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.

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: 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.