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.