She always seemed to favor my brother, and it showed.   I think a little girl may have just been out of her wheelhouse because she grew up in a rougher, tougher time and then raised a family of boys...  I suppose the reasons don't matter.  I never cared enough to look for them when I was younger, and now that I'm capable of understanding, I can only take guesses.....

What I'm trying to say is that the foundation for our relationship wasn't necessarily sturdy or solid.  There was more love in the relationship than I could ever understand, but there was always this distance between us.

That faded away quite a bit when I grew up and got married.  During that time, she also moved in with my Aunt and Uncle because she couldn't live on her own anymore (she was capable of mobility, but suffered from dizzy spells that would cause her to lose her balance, fall and bruise the entire length of her body.)  When they would go on dates or on day trips, they would call me and ask me to come sit with her for a few hours in case she needed anything.  I didn't dig the idea, but I did it.   I figured, "Hey, she probably had better things to do than baby sit me when I was a kid."  So I sucked it up.

Sometimes it was enjoyable, sometimes it wasn't.

Her health and mobility started to decline fairly rapidly after that.  I didn't see it at the time.  I mean, I noticed certain limitations but I didn't realize what they implied and how much alarm they should cause.  Suddenly it wasn't just sitting with her anymore....suddenly it was meal prep and planning, runs to the store, preparing her medications, taking her to doctors appointments, helping her shower, helping her change her adult diapers...  I did it.  Knowing my grandma, I figured that it was worse for her to have to ask for help than it was for me to have to help her.  I sat with her, I helped her, I hung out with her, but I didn't appreciate any of it....

I was always checking the clock--checking to see how much time was left on my sentence.  I was always rolling my eyes when she asked for a third cup of coffee or another piece of cake.

When my aunt and uncle called to have me check on my grandma the night I found her body, I didn't want to go.  I'd already changed into my pajamas, I'd taken my shoes and bra off.  I remember, very clearly, thinking to myself, "I don't want to deal with this," when I hung up the phone.  Then I sat on the couch and watched TV for a few minutes---not feeling any sense of urgency.  And that was the last thought I had about my grandmother in the present tense.....

I know those weren't the last minutes of her life; they were the last minutes of my perception of her life.  I know that, but it doesn't make anything easier.  It doesn't change anything.

I live with that regret every day--knowing that I was more concerned with having a lazy night in than with making sure my grandmother was taken care of and tucked in for the evening. It hurts me to know I was that selfish--that concerned about myself, that preoccupied with my own shit....  But it has taught me how valuable time is.

I may not have enjoyed every second spent taking care of my grandma or helping her, but I got to hear so many stories.  I got to learn so much about her and her life and her marriage and the way she saw the world.  I got to know her in a way that I doubt many get to know their grandparents.... And I cherish it.

The regret I feel for my actions--the way I thought about things, the way I was out for myself--has helped me see what wonderful gifts I received from my grandmother.  It's also taught me not to make the same mistakes with others....to cherish every second I get to spend with my loved ones and to be thankful that, out of all the people in the world, they asked for my help and my time....

So I don't hope for a life free of regrets because they are valuable.  If you're willing to take an honest look at yourself and make some changes in your life, regret can be the one of the most valuable emotions you feel because it'll light a fire inside of you.

And I think we all need that sometimes.

Thankful Thursday; Radical Self Love

Things can get pretty heavy when you are opening yourself up in order to deal with things.  Allowing yourself to be vulnerable can mean bringing up a lot of fears and insecurities.  Because of this, I'd like to lighten the mood and taking one day each week to reflect on something I am truly thankful for.

So, today I am thankful for my body.

I am what the media and society refer to as "plus size".  I'm fortunate, because unlike a lot of strong, healthy and athletic women out there, I actually belong in this category.  My weight, like my moods, is a bit of a roller coaster, but at least it's got some level of consistency.  Since I was around 17 years old, I've been fluctuating between a size 13 and 15.

I used to feel an incredible amount of shame in that until I began to look at myself in a way that was realistic.  I am 5' 11"; I have broad shoulders, large biceps and what Jerry Seinfeld would refer to as "man hands".  I'd consider myself to be fairly proportionate, maybe not as much as I'd like but everything fits together all right.  My size has never once prevented me from doing something like riding an amusement park ride or riding in a car or airplane.  It's actually been a hugely advantages part of my being.  Working in a coffee shop or retail setting that is mainly female dominated, my simple ability to reach things made me an integral part of the team.  I'm also quite strong for a woman.  While my work out routine doesn't involve weight lifting, I am able to lift toilets and install them on my own.  I'm able to carry sheets of dry wall upstairs without a partner.  I'm able to wield saws to cut down walls and dig post holes to build porches.  Rather than being ashamed of my size--my bigness--I relish in my ability to do things, to work hard and accomplish a physical, tangible task.

When I wear clothes that fit me and flatter me, I love the way I look.  I truly love my curves, my stretch marks, my cellulite and scars.  They are all a part of me--of my body.

The human body is incredible, really.  Each sense in and of itself is a miracle, something that proves our ability for such immense pleasure and joy.  The way chocolate melts across your tongue into pure sweetness, the sound of a lover's laugh, the feeling of silk against a freshly shaved leg.  All of those fantastic things that make life worth living we experience through this amazing meat suit.

I love my body for helping me get from point A to point B--for being reliable.  I love my body for telling me what it needs, because learning how to listen to it has been essential to my health and well-being.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to promote a sedentary lifestyle or obesity or anything, I'm just promoting the "radical" notion that one can love themselves no matte their shape or size.

When I make jokes about my size or call myself fat in jest, there's always somebody who feels that this is a cry for attention--that I need reassurance or that I'm fishing for a compliment.  "No," they say, "you're just tall."  And while that's true, I'm also fat.  Whatever.  I mean, let's address the elephant in the room here....it's fine.  I'm quite aware of what I look like, probably more so than you, so just trust me on this one.  I appreciate what they are doing, but at the same time, I wonder why it's bad to be fat.  Why does this word have such a stigma?  Why do we give it so much power?

There are all kinds of things you can be in life that are terrible.  You can be mean, manipulative, cruel, uncaring....  I mean, I could sit here and list things, but I'm sure you understand my point.  When you look at the big picture in life, is being fat really a big deal?

Yeah, I could use other, sexier words to describe myself; curvy, chubby, voluptuous, plus size, but I choose fat because I want to take it back.  I want to dispel this belief that being fat means you are lazy or unmotivated or that you have low self-esteem, because that's not at all how it is.  That's not how it has to be, any way.

I'm in good health.  Or at least my doctor says so.  While he says I need to kick the cigarettes (because I fell off the wagon hard when stress hit), I have no other real risk factors in my life.  I don't drink, I eat healthy, and while I am a few pounds overweight, I am not in danger of diabetes or high cholesterol any more than a slimmer person with a similar lifestyle.

And so I love my body.  I accept my body.  I appreciate everything that it's able to do and everywhere it's able to take me to go.

I encourage you to do the same thing, regardless of what size you are.  Embrace yourself; your body is a temple and you deserve your love and affection just as much as anyone in the world.

My First Love (Pt 1)

My love affair with alcohol started well before I was close to the legal drinking age.

When I was fifteen, I entered into my first serious relationship.  Like most romantic attachments formed as a teenager, it was an intense courtship and I was very much in love.  The object of my affection was 2 years older than me and was the kind of individual who garnered a great deal of respect in the Theater/Performing Arts department of our tiny school.  

Dating someone so out of my league gave me a small amount of confidence in myself, but all of my self worth was hinged on that relationship.  There were several reasons that the relationship was unhealthy, but it essentially boiled down to his need for power and control.  At the time, I was so happy to be getting attention from anyone that I was unable to see the level of abuse that I endured.  It was almost never physical (as if that somehow makes it better), but he wormed his way so far into my brain that I was, essentially, a slave for his love.

As I've stated before, I was universally hated and mistreated in school.  Because of this, he felt a great deal of shame in dating me and for the first several months of our relationship, we hid it from almost everyone.  I knew what was going on, and had, in fact, agreed to hide our affair.  When he asked me to be his girlfriend, he actually laid that out as a condition.  "We don't parade this," he said.  "We don't need anybody to know what's going on."  

Looking back, I see just how desperate I was for...anything, really.

It's not hard to wrap one's mind around that relationship dissolving, but it wasn't something that happened quickly.  In fact, it was almost 2 years before things ended.  Being older than me, he had moved almost 3 hours away and had begun college.  I somehow managed to grow more and more insecure about our relationship which lead me to do tell him all kinds of insane tall-tales in attempt to win his attention/affection.  That ended up backfiring on me (thankfully), and when he came home to visit several friends, he dumped me.  I had become too much drama to handle and the distance prevented him from being able to control and manipulate me in a way that was entertaining.  

Needless to say, I was devastated.  This boy was the first person I'd encountered who had made me feel like I might be worth something.  I didn't understand the sickness of the relationship or how miserable it was.  I didn't see the level of control or manipulation, and I didn't care about the abuse (as long as enduring it meant he would keep loving me).  All I saw was that the person I loved had decided that he didn't love me anymore.  And I fucking lost it.

For a while, I laid in bed and cried.  I listened to sad music, watched cheesy romance movies and did all the stereotypical, halfway normal things you do when you're 17 and mourning a relationship.

Then, one day, a friend of mine invited me out.  He said I had to get out of bed and move on with my life.  So, I did.  

I'd drank before, although not often and not much.  If anything, I'd put on a bit of a buzz, but it's safe to say that until that night, I'd only been drunk maybe once.  

When I arrived at the party, I remember feeling really out of place and awkward.  There were a few girls my age there.  I knew a couple of them, but they were saddled up close to a couple men that I didn't know, so I pretty much went straight for the booze.  

I remember that it was cheap vodka, and I liked the way that it burned.  I drank straight from the bottle, dancing, losing my inhibitions, talking to men much, much older than me.....  and then things got foggy.  From then on it's only images---still frames.  I remember crying to one of the older men about how my boyfriend had dumped me.  I remember him holding my hand and taking me somewhere.  I remember vomiting all over a strange bathroom and waking up in clothes that weren't mine.

I know what happened that night, but I have no memory of it.  I don't think I want to, honestly.

After that, I was a goner.  I'd discovered a magical elixir that made all of my problems magically disappear.  In addition to taking away my feelings, I also found a way to lubricate social situations and ease my anxiety.  I found a way to make myself "fun".  After an adolescence spent listening my friends complain that I only ever wanted to talk about feelings, I'd discovered the secret to being life of the party!

And that's where it began for me, that's how I found my first real love.

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.