Self-Acceptance and Other Fairy Tales

Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I love learning. I soak up information like a sponge. Ask me a question I don't know the answer to and I'll get to Google to look it up so fast it'll make your head spin. My husband and I built our own breakfast table and chairs because I looked at all the absurdly expensive dining sets at the store and said to myself, "Really, how hard could it be?" I love to learn. I love to challenge myself. Sometimes I fall flat on my face, but I pretty much always learn something - like how to fail with dignity, for instance. 

So I've always had a soft spot for documentaries, and I tend to fall into some really deep documentary rabbit holes. Last month was prison documentaries. The month before that was crime scene forensics month. This month I've moved a bit more towards the human interest side of things - this month's rabbit hole has been gender identity and related issues. It has been, not shockingly, much less depressing than prison and crime scene forensics - and that's been a much needed break.

Another thing anyone who knows me should know is that I'm a bit of a gender bender (I went to work today looking pretty much like s lumberjack), so it's interesting to listen to these documentaries and hear people explain things in their own words. And it's made me more acutely aware of the how much I don't fit in - in this case, to traditional gender norms. But in the grander scheme of things, I don't really fit into much of anything. Like, at all. 

And you know what? That's okay. It's something I've needed to hear for a very long time. This "whatever" that I am - it's okay to be that way. Really, it is.

I remember back when I was growing up, my mom asked me at one point if I wanted to be a boy. And I remember responding to her with a resounding "YES!" And it's not that I actually wanted to become a boy - I'm quite fine with the equipment I've been given - it's that I've never really felt like a girl. I've never worn dresses or liked bows in my hair. In fact, I've always viewed hair as more of a pain in the ass than anything else. You wouldn't find me playing with Barbie dolls or playing house. Nope, I was too busy building Lego creations, riding my bike and catching bugs and toads. So at that age, I felt if I were given a chance to see if I fit in with the "other side," my immature little brain thought that would be fantastic. But the truth is, I wouldn't have fit in there either. I feel like that's my lot in life - to eternally not fit in. 

My parents were, I'm guessing, horrified by that response. That's my guess because that topic was quickly rug-swept and never spoken of again. That confirmed my fear that I wasn't "normal." I realized at that point, that I should try my hardest to push that part of me aside - to try to be "girly" and fit in - or at least be girly enough to not stick out too much. It was just one part of the lifelong struggle to be who everyone else thought I should be, and the childhood struggle to please parents who didn't really care who I was, only that I didn't fit the mold they thought they had signed up for.

It feels like as I've grown older, society (at least American society) has become much more polarized with respect to things that aren't traditionally mainstream. There is a lot more acceptance of people who are different and have been historically marginalized. Our previous president was a pretty good example of this. The first black president and the one who finally federally mandated marriage equality.  But on the other hand, it feels like the bigots have a bigger voice than they used to. I feel I need no further proof than our president. Our current Commander in Chief is a man whose approach to women is to "grab 'em by the pussy", whose approach to foreign relations is "build a wall and make them pay for it" and whose approach to transgender soldiers is to tell them that it's more important to fund the military's erections than to medically support the military's transgender population. Not that erections aren't important of course - after all, the future of humanity depends on them. 

I try to resist the urge to label myself just for the sake of labeling myself. On the flip side, I feel like it's important to figure things out in order to just understand myself and to realize that I'm not alone. There are other people out there that don't align traditionally with societal norms of whatever nature. Solidarity and shit. And though I don't feel the need to label myself, the truth is that it's hard to feel comfortable in your own skin if you don't even know what your own skin "looks" like. 

It's always been a struggle for me. I've never quite fit in. Not with family. Not with classmates. Not with colleagues. Not with other moms (in fact, especially not with other moms). Never. I get along well enough with people but I never fit in quite enough to be important. So I live kind of on the fringes. I'm basically scenery. Sometimes people notice me, but not really enough to miss me when I'm gone. 

And I partly blame myself for that - for feeling like I have to be a certain way to be accepted. Because I'm never going to be any good at being anyone but myself. I have to give up on the idea that people, as a whole, are going to accept me as myself. I'm not "normal." I'm just not. And no amount of wanting acceptance is going to make me normal. And no amount of wanting acceptance is going to make people be (generally speaking) open-minded if they aren't already wired to be that way. Ultimately it's about being myself and being okay with however that plays out. And I probably need to give up on trying to find like-minded people and focus on finding open-minded people instead. 

But good lord, I've got so far to go.

Inside, I'm still that meek little girl. Afraid she isn't smart enough or talented enough or pretty enough or girly enough. Afraid she's a disappointment - that she's letting people down by not being "whatever" enough. I'm scared to disappoint people. Along with my wonderful, supportive, loving husband comes a whole new group of people that I worry about disappointing. I worry that they'll feel like I'm not good enough for him and he deserves better. I worry that they just flat out won't like me. It's not that I've ever been given any indication of these things from anyone - it's pure insecurity on my part. 

I'm starting to realize that part of my struggle for self-acceptance is the fact that those closest to me never really accepted me growing up (many still kind of don't). That left me ripe for sociopathic grooming (my ex), which left me with even less sense of self and virtually non-existent feelings of self-worth. And so here I am, not really knowing who I am or feeling comfortable with the person I'm discovering. Worried that I won't be loved or accepted. Convinced that I'm too old to be "discovering" myself. I mean, aren't we supposed to have that shit figured out by now?

But I don't. And somehow I need to learn to feel like that's okay. I need to realize that people who look like they've got their shit together are probably just much better at facades than I am. I'm not sure if that makes me impressed with them or a little sad for them - because I know how exhausting and soul-sucking it is to constantly be busting ass just to keep up appearances. 

Being in a state of constant flux and personal evolution can be kind of exhausting too, though. It's certainly pretty isolating sometimes. I mean, it's hard to find like minded people when you don't really know what your own mind is like. 

Breathe

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I try to wipe the sleep from my eyes, but it lingers despite my best efforts. Every muscle in my body cries out for rest, as if I hadn't slept in days. In truth, sleeping is what I've been best at lately. Every inch of my body feels like lead as I roll myself out of bed. I struggle to find purpose in my movements.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I set my brain to cruise control. There's work to be done, and life doesn't care if I'm crippled by anxiety or drowning in depression. Life carries on and expects me to do the same. It's harder than it sounds.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I feel like my mind is a tangled ball of yarn. The more I try to unravel and straighten it out, the more it ends up a jumbled, knotted mess. Can't think. Can't focus. Can't...live.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

My chest feels heavy. My breathing, labored as I fight this feeling of suffocation. I know I'm not suffocating, but it doesn't help ease the heaviness in my chest. I feel like I might forget to breathe if I don't remind myself.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In this moment, it takes all my focus - all my energy - just to exist. In this moment, I am capable of no more than that. I exist. For now, that's enough. It has to be. Just enough is all I've got.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I fall into bed, exhausted from the work of existing. My body is quickly silenced, but my mind won't go quietly. So I lay in bed, hoping for sleep while my brain plays back for me every mistake I've made, every inadequacy, every shortcoming until I'm too exhausted to care anymore.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Wake up.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Start again.

Breathe in.
...
Breathe out.

Feminism

Feminism:  the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes

I was reading a piece online recently about feminism and male privilege (this one, if you care to read it - I'll admit that I was click-baited, but it was an interesting read). In short, the author writes about a situation where a male friend of hers went to a party and was horrified to see a basket of feminine hygiene products on the bathroom counter. The male friend was disgusted that they would just be left out in the open like that. After all, guys don't need to see that! Now, clearly not all men are like that, but it got me thinking.

My first thought was that the person hosting the party is a freaking saint. Because honestly, what women hasn't experienced it at one point or another - a sudden, unexpected need for a feminine hygiene product? My second thought was, "Are there really men out there that would be disgusted by a basket of feminine hygiene products?" Sadly, I guess there are - or at least there are plenty of men that are just generally uncomfortable with the idea that women have messy bodily functions. And it's not their fault. Men and women have both been conditioned for generations to fit into the tidy little box that society tells them they're supposed to fit into. 

For generations, people have been stuffed into societal age and gender norms. What colors we can like, what clothes we can wear, what people we can love, what activities we can enjoy. I remember once day when I went to pick up my kids from daycare. When I stepped into my youngest's classroom, I didn't see him in there. I finally spotted him in what I can only describe as a conservative French maid dress - playing with another little boy that wearing a princess gown. Immediately, the teacher started apologizing - and it made me sad. It made me sad that she felt like she had to apologize for the fact that two little boys were having fun playing dress up in dresses. It made me sad that she felt like she had to apologize for it because she'd gotten negative feedback in a similar situation previously. I, on the other hand, was thrilled to see them letting the kids play with whatever toys or dress up clothes they wanted. 

It made me sad (and still makes me sad) that some people impose those kinds of gender norms on their kids. Let's let our kids be themselves. Let's​ let them know that we love them. Period. No strings, no qualifications. Don't make them feel like they can only earn our love if they fit into this "normal" box we've built for them. As a matter of fact, let's save ourselves the trouble and not even try to define what "normal" is - because there's really no such thing. Give them freedom to explore who they are and decide for themselves. People don't fit neatly into little generalized boxes. The sooner we all stop trying to stuff people into the boxes they'll never fit into, the sooner we can start realizing that those boxes have always been an arbitrary construct anyway. 

I'm doing my best to raise boys who won't even bat an eye at running up to the corner store to buy a woman tampons or pads (or any other "girly" product, for that matter). I have a picture of my youngest when he was about three, sitting in my shopping cart, proudly carrying an economy size box of tampons. I love the fact that he was at an age where he hadn't been tainted by gender stereotypes - he was just proud to be mommy's little helper. He's already run into gender norm conflicts (at the ripe old age of six), and it's just sad. My oldest son has gotten teased for liking the colors pink and purple. I reassure him that there's no such thing as "boy" colors or "girl" colors. There are just colors, and he's free to like whichever ones he wants. I was a proud momma when he came home from school and told me about some kids that we're making fun of him because he had pink on his socks (he was wearing my socks - heaven help me, I need to be better about laundry...and I need to have a stern talking to with the sock monster in our dryer) and then proceeded to tell me how he just looked at those boys and told them that pink isn't just for girls and that he can wear whatever color he wants. Good for you, kiddo - at least I know you listen to me every once in a while!

I've never considered myself a feminist - mostly because I don't see myself blazing political and social trails in the quest for gender equality. Let's be honest, I'm far too antisocial for any of that. Regardless, I've come to realize that this hasn't kept me from actually BEING a feminist, whether I have classified myself that way or not. So you won't catch me burning bras any time soon (because bras are freaking expensive), but I guess I'm a feminist.

For that matter, I probably don't fit in a lot of the boxes I grew up believing I had to be stuffed into (besides, I'm fat - I'm hard to fit into boxes...). Honestly, I kind of enjoy challenging stereotypes - it makes it easier to spot judgmental jerks. So this tattooed, pierced, boy haircut sporting, geeky mom is just going to keep doing me because that's all I know how to do. And I'll keep raising kids who hopefully won't be afraid to march to the beat of their own drummer - because I don't know how to do it any other way.

Rainbows and Unicorns....Reprise

It's been two and a half years since I first started this blog with this post. I'm still pretty sure I don't have much to say that's worthwhile, but regardless, there's something therapeutic about writing and something a little liberating in publishing my ramblings in my little, dusty corner of the internet (even if nobody really reads any of it). I'm still just as big a smartass as I was when this all began - that much has certainly not changed. I wish I could say that I don't care what people think of me, but honestly I'd be lying. But the important thing, I think, is that I've learned not to let that fear of judgment stop me from being who I am. In the end, someone who judges me for who I am and how I struggle is revealing more about their true character than mine. But it's easy to lose sight of that sometimes in the midst of everything because let's face it, being judged still hurts.

It's been two and a half years since I celebrated World Suicide Prevention Day by choosing to put one foot in front of the other. I had hoped that by now it would be second nature. Some days it is. Some days I wake up excited about the day ahead, excited that I have things to look forward to now. And then some other days, I feel like barely anyone would notice if I totally fell off the face of the earth. And some days falling off the face of the earth still doesn't seem like such a bad idea. After all this time, rainbows and unicorns are still hard. It probably always will be that way. Between my natural predisposition to depression and anxiety, the medication roller coaster, and trying to heal from years of trauma, I'll probably never shit glitter. And you know what? That's probably a good thing because that's just not me. I don't have to be anything but myself. The sooner I embrace the fact that things aren't going to be perfect and that depression and anxiety are part of my life that I don't need to be ashamed of, the easier it will become to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even on the hard days. And even on the hard days, putting one foot in front of the other is still something to celebrate. When I first started this blog, I really didn't think I'd have quite enough feet to get me this far. The fact that I still exist today is pretty fantastic.

I remember talking with my therapist a few years ago about my struggles with self harm and I distinctly remember feeling that that I didn't think I could ever feel proud of not self harming. After all, it seems odd to be proud of not doing something that I shouldn't have been doing to begin with. It's been almost two years to the day since I last self harmed and you know what? I'm damn proud of that. Maybe that's the measuring stick of how far I've come - the fact that I can actually recognize that as an accomplishment, be proud of it, and not give a damn whether people will judge me for it. Progress is progress whether anyone else recognizes it or not.

Even so, I still feel like I'm not allowed to have bad days, though - and that's mostly my own fault. I feel like people think I'm just being a whiney bitch if I'm struggling. I feel clingy and weird if I really need people. And I hate being a burden - that's something that hasn't changed at all. Now I'm the one telling myself that I should snap out of it - that I should just be happy - even though I know there's not a switch that can be flipped. I'm not "trying" to be depressed - it's just part of who I am. On the good days, the meds do their thing and I can pass as a fully functioning human being. On the bad days, I still completely shut down and feel like a complete failure at life. It's just part of my reality - I'm still a person struggling with depression even on the good days. It doesn't actually make me a failure at life, even if it feels that way. And honestly, I'm thankful for whatever respite my meds can give me.

It still makes me sad to think about how much stigma is still attached to psych meds and the field of psychiatry. Sadly, I don't think much has changed in that respect. So many people suffer in silence because they don't want to be the kind of person that sees a psychiatrist. Guess what? All kinds of people see psychiatrists, but mostly they're just normal people trying to make the best of their fucked up brain chemistry. There's no shame in that. There's no shame in taking care of yourself. People may judge. In fact, a lot of them probably will judge (or they may try to get you to sell them your pills - which is weird, but it's happened to me more than once). People may treat you differently. That's a THEM problem, not a YOU problem. For heaven's sake, it's not worth suffering with a treatable illness just because some people are ignorant.

And because I still love this analogy from my bestest friend, I'm going to share this again:
"Depression is a lot like moving…. in the rain.
You tell people about it. Most say they will be there when it's time.
You feel confident and supported; all of these friends will be there to help.
Then the day comes and few, if any, show up.

They have their reasoning. 'I can't be there the whole time'… 'I wouldn't really be able to help anyway'… 'I'm sure they've got plenty of help'… 'Other people who know them better will be there'…

So you pack your u-haul alone…in the rain.

But you don't have to be there the whole time. You don't have to have any special training or remarkable skills. You don't have to do anything, other than just show up, like you said you would. Just show up, like they did for you. If you think, and certainly if you KNOW that someone is going through a hard time, don't let them do it alone...in the rain."

Depression is hard. Anxiety is a pain in the ass. PTSD is a real crazy-ass bitch. It's hard. Rainbows and unicorns are hard, dammit. And they don't always get easier. They certainly don't get easier without support. That's the most important thing I've learned. Life's too short to keep people in my life that refuse to be supportive. It's okay to let go of relationships when they bring nothing but negativity to the table. It's okay to cut my losses and move on. It's more than okay - it's healthy and necessary. Rainbows and unicorns are hard, but I don't have to make them harder than they need to be.

For those of us who struggle with depression and have been at the edge, rainbows and unicorns are hard.  They just are.  We like rainbows and unicorns as much as the next guy (or girl), but it doesn't come naturally.  It's not a character flaw.  It's not that we just woke up this morning and said, "My goal today is to completely hate myself!"  People forget that depression is an actual medical condition.  For me, trying to do rainbows and unicorns with depression/anxiety/PTSD is like trying to draw a picture with my toes - it's frustrating and unfulfilling and just ends up making you feel kind of lame (unless you happen to be awesome and actually can draw with your toes, in which case you're probably entirely too sophisticated for this blog anyway).

So I celebrated today by living - by putting one foot in front of the other and trudging through.  I will celebrate tomorrow the same way and hope like hell I do the same the next day and the day after that.  And as the days go by, I hope I'll continue to pick up supportive people that will help me move in the rain. 

Court Is Now In Session

What is it about human nature that makes us want to judge people? I just don't get it. I really, really don't. Of course, I'm guilty of it too sometimes, though I try really hard not to. Honestly, since I'm a little unorthodox, I tend to draw a little more judgment and labeling than I might have if I had stuck to more "traditional" things. Maybe I've brought it upon myself to some degree. But honestly, that's part of why I enjoy being a little off the norm. It makes it so much easier to spot the judgies - and avoid the displeasure of their company.

Last night, I chopped off most of my hair again. It's now the shortest it's ever been. Ever. And it reminded me of when I first chopped it off a couple of years ago around the time of the divorce. One of the first comments I got about it was from a co-worker. "So, does that mean you're switching teams?" You know, because clearly gender identity and sexual preference are tied to hairstyle. But more to the point, why does it even matter? Why is anyone I'm not romantically involved with invested in my sexual identity at all? And why on earth does someone I don't even know outside of a professional capacity feel like they have some right to even ask that kind of question? I'm still the same person I was when I had longer hair. I didn't miss with the clippers and shave off a lobe of my brain. It's most definitely still me in there, like it or not. And whatever my identity was before I cut my hair off is still very much my identity now.

But seriously, what is it with people? It's like people are just looking for reasons to judge other people. And if you don't conform to what they feel is "normal" or "proper," they feel entitled to look down their noses and make comments about it. And heaven forbid you do something that people don't agree with or make decisions that are not in line with all of the socially accepted stereotypes that we're all supposed to adhere to.

Way back in the day, when I was being evaluated to see whether I was ready to enter kindergarten, I was almost red-shirted. It wasn't because I wasn't emotionally ready. It wasn't because I didn't have the required basic skills to be a successful kindergartener. It was because I couldn't hop on my left foot. I kid you not. I was nearly held back a year in school because of my of my inability to hop on my left foot. I just couldn't do it. I still can't, and I'd like to think that despite my obvious handicap, I've still managed to be a fully functional member of society. It's a pretty amazing success story, really, because who would have ever thought someone with such a huge deficiency would have been able to graduate from college summa cum laude and hold down an actual big girl job (not to mention the fact that I can still be a girl with short hair)? I laugh now at that kindergarten readiness criteria, but really, it's kind of a sad commentary on how we as people tend to discount people because they don't fit our totally arbitrary definition of what makes someone capable of success.

And growing up, I remember my teachers constantly getting on my case for holding my pencil "the wrong way." As far as I'm concerned, if I can write legibly, there's no real wrong way to hold a pencil. And just recently in a meeting about one of my kids, I had a room full of educators staring at me quizzically and talking about how they don't get how I can write like that. I mention this just to highlight the fact that it seems to be human nature to fixate on people who do things differently or don't adhere to what society says is "normal." Who cares? Am I so incredibly boring that how I hold my pencil is the most fascinating thing about me? Why do people have to act like I'm a freak because I hold a pencil differently?

This ridiculousness has got to stop. This tendency to judge people for their choices just because they don't match our own, this feeling of superiority that happens when we fall into the mainstream crowd, this idea that different somehow means "less than" - it's just not healthy for anyone. We're destroying ourselves. We're destroying each other. And I can't help but wonder if it's really worth it. Is that feeling of superiority we get when we judge people really worth burning those relationships to the ground? God, I hope not.

A while back, I overheard a conversation between two gentlemen about homosexuality. One of them insisted on using extremely derogatory language when referring to homosexuals. When he saw my reaction and I expressed my disapproval of his judgment bigotry, his response was, "Why are you offended? You're not one of them."

Is that really what we've come to? Is that the world we live in where I'm not supposed to have the right to be offended by completely unnecessary judgment and bigotry? Because I don't want to exist in a place like that. I want to live in a world where opposing bigotry and hatred isn't a right to be earned by being the subject of that hatred but rather seen as something expected from everyone because justice is everyone's business.

I get judged as a mother because I put my youngest on medication for his ADHD. He's just being a boy, I'm told. They have lots of energy. And he's too young. I should have have waited a year to start him in kindergarten. All these people who don't know my son, judging my decision to medicate him. People who don't know him assuming that I'm medicating him to make my own life easier. What they didn't see is a child who absolutely loves school, getting horribly discouraged because he was continually getting in trouble for being disruptive. They didn't see the little boy that was so disappointed in himself for getting in trouble each day. They don't see him beaming with pride now that he can focus on his class work. They don't see the boy that comes home so excited to tell me about his excellent behavior marks in school, who loves to share all of the things he's learning in school. All of the things he wasn't able to do unmedicated. They don't understand that I don't medicate him at home. It didn't make things easier for me. In fact, the medication often causes some rebound crabbiness that can make things MORE challenging for me. I don't medicate him because it's easier for me. I medicate him because he loves learning and he loves school - and his medication allows him to continue loving it without being constantly frustrated with himself. And yet, I've gotten more than lecture after lecture about it and how I'm just taking the easy way out. Because people just love to judge situations their don't understand.

Don't get me wrong, I willingly accept judgment for decisions that I make in order for my children to be successful. I shouldn't be judged for them, but if that's how it's going to be, then bring it. Sometimes parents have to make hard decisions for their kids, and sometimes fear of judgment makes it hard to do so. My own parents knew I struggled with depression growing up. My room, where I cried myself to sleep and wished I were dead, was separated from my parents room with just one thin little door. They heard me cry myself to sleep. They heard my siblings make fun of me for crying myself to sleep. They saw my scars. They knew I was hurting myself. And yet they did nothing - I assume out of fear of judgment. What will the other parents think?

And that's where I learned to be ashamed of my struggles - because others were first ashamed of my struggles. And they were ashamed of my struggles because of the way people just love to judge. Bigoted judgment really does destroy people. It's taken me all this time to stop giving any fucks about people passing judgment on me. It only took me thirty+ years and nearly taking my own life...

People don't have to like me but that doesn't give them carte blanche to judge me. You don't have to like the way I work, but that doesn't mean I need to be fixed.

But I digress - go ahead and judge me for it...

Midlife Crisis

I'm pretty convinced that most of the people in my life thought I was having either a midlife crisis or a complete breakdown after my divorce. I mean, I can hardly blame them, I guess. My personality must've seemed like it did a complete 180. Nobody said any of this to me, of course, but despite being supremely introverted and generally pretty quiet, I'm actually pretty astute at reading people. There appeared to be a mixture of confusion, horror and concern at my supposed crisis, though apparently not enough for anyone to actually say anything to my face. Fair enough, I guess.

Even before I married my abusive ex-husband, I was just this quiet, meek, nerdy girl. I craved acceptance and was terrified to rock the boat. I busted my ass to please everyone (even though I never could seem to please anyone). I studied nearly non-stop to try to prove that I was "smart enough" (smart enough for what, I never quite figured out). I played by all of the rules. By all accounts, I was a goody two-shoes. It wasn't because I didn't want to go out and have a good time. It was because I was terrified of disappointing people. I was terrified of not being good enough. Because I grew up feeling like I would never be smart enough. Never good enough. Never talented enough. Never pretty enough. Never enough.

Of course, that set the stage quite nicely for my ex-husband. He pretty much just picked up where they left off. I went from meek and quiet to walking on eggshells and being constantly afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing. Of course, I was still quiet. I was quiet because I was afraid to say anything. Genuinely petrified, actually. And when he lost his temper, I just sat there and let him lash out, convinced that I deserved every bit of it. Locking myself in the bathroom to avoid his tirades became a normal occurrence. My normal meter was beyond broken, and I honestly just thought that's how relationships were. And over time, I just became timid and scared. Too terrified to be myself because heaven knows how his reaction would have been. Too frightened and ashamed to say anything because there was no telling what would set him off (my mentioning that "this meat is expired, so we'll have to toss it" literally resulted in me getting screamed at for an hour, followed by the silent treatment the rest of the day - I came to enjoy the silent treatment). As the years went by, I slowly became nothing, waking each day with no other hope than to just survive to see the next.

Until it happened. It was like a switch was flipped. We were driving back home after vacationing for Thanksgiving. I remember it like it was yesterday. There was a car driving in the lane next to ours and we were in their blind spot. They started changing lanes, so my ex honked. They went back to their lane...and that should have been the end of it. But of course it wasn't. Convinced that the other car had some ridiculous malicious intent (to wreck his own car - because that makes sense), my ex sped up next to the car to flip the driver off. This, naturally, made the driver angry and provoked him to the point where he got his car got in front of our car and slammed on the brakes to try to cause an accident that my ex would have been held responsible for. Thankfully, we didn't hit them. At that point I asked him to please stop driving so aggressively, especially with the kids in the car...because safety and being a grown up and what not. I ended up getting screamed at and belittled - in front of both of our kids - for about two hours. At one point he suggested I just jump out of the car (going 70mph) and kill myself. He suggested I kill myself. In front of our kids. Holy crap. That was it. I have never been more completely and irreversibly done with anything than I was at that moment. That was the point that I decided that I was done trying to please people who can't be pleased. I was done being silenced. I was so ashamed and disgusted with myself for allowing it to get to that point but abusers are tricky little bastards and I was naive beyond words.

From that day forward, I was determined to be myself. To hell with what anyone else thinks - except HR, of course, because employment is important. The problem at that point was that I had strayed so far from myself at that point, I didn't even know who I really was, and I still felt like I needed permission to be myself. I'm beyond thankful for my therapist at the time for helping me uncover the person that had been covered up with hurt and sadness and shame and unhealthy coping mechanisms and chocolate...lots of chocolate. 

As it turns out, self-discovery is a really awkward process. Most people go through their awkward formative years when they're in middle school. Everyone is expected to be awkward in middle school. It's like a rule or something. Me? Let's tackle that shit in my 30's, please! When everyone else my age seems to have finally gotten their shit together, I'm over here still in the process of searching for and collecting my shit. And just like that, I became this tattooed chick with weird, ever-evolving (but always bizarre and rarely even remotely feminine) hair and lots of holes in her body. Because hey, why not? I'm pretty much the thirty-something year old version of the middle school girl with unkempt hair, a mouth full of metal, and a bargain bin wardrobe (which incidentally, actually describes me accurately at that age). So, you know, that's pretty awesome...

I'm sure people thought the divorce had sent me over the deep end. What it really did was empower me to actually be the person I've always been deep down. It gave me the courage to live my life unapologetically - to be who I am regardless of what other people will think. And I don't regret any of it. Every tattoo I've gotten has special meaning to me. Every piercing is part of my personality. And I suppose you could say that my ever-changing hair is reflective of my refusal to be complacent. I mean, you'd be stretching it a bit, but you could definitely say that. 

When I started dating again, I got a lot of "be careful who you go out with" because I'm sure since people thought I was totally out of control and completely self-destructing (I mean, I got a bunch of tattoos and p piercings - what sane person does that!?!?). I remember that I couldn't wait to be free to date (it was introvert blasphemy!), though I do remember thinking that I'd probably be single the rest of my life because I've got a lot of baggage and I just had no interest in hiding it. I couldn't imagine anyone willingly taking that on, but a relationship built on kept secrets isn't really a relationship that's worth having. 

It's funny how a single moment can be so pivotal. I spent years being abused. Years hoping it would get better. Years just trying to be a fly on the wall, hoping nobody would notice me. And that one moment gave me the strength to fight back (figuratively speaking, of course). That one moment paved the way for me to discover things about myself I had never been allowed to explore before.

And if this is what people think my midlife crisis is going to be, then I guess when it's time to really actually have a midlife crisis, it's gonna be go big or go home. That being said, I'm currently taking suggestions...

Scars

I've been thinking a lot lately about scars. Not just any scars...my scars. Because let's face it, if I were thinking about your scars, that would just be weird, and then you'd want a restraining order and it would just turn into this whole ugly thing and nobody's got time for that. For a little background, feel free to step back into the wonderful world of the semi-recent past with this post for a little light reading.

(side note: I'm writing this while humming "Another One Bites the Dust" - read into that what you wish)

The short story is that I'm a recovering self-harmer. It sounds weird to even write those words. I think it feels weird just to admit that it's something I've struggled with as an adult. As much as mental illness as a whole is stigmatized and misunderstood, self-harm is subject to especially harsh stigma. You'd be hard pressed to find even a mental health professional that really understands self harm.

I think that's what shocked me the most. How little the mental health professionals understood self injury. My first psychiatrist likened me to a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. So I did the only thing I could do - I called him a poopyhead and stomped right out of his office. In all seriousness though, it was like a punch to the gut. And it was so incredibly damaging to me as someone who was in the throes of depression and anxiety and being actively abused by her then-husband. Between him and my "maybe your husband is abusive because you're not doing enough" therapist, I gave up on mental health professionals altogether for a while. After all, I already had someone to tell me what a worthless piece of shit I was - you really don't need more than one of those people in your life.

So naturally it's a topic that I always approach with some hesitation. Because, frankly, it freaks people the fuck out.  And I get that. I really, truthfully do. And that doesn't even bother me because it seems so counterintuitive. I'm not even asking for anyone to try to understand because most people just won't - and that's awesome and there's part of me that's supremely thankful for that. I'm just asking for people to think before they judge. Or better yet, don't judge at all. Show the compassion that you hope to have shown to you.

It started back when I was a kid - probably about the age of my oldest son (which terrifies me, by the way). It was just small things back then. Honestly, I didn't really understand why I was doing what I was doing but I knew it helped dull the pain. I didn't fall back into it until the abuse from my ex-husband was in full force. I've always felt very ashamed of myself for doing it. I bought into the stigma and thought I must be seriously unstable to be capable of such things. But the more I've learned about self injury and the more I've explored my own thoughts and feelings, the more it makes sense to me. I mean, it's just a coping mechanism. Sure, it's not healthy. I get that. But this was a time when I didn't have a safe place. I had nowhere to go. I couldn't remove myself from the situation. My ex-husband made sure of it. When you're terrified, bawling, and hiding in the locked toilet cubby of your bathroom waiting for the screaming to stop, there aren't a whole lot of options. So you either do what you can just to survive or you just give up entirely. And though there are those that would shame me or judge me for decisions I have made, I still think the decision I made was much better than the alternative. There's no shame in surviving. None. Don't ever let anyone convince you otherwise. I can tell you from personal experience that it's not worth it. Nobody should feel ashamed of doing what they have to do to survive in dire circumstances.

When I started dating, that was the conversation I dreaded. Because I knew if I found someone special, I'd have to explain the scars. Then I found him. And he was amazing beyond words. And I knew I had to be honest. I didn't even have the words. I know, right? Me? No words? Nope. So I didn't the only thing I could do. I sent him a link to the blog entry I linked above. And I waited. It felt like an eternity. I was convinced he would run the other direction. Instead, he held my hand through the crazy, and he continues to hold my hand through the crazy day after day. And believe me, I've got a lot of crazy.

Anyway, it's been almost two years now since I last self-injured. The scars are fading and I'm finding it oddly bittersweet. The scars are a reminder of a terrifying time of my life that I'd just as soon forget altogether. And it's good that they're fading, in a lot of ways. I certainly don't need any reminders of that period of my life. But at the same time, as the scars fade, I feel like I'm losing part of myself. Because though the scars are reminders of years of abuse, they're also reminders of how strong I am. And honestly, sometimes I need those reminders. So, in a way, as the scars fade and some disappear completely, it feels like part of me disappears with it. I know it's ridiculous, but it feels like I'm watching my strength wither away with them. 

It's hard to find the balance between respecting and acknowledging my past and dwelling on it to the point where I'm completely consumed by it. I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. Moving forward is hard, no doubt, but that's no reason to resist it. Because moving forward is hard, but it's absolutely, completely worth it. Things that are worthwhile are rarely easy and real, honest growth is rarely a painless process.

I'm sure there will be people who think I'm a freak. And you know what? That's okay. Because if this is the one thing that makes you think I'm a freak, you clearly don't know me very well. There's a whole bunch of freak you'll never get to know. I know there's a lot of people who will read this who don't know me well, so I always worry about how I'll be perceived (I've spent a fair amount of time with my mouse hovering over the "publish" button, not quite ready to click this post into the permanency of the interwebz). But honestly, if you're not willing to love and accept the weird, unsavory bits, then we probably wouldn't get along all that well anyway.

Identity Crisis

I've found that the idea that depression and anxiety medications don't change who you are is a bit of a half truth. Sure, if you get put on the right ones, they tell you they won't. Heck, Web MD even subscribes to this notion - and if it's on the internet, it *HAS* to be true. But I can personally attest to the fact that the road to the right medication(s) can be an exceptionally long one. And when you're not on the right meds, they can absolutely change your personality. It's scary, really. Over the past few years, depression and anxiety medications have made me extremely suicidal, ragey, stabby, aloof, numb, hateful, pessimistic, rebellious, needy - in pretty much every combination - and I'd like to think I'm not any of these things. If you met me in the last few years and I was a raging bitch, I'm going to have to go ahead and blame my psychiatrist for that.

Sometimes I honestly feel like I don't even know who I am anymore. Most times, actually. I've been through so many trials of medications and combinations of medications - depression meds, anxiety meds, PTSD meds - a little bit of everything. If I weren't already a little mad, the medication roller coaster would have certainly gotten me there. I honestly can't even remember all of the meds I've tried. It's kind of embarrassing, though I do feel like I deserve dive bragging rights for the impressive ability of my body to say "fuck you - I do what I want" to such a large number of medications in such dramatic fashion. Apparently I'm a bit of a special snowflake that way. Some people have brilliant minds, others are gifted with amazing creativity. My super power? Treatment resistant depression!  Woohoo! It's the gift that keeps on giving!

Somewhere amidst all of the failed drugs ("holy crap, that's enough Xanax to render a normal adult catatonic!") and ups and downs of adjusting and weaning (all of the joys of feeling like you have the flu without the legitimate claim to actual sickness), I lost myself. They say that the right medications help uncover the real you. What they don't tell you is that if you have to go through ten or twenty medications to get to the right medication, you very well might not even recognize the real you when you get there. Your brain may have been stretched and zapped and redirected a few too many times to even recognize the person you once were.

I tried weaning from all of my psych medications once, just to try to remember what things were like without any "extras." I couldn't tell whether any of the depression meds were working because the constant barrage of assorted medications had me pretty much all over the place. I remember talking to my psychiatrist about wanting to go off my meds for a while. She laughed in my face. "Going off your meds isn't going to make your depression better." No shit, Sherlock. I tried to explain to her that I just wanted to make sure there was still a person in there, even if it was a just a sad, depressed person. More laughter. Awesome. It takes a pretty badass person to get laughed out of a psychiatrist's office. It's okay to be jealous. I mean, not everyone can achieve that level of humiliation so handily. It's a gift that I'm happy to share with the world.

Don't get me wrong, anxiety and depression medications are great. They're a wonderful tool in the fight against mental illness, and it's a shame there still such a stigma surrounding them and the field of psychiatry in general (it's why it took me nearly completely self-destructing to get help). That being said, sometimes these medications can be an identity crisis in a bottle, and in my experience, doctors do very little to prepare patients for that possibility - and that, in my opinion, is a very irresponsible and dangerous approach to take. It's sad that a lot of doctors don't seem to take their professional responsibility very seriously.

At least I knew what I was getting into. Some others haven't been as fortunate.

<stepping off soapbox>