Just Swim, Damnit!

"Everyone's survival looks a bit like death sometimes."
- Andrea Gibson

Lately, it feels a lot like I've been pushed into the deep end of a pool without having any clue how to actually swim. I'm thrashing and thrashing, desperately trying to keep my head above water. Desperate. Panicked. Scared. 

A voice from the side of the pool calls out - "Just swim!" 

Just swim? No shit, Sherlock. Can't you see that I'm trying? I'm doing everything I can do to try to stay afloat. I just don't know how to swim. It's not that I don't want to. I'm not being willful or obstinate. I just don't know how to do it. No amount of shouting at me from the safety of side of the pool is going to make me suddenly able to quell the panic of drowning and magically swim to the safety of the steps. No amount of reminding me that it'll be better once I learn how to swim is going to make me live long enough to learn how to actually swim. 

"All you need to do is swim!"

I KNOW THAT! Don't you understand that I'm aware of that already? I know that's the goal - I know that's what will save me. I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and I know it's easy for other people. In fact, it frustrates me how easy it is for some people. The thing is, though, that doesn't help me LEARN how to swim. No amount of reminding me from the sidelines that swimming will save me is actually going to help me figure out how to swim - it's just going to remind me that I should know how to do this already. Someone should've taught me. But the fact that it's easy for other people doesn't make it any easier for ME. 

"Jesus Christ. Didn't you learn to swim when you were younger?"

Nope. Not even an awkward doggy paddle. Hell, not even a dead man's float. Nobody ever even tried to teach me. To be honest, it never really occurred to me that I'd live long enough for it to be an issue. Flailing about helplessly is the only move I've ever been able to teach myself. This dance of fear and panic has become a display of carefully orchestrated chaos. It's not pretty, but it's the only thing keeping my head above water. Nobody ever told me that learning to swim would be important - or maybe they just never cared. It's not that I haven't tried to learn to swim. It's just really hard to learn to swim when I'm spending all of my time and energy just trying not to drown.

"Just SWIM, damnit!"

You know what? Fuck you. I'm trying. Maybe if you weren't so terrified of getting wet, you could help me stay afloat while I figure this shit out. Maybe I don't need to actually be rescued. Maybe I just need some guidance and support while I learn to rescue myself. Maybe I just need someone who is willing to get in the water with me and keep me from drowning while I learn to swim - or at least someone willing to throw me a fucking rope. Fuck it though. I probably wouldn't grab the rope anyway. There's really nobody to blame but myself anyway.

"It's like you're not even trying!"

I dunno - maybe I'm not anymore. The thing is, I don't even know if I want to try to swim these days. I WANT to want it, but I'm tired of people shouting at me from their dry, safe spot by the edge of the pool. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being too scared to ask for or accept help. I'm exhausted. I ache in places I didn't even know existed. 

Just let me drown already. 

Screaming into the Void

“It’s okay. Everybody’s survival looks a little bit like death sometimes.”

- Andrea Gibson

Therapist: "Hi! How are you?"

Chaotic as fuck, to be honest. Just feeling kind of spun out lately.

And it feels like none of it matters. To me or to anyone really. 

It doesn't matter how overwhelmed I feel. I don't even know how to adequately express how much existence just feels like defeat lately. 

It doesn't matter how hopeless the idea of healing seems right now. I'm a year into therapy and most days I feel like I've barely moved at all. Right now, I'm not exactly sure what progress looks like anyway.  

It doesn't matter how ill-equipped I am to even just minimally tolerate everything. I know, I know - just stop fighting the feelings! But not fighting with them feels less like acceptance and more like resignation lately. I'm not sure how to keep my "give-a-shit" alive anymore.

It doesn't matter that I can't just fucking cry like a normal person. I mean, is it really too much to ask for one normal coping mechanism? But even if I could cry, it would probably just trigger an uncontrollable spiral anyway because trauma is stupid and messy and unpleasant.

It doesn't matter how alone I feel on this journey. It's not about social isolation or a general lack of people. It's about trying to keep people from being impacted by my fucked-upness. I hate being a burden, but in times like this, I don't know what else to be. So I isolate because I don't want to hurt anyone else.

It doesn't matter that I can't just rest. Not emotionally. Not physically. My mind won't slow down and settle. Sleep used to be a respite, but lately it's been filled with nothing but nightmares. My chest is painfully tight and heavy with anxiety - and it just won't stop. I just want it to stop.

It doesn't matter that there comes a point where the only way I know to cope is to literally destroy myself, little by little. It just doesn't fucking matter. I'd rather destroy myself than anyone else. Other people don't deserve that. For some reason, I'm convinced that I do.

It doesn't matter how much I just feel like walking into oncoming traffic, as long as I won't actually do it. And if I won't actually do it, how much could I even be struggling? If I were really feeling that hopeless, I'd just shut up and throw myself in front of a truck already, right? 

It doesn't matter. 

It doesn't matter because I still get up every day and go to my job. I go through the motions and bust my ass at work and at the end of the day, I do a decent job. 

It doesn't matter because even on the days I've teetered on the brink of suicide, I still got up and did my job because that's what people expected of me. It can't be that bad if I can still function at work. 

It doesn't matter because my kids still get clothed and fed. They're loved and cared for. Even when I had an actual plan to kill myself, they were still getting clothed and fed. It can't be that bad if I'm not neglecting my kids. 

It doesn't matter because I can still appear functional. I can hide the broken parts. I always have. Even on my worst days, I still managed to keep it together "enough" to not really concern anyone. It's like slapping a bandage on a wound while I slowly bleed out.

It doesn't matter because I can survive it. Not well. Not without destruction. Not without risk and danger. No, when I say that I can survive it, I simply mean that I'll continue to breathe. My heart will continue to beat. But it doesn't mean I'll live. 

It doesn't matter because I'm too afraid of being seen as "dramatic" to actually be able to express how much I'm struggling. I've been conditioned my whole life to believe that it's an overreaction to actually feel anything. I feel ridiculous even writing this. Hell, I feel ridiculous for even just feeling this way.

It doesn't matter because I'm too afraid of being seen as needy to actually reach out for help. I'm too afraid of being left alone if I actually try to reach out to help and am met with indifference. I'm afraid of what it would mean for me if that happened. 

It doesn't matter because I'll continue to run myself into the ground to keep from being seen as weak. I'll keep running myself into the ground to keep people from worrying about me.

It doesn't matter because I don't even know how to let anyone see how much I'm struggling anyway. It's like a switch is flipped when I'm around anyone else and I'm suddenly completely unable to access anything that resembles actual emotions.

I don't even know if I really matter. I'm not even sure I want to matter anyway at this point. Maybe it's easier if I don't - at least for other people.

So yeah, I'm absolutely not okay. I'll continue to exist, but I'm definitely not okay. Thanks for asking.

Therapist: "So, same time next week?"

I don't fucking know if I can keep doing this to myself over and over again.

Me: "Yeah, same time next week.."

*sigh*

Bring it. 

Resilience

"Forests may be gorgeous but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns how to grow in a cemetery."  
- Andrea Gibson

After the divorce, I decided to finally do something for myself. I was so tired of putting myself last for so long that I risked feeling a little selfish and booked a trip to Yellowstone to celebrate my newfound freedom. 

Not gonna lie, it was actually pretty terrifying. I'd never tried this whole "vacation" thing by myself. I'd never navigated the airport alone. I'd never tackled the horrifically anxiety inducing "security checkpoint" by myself (and oh my god, what if I accidentally packed a bomb in my carry-on luggage without realizing it - because that's totally a thing that could realistically happen). I'd never rented a car or orchestrated hotel room stays. Making decisions and generally having opinions and preferences was not something that had previously been permitted. 

It's REALLY difficult to plan a vacation when you have no idea how to be a functional adult. I'd spent a lifetime learning that I couldn't trust myself, and the previous decade had been a bear constant reminder of how wholely inadequate I was. Somehow, though, I managed to figure it out. I made myself a priority for the first time in my life - and it was amazing. It was absolutely terrifying, but amazing.

I remember driving around aimlessly in Yellowstone National Park the day after I arrived. It was a nice day, but the skies were a little overcast. There had been a drought that year and Mammoth Hot Springs were not particularly "springy." Then as I drove around a corner, I saw it...

This tree right here. This simple, unassuming little tree. It's like one day it just decided, "Fuck you and your inhospitable environment - I'm gonna grow here whether you like it or not!" And then it grew out of that damn rock like the little badass it is. I decided right then that it would be my spirit tree. 

I was fortunate to be able to get a bunch of fantastic pictures of so many of the gorgeous things in the park, and yet this not-so-gorgeous picture is - and always has been - my favorite. It's not a particularly pretty picture. It's not all that interesting, and I clearly kinda suck at photography. Still, though, this picture is and always has been my favorite.

When I look at this picture, I can't help but see resilience and determination. I feel like I was meant to stumble upon that little tree, just tucked away off the side of the road. This tree was my reminder that I don't have to let my past keep me from planting my feet firmly on the ground and demanding to grow. 

Are there better environments that are more conducive to growth? Sure. But that's not the hand I was dealt. I had to choose between being that stubborn asshole that refuses to give up or just resigning myself to failure. And I'm still here, so it's pretty obvious that I live to be a stubborn asshole. 

So naturally when we took a family trip to Yellowstone recently, spirit tree was in the itinerary. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing on the itinerary for me (because truthfully I'm not much of a planner). 

Years later, this time with husband and kids in tow, I finally laid eyes on my spirit tree again. 

Those who know me well know that the first miracle here is that I even remembered where this tree was located in the park. Normally that exchange would have gone something like this:

Husband: "So where exactly is this tree that we need to go back and visit?"

Me: "Oh, you know, it's just over there..." *gestures broadly at the entirety of Yellowstone National Park*

But not this time. This time I KNEW where it was. This little tree left THAT much of an impression on me. Years later, I still knew exactly where it was. Exactly. I mean, good Lord, I can set my glasses down, and I won't even remember where they are two minutes later - but that tree, man...there was something about it. There still is...

I see you, tree. Fuck this hostile environment bullshit - we'll both make it.

Letter to a Rapist.

"What if I don't want the monster

to stop being a monster?

What if that's the only anchor I have left?

What if my sanity depends on being able to point

at a bad thing and say, That is the bad thing.

Haven't I already lost enough time

losing track of who the enemy is?

I've spent half of my life not knowing the difference

between killing myself and fighting back."

- Andrea Gibson

To My Rapist:

“My rapist.” I don't think I've ever called you that before. Frankly it feels a little disgusting. I don’t want you to be “my” anything. I don’t want to claim you as any part of my life. You don’t deserve that kind of power. You honestly never did - but that didn’t keep you from taking it anyway. You're the chapter of my story that I've been too ashamed to read out loud. 

For years I've blamed myself. I've assumed all of the responsibility for no other reason than the fact that I was the one who was sober. I should have seen it coming. I should have known that you weren't safe. There should have been signs - I should have seen them. Why the hell couldn't I see them? 

I didn't realize that making excuses for you meant continuing to make myself the “bad guy.” I didn’t realize that letting it fall on my shoulders meant giving up what was left of my ability to trust myself. I blamed myself because somehow hating myself felt less scary than admitting that I had absolutely no control. So I gave you a pass because you were drunk off your ass. I gave you a pass because I was afraid of what it would mean for my view of the world if I didn’t. You fucking raped me, and I gave you a pass because I was too broken to do anything else.

You took my sense of safety far beyond that one night. For years, I believed that I was the unsafe person - I was the one who wasn’t able to keep the bad thing from happening. I didn’t know how to trust that I even had the capacity to keep myself safe - I still kind of don’t. It’s not really even that I can’t trust other people anymore - it’s that I can't even trust myself to know who's safe. 

When we first met, I was struggling. I had just gotten out of an abusive marriage and was trying to learn how to live on my own again. You knew that. I guess that’s also how you knew I’d be an easy target. I was emotionally vulnerable and desperate for someone to give a shit. I naively thought that maybe you actually did. You took advantage of that in the most shitty way possible when you decided that your “needs” were more important than my value as a human being. 

I always thought that if I were in that situation, I would fight back - I'd kick and scream. I’d at least do something, right? You forced me to give you oral sex, and you did it with such aggression and force, I couldn’t even breathe. I literally could not breathe. It was so fucking terrifying. I panicked because I realized there was nothing I could do to stop you. I was too scared to try to fight back. There were tears running down my face - it was one of the last times I ever actually allowed myself to cry. Did you even notice my tears? Would you have cared if you had? 

I wonder these days if that’s the reason I don’t let myself cry anymore. It makes me feel too scared, too helpless, too inhuman. It’s not even the act of crying - it’s the feeling of dried tears on my face that I can’t stand. That physical sensation makes me feel like I’m right back in that moment. I never thought I'd miss the ability to cry without feeling panicked and ashamed, but there was always something really healing about a long, hard cry - almost cathartic. Sometimes it physically hurts to not have that anymore.

But you didn’t care - you just continued on with the assault. As I felt your weight on top of me, all I could do was freeze like a goddamn coward. Scared. Helpless. Vacant. Resigned. I felt your hands on my neck…and I did nothing. With every thrust of your body I felt more and more numb. I just laid there and waited for it to be over. At that point I'm not sure I could've convinced my body to move anyway. But the truth is that I shouldn't have ever been forced to choose between being scared into compliance and being brave that night. 

I completely shut down. I don't know where I went, just that I wasn't really there anymore. That was the only way I knew to protect myself. My mind keeps trying to interpret my resignation as willingness because it just can't reconcile the fact that you forced yourself on me and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. I still feel the same panic I felt that night every once in a while with my husband. I hate that you show up in those intimate moments sometimes. It feels intrusive and gross. 

You couldn't even be bothered to wear a fucking condom. At some point during the whole thing, I remember you making a comment about how I shouldn’t worry because you wouldn’t finish inside me. Your exact comment was that “it feels rude.” Are you fucking kidding me? Did you consider everything you’d done to me up until that point to be a portrait of gentlemanly behavior? Is that really where you drew the line between what’s acceptable and what isn’t? Are you really that fucked up? 

I'm curious, was there ever anything I could have done to change your mind? Did I ever even stand a chance? Did you even consider that I was an actual human being with feelings and not just some fuck doll for you to violate how you saw fit? Actually, nevermind. We both already know the answer to that question. You didn’t care how helpless or scared or humiliated I felt that night. I’m not sure I’ve ever entirely been able to get past that feeling of complete powerlessness. I couldn’t even protect myself. 

I guess I should consider myself fortunate though, right? At least I was on birth control (ironically for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with contraception, but it's the only win I got that night). Lucky for me, all I had to worry about were STDs. And let me tell you, it was an absolute joy to find out that my insurance wouldn't even cover the cost of those tests. I was a single mom - I didn't have hundreds of spare dollars to spend. But sure, let me just pull that money out of my ass because of course that should be my responsibility. I sure as hell wasn't able to pull the money out of my bank account…

Even now, when I’m out and about and I see someone who looks like you, it stops me dead in my tracks. Frozen with panic, my stomach drops and I can barely breathe. In that moment, the fear and helplessness are back, even if just for a moment. It makes me angry that years later I still let you have so much power over me that just the thought of you can make me feel like I'm right back in that moment. I've spent nearly my entire life feeling powerless. To be honest, it's getting a little old. 

When you contacted me a year later, you lamented the fact that your life was headed downhill and you were convinced that it was payback for how you treated me. Was that supposed to be a fucking apology? Was that really all you could muster - some self-pity about how your struggles were some kind of retribution for what you did to me? Did you think it would make me feel better to know that you were struggling? Do you even realize how unbelievably selfish it was to contact me at all in some buillshit attempt to clear your conscience? 

The thing I can't figure out, though, is how in that moment I still felt some compassion for you in your struggles. I wonder what it says about me that despite everything you did to me, I still felt bad for you. I’d like to think it says something extraordinary about my character, but honestly it just makes me feel weak and pathetic. It’s a struggle to accept that I can have compassion for you without feeling like I'm devaluing myself as a person. But despite being a struggle,  I CAN have compassion for you and still be absolutely livid with you. I don’t have to choose. In fact, I'm a better person when I don't. 

I thought for a long time that I wasn't actually angry with you for what you did. I was too busy being angry with myself for trusting you. I just didn't have any time or energy left to be angry with you. But it wasn't my fault. It never was and never will be. I know it, and you know it. As I begin to believe it, I'm starting to see the anger towards you bubble up. It feels both oddly liberating and completely toxic.

So fuck you. Fuck your entitlement and your belief that nobody else matters. Fuck you for taking advantage of my emotional vulnerability and trust. Fuck you and your drinking - it'll never excuse what you did. Fuck you for prioritizing your penis over my basic rights as a person. Fuck you and your half-assed, pathetic excuse for an "apology." Fuck you for being a selfish asshole. 

I've tried to find the silver lining in all of this, and I'm beginning to see that there really isn't one. I'm not a better or stronger person for having been raped. The belief that people can't be trusted hasn't been helpful nor has the feeling that I can’t even trust myself. Being automatically uncomfortable when alone in a room with a man isn't really healthy or fair to men who aren't assholes (and thankfully most men aren’t). I haven't had any profound epiphanies or fabulous personal growth as a result of this experience. As much as I'd like to believe that everything happens for some grand purpose, the truth is that some things are just shitty and there's nothing that really makes any of it make sense. 

But you know what? I'll be okay. I'm not sure how I'll get there or how long it'll take. It truthfully doesn't even matter. The important thing is that I know I'll make it. 

So yes, you'll always be a chapter in my story, but I'm starting to realize how much power there is in being the author. 

Insincerely,

Me

Shame

Dear Shame,

I don’t even remember how we first met. You’ve been with me for as far back as I can remember. You've been my best friend, constant companion and the only one I knew would never leave my side. 

As a young child, you helped silence my cries of despair and wipe the tears from my face so that nobody would notice my pain. It saved me from the hurt of knowing that nobody cared. When I timidly raised my hand in class, you gave me a gentle reminder that maybe I shouldn’t be quite so eager to ask questions. After all, there is such a thing as a stupid question - you made sure I knew that. When I was bullied, you helped me shrink into a corner and hide. When teachers joined in on the fun, you helped me disappear entirely. 

As I grew older, you held me close when I wanted nothing more than to die. You draped over me like a well worn sweatshirt to help me hide my self-harm. Every time I looked in the mirror, you were there reminding me that I would never meet some arbitrary standard of beauty. You taught me that silence was golden - it kept me from the pain of having my feelings and experiences invalidated by the people closest to me. What they don't know can't hurt me - at least that's the story you told me. You were by far the most dependable friend I've ever had, always willing to be there for me at a moment's notice.

As I grew into an adult, you reminded me that I couldn’t afford to be too picky about who I spent my time with - after all, nobody else was knocking down the door to look after me like you did. You taught me to keep a safe distance from people and to never rock the boat. When I started to find my voice, you always reminded me to turn the volume down until silence was all that was left. 

At work, you've gone above and beyond to keep me humble, always focusing on my mistakes. You remind me that my current job is my "safe zone," and you make sure I never dare stray too far - life outside my comfort zone would just be too scary. You convinced me I wasn't good enough to venture outside of my comfort zone anyway.

When I saw the red flags while I was dating my ex-husband, you reminded me that he was what I deserved. After all, nobody else would ever love me. As the abuse began, those reminders kept coming. They’ve never actually stopped. To be honest, I kind of admire your persistence. 

As the abuse grew worse, we grew closer. As it got scarier, I clung to you for support. You were always happy to oblige. You were delighted to remind me once again that it was what I deserved. You still held me close when I felt like ending everything and graciously helped keep the self-harm hidden. You kept the smile on my face even as I walked through hell. Heaven forbid anyone should see the real me. 

As I was pinned down and fighting to free myself or cowering as he threw whatever he could get his hands on at me, you made sure I knew that tears were weakness and fighting back was futile. And I took the abuse like a champ - you were so proud. I could take a solid verbal hit too. Bitch, whore, worthless piece of shit - the list of insults are far more than I could ever list. You'd trained me so well, I didn't even flinch. 

You taught me to apologize for existing. Over and over and over again. I'd learned over the years that my existence was an imposition. As time has passed, I've made myself smaller and smaller - you've made sure I stayed that way. Still afraid to exist and take up space. Afraid to breathe the air that was meant for someone more worthy. Afraid to be seen and heard. 

Honestly, you’ve been coming on a little too strong lately. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with how close we’ve become. Quite the contrary, actually. I’m a little too comfortable with it. Over the years, I’ve started to look less and less like myself and more and more like you. I don’t really even remember what I look like without you at my side. 

Even now, though there are people who actually want to see and hear me, I can't seem to escape your chokehold. I can't breathe. I can't find my voice. I can't figure out how to stop being so fucking small that I disappear through the cracks. But the people who want to hear me are encouraging me to find my voice. The people who want to see me are helping me grow tall enough to stand on my own two feet. My voice may be shaky and my gait wobbly, but they're not giving up on me. More importantly, I'm not giving up on myself, so I don't need your constant companionship anymore. 

I know you’ll still show up on my doorstep uninvited sometimes. I know you’ll still shout insistently at the top of your lungs until I listen. So fine, I’ll listen - but I won't be silenced anymore. We can sit and chat, and I'll hear you out. After all, there's still a lot I'd like to learn about you - and I'd be lying if I said you've never done anything good for me. But just so we're clear, you don't run the show anymore.

So it's not you, it's me. I deserve more out of life than just constantly trying to dig myself out of the grave you dug for me. We were never really meant to be soulmates anyway.

Sincerely,

Me

Welcome to the Shit Show

Dissociation.

It's always been something I've thought of as sort of an out of body sort of experience. I've never really experienced that kind of thing, so when dissociation has come up in conversations with my mental health folks, I've always kind of shrugged it off. Nope, no dissociation for me, thankyouverymuch. I say that as if it's ever really been an actual choice.

But the other day I found myself wondering why the hell I can't remember details from the trainwreck that was my first marriage (and beyond). It was absolutely without a doubt an abusive situation on many different levels, despite my desperate attempts to minimize and discount my own experiences. I documented much of it because my brain was such a total mess that I felt like I had to "prove" the abuse to my future self. But when all was said and done, I just couldn't remember the details of almost any of the abuse. The memories just weren't there. Sometimes I remember how I felt afterwards - sometimes I couldn't even remember that much. It was and still is absolutely maddening. 

Even now, when discussing my first marriage with my therapist, I'm only able to give a few token examples of the abuse. It barely even scratches the surface - it's just a tiny drop in the bucket of what actually went on - the stuff that wasn't bad enough to completely and totally shut me down. How fucked up must the rest of the shit been? And the answer is, quite honestly, I have no idea. I can imagine, but I can't really even say for sure. How the hell can I even process information that I can't remember. It is just so damn irritating and invalidating. It makes my reactions to everything in my first marriage feel like such an overreaction, not because the abuse didn't happen (because it absolutely did) but because I legitimately do not possess most of the details. The places where those memories should be are just blank. Thinking back to that time, it occurs to me that *I* was just blank. 

It truthfully makes me feel a little stupid even bringing it up to my mental health folks. I mean, I don't even know what to say when I'm asked about it. 

Generic mental health professional: "So tell me about the abuse in your first marriage."

Me: "I'm sorry, that is not something my brain currently permits me to do. Outlook for the future not so great either."

*shrug*

Apparently that happens with dissociation - that's what I'm told anyway. It's helpful to have a name for it, but it's kind of scary. I mean, there's entire chunks of my life that I honestly just don't remember. It's hugely disorienting, and quite frankly it just kind of pisses me off. I've already lost so much of myself to the fucking abuse - to just now realize that I've lost giant chunks of my memory too? That's some serious bullshit right there. I've been told that dissociation is adaptive and protective, but it's also confusing and frustrating and at this point, honestly kind of obnoxious.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not particularly sad to lose memories of the abuse itself - it's a little invalidating to lose those kinds of details, but I at least get the utility in not remembering that stuff. What really gets me - and I mean REALLY, REALLY gets me - is that tangled up in that mess of abuse was so much of my kids' childhoods. I lost so much of their childhood to the abuse too - so many fun and silly moments with both of them. I know there were good times with the kids. I know we had happy times together. I just didn't get to keep most of those memories, and that just pretty much sucks. 

I never really realized how much time I lost until recently - how much of the time in my first marriage just doesn't exist for me anymore. All that's left to do now is mourn and grieve the those parts of my life that I'll never get back. 

Fear

Fear.

...

Fuck

Everything

And

Run

...

Feelings aren't really my strong suit, if I'm being honest (this is a pretty good explanation of why). Seriously, just not a big fan - they're just too complicated and messy and often just not any fun at all. But I feel like fear is one of the emotions I'm pretty well acquainted with - not that I'm exactly excited about that. Even though fear has been my sidekick pretty much my whole life, I guess I've never gotten to know it very well. I've always pretty much let it run the show without giving too much thought to the specifics. 

So what is it exactly that I'm afraid of?

Well...

I'm afraid of judgement. I'm afraid of being judged for the things I've done, but I'm also afraid of being judged for the things I haven't done. I'm afraid of being judged for my trauma and for my responses to the trauma. I'm afraid of being judged for my mental health struggles, especially my self-harm (because once you've had a psychiatrist liken your self-harm to a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, you get a little sensitive to that sort of thing). I'm afraid of being judged for not being "normal" (whatever the hell that even means). 

I'm afraid of trusting people. After all, that's how people get hurt. If I keep everyone at arm's length, it's just plain harder for people to hurt me. Of course, if I don't trust anyone, I lose out on all of the good stuff that comes from trust too - love, support, safety, connection. At some point I've got to start believing the payoff is worth the risk, but for now I'm just not sure I'm brave enough.

I'm afraid of abandonment, particularly emotional abandonment. This one is really scary for me - it's something I've always struggled with. If I let someone in, I have to deal with the chance that they'll see themselves out. I'm afraid of being emotionally exposed and having someone I trust unceremoniously walk right out the door. I get anxiety just thinking about it. I'm just plain terrified of having the rug completely pulled out from under me when I'm most vulnerable. 

I'm afraid of never being "enough." Enough of what, I'm not entirely sure. Enough of ANYTHING, I guess. Not being good enough, smart enough, witty enough, pretty enough, "whatever" enough. I'm constantly afraid of falling short of some imaginary and arbitrary standard by which "enough"s are measured. What I need to be doing is defining my own standards and not giving a shit about anyone else's "enough"s.

I'm afraid of connection/attachment. I mean, I want to feel connected and attached to people, but I find that prospect downright terrifying. But perhaps maybe my fear of connection is really just a fancy, dressed up way of saying that I'm afraid of rejection. Because it's not really the connection I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of being my most real self with someone and just being outright rejected. Not gonna lie, I don't think this one is going anywhere any time soon. 

I'm afraid of being broken. I'm afraid I just don't work "right." I'm afraid other people can see all my broken parts. I'm afraid that I'm not, nor will I ever be, a fully functioning person. The thing is, I'll always be a fully functioning "me" - there's really nothing else I know how to be. I won't be the same from one day to the next but I'll always be "me" - those rough edges are experience, not brokenness. I just need to learn to accept that other people aren't the measuring stick by which I need to judge myself. And for that matter, I could probably stand to judge myself a little less anyway. 

I'm afraid of failing. At my job, as a parent, as a spouse, as a decent human being. And kind of comically, I'm afraid of failing at therapy. What if I don't make progress? What if it doesn't get better? What if I'm "unhelpable"? What if, what if, what if... I could go on for days. Failures are going to happen - and though unpleasant, it's not entirely a bad thing. I've learned a lot more from failures than I ever have from successes. 

I'm afraid of being weird and awkward. I know, I know - those are pretty much my staples. It's practically what defines me. But yeah, I'm afraid that people see me as weird and awkward and just immediately think, "Oh, hell no!" I'm afraid my weirdness is off-putting and will send people running for the hills. And I realize it probably sometimes does - I also realize that those are clearly not my people. I'm not going to be everyone's cup o' tea, but not everyone's going to be mine either. That's just how personalities work. 

I'm afraid of feeling invalidated. I've spent far too much of my life feeling that way and doubting my own feelings and experiences. I sometimes worry that I'll never learn how to trust them. The closer I get to trusting myself, the scarier it becomes to consider the prospect of having all of those feelings and experiences invalidated. 

And I'm absolutely terrified of admitting to anyone - even those I trust - what I'm most afraid of, so there's that too.  *shrug*

I hate being afraid, but some days I feel like it's all I know. Sometimes I just feel frozen with fear. I don't know what to do with it, but I don't know how to put the fear down either. So I just strap it on and carry it around with me and hide behind it because it feels safer than letting anyone else see who I really am. 

Stupid fear. 

(Titles are Hard. I'm Uncreative. Here's A New Post. The End)

Over the past few years, I've been trying anything and everything to get my depression and anxiety under control. I tried new medications, old medications, TMS therapy (which was a total shit show, by the way). Nothing worked - like, at all. So for a while I tried no medication which, not shockingly, was also a colossal failure. 

But medications don't fix trauma, no matter how much I wish they did. They might help dull the pain, but the trauma's still there, like the persistent little asshole that it is. 

As it turns out, ignoring trauma doesn't make it go away either, and it sure as hell doesn't make it any easier to deal with. I tried to ignore it, but it just hung out in the shadows and popped back up whenever the hell it felt like it. Eventually I realized that meds alone just weren't going to cut it. 

Which meant it was time to go therapist shopping again! 

Ah yes, therapist shopping...it's like one of the circles of hell. Awkwardly dumping out my traumas, neuroses, and general fucked-upness on some poor stranger and trying not to feel completely pathetic, often just to find that it's not really even a good fit. And then it's on to the next poor soul until eventually I either find a good fit (or at least someone long suffering enough to have me as a client) or just get so discouraged that I abandon my search altogether. I just love therapist shopping. It's a freaking blast.   

But onwards, I guess. It's not like my neuroses are going to fix themselves - I may or may not have already tried that route before...several times.

My past experiences with therapists have definitely been a mixed bag (most often it's been a flaming bag of dog shit, but I digress). From a therapist who blamed me for the abuse from my ex-husband because I wasn't doing enough to keep him from abusing me to a therapist that wanted us to have session in her car (as it turns out, my personal bubble is way bigger than a car - like, WAY bigger) to a clock-obsessed therapist who swore that huffing essential oils would cure all that ails me - it just made me super hesitant to even keep looking. So for a really long time, I let my bad experiences deter me from even trying therapy again - trust is hard and it takes more than just being employed as a therapist to earn it. 

Not that giving up on therapy was my finest decision. I willingly admit that it wasn't, but it takes so much out of me to make myself vulnerable to anyone - those dismissive therapists really just killed any desire I had to be in a position of vulnerability with anyone else in that capacity. Unfortunately, that's apparently a tough thing to get back. 

Fast forward a couple of years - I finally worked up the courage to start looking again. Okay, honestly it was more desperation than courage that sparked my search, but let's just pretend it was courage because it makes me feel less pathetic. I was just so damned tired of struggling - it was either give in to the idea of trying therapy again or give up on ever being a fully functioning member of society. I've given up on myself enough times to know how much it hurts, so it was therapy for the less-obvious-than-you'd-think win. 

I honestly didn't really have high standards with my new search. I basically had two criteria for a therapist - ability to schedule without having to make phone calls (because phone calls give me a comically ridiculous amount of anxiety) and for the therapist be a living, breathing human being. Seriously, that's pretty much all I required (and it yielded a smaller list than you'd think). 

Congratulations, you made the list! 

Our first session was pretty much super awkward for me. It always feels like that first session is basically the therapist asking, "So, what the hell is wrong with you?" and me whipping out a brief PowerPoint presentation on the subject. I'm working on a flowchart of traumas, too - I think it'll really help streamline the process in the future (but seriously, though, don't make me go therapist shopping again anytime soon). As we ended our first session I felt cautiously optimistic, which truthfully is pretty much the highest praise I'm willing to give after just one session.  

If I'm being honest, it feels a little weird that I'll never actually meet you in person. I feel like there's a certain degree of familiarity and ease that's a little easier to develop that way. Truthfully, though, it would probably be a little weird to meet you in person too. For starters, I'd probably have to put on real pants. And therapy with masks seems like it'd be extra awkward. I guess therapy is just weird sometimes no matter what the medium - I like to think that I make sure of that. 

Anyway, I'm finally finding myself less cautious, more optimistic these days (which says a lot - optimism isn't really my strong suit). It may only be in small ways, but I've at least seen changes in the way I think about things. Baby steps, right? I never expected to make progress in leaps and bounds right out of the gate anyway - it's never been that way. I don't even know if seeing things from a different perspective is even considered progress, but whatever it is, I'll take it. 

There have been (lots of) times when I've struggled with therapy. Vulnerability is beyond hard for me. Emotions are difficult. Even just feeling can seem like a mammoth task. Sometimes it just feels really hopeless and it's honestly tough to see the point in continuing with therapy at all. But I've decided to be stubborn this time and continue on even when it feels hopeless - actually, especially when it feels hopeless. 

Then in one session when I was feeling particularly broken and hopeless...

"I'm not giving up on you. I have hope."

*sigh of relief*

You have no idea how much those few words meant to me. Actually you probably do - I realize I'm probably a lot more transparent than I'd like to admit. 

It's a relief that someone has hope for me when I can't even manage to have hope for myself. Relief that I don't have to navigate through shit on my own - not that I've ever really been able to navigate shit on my own anyway. Relief that you're not running in the other direction - at least not yet (but give me time - I've still got some tricks up my sleeve). 

It's comforting to know that, even if just for an hour a week, I have a safe place free from fear of judgment. Right now, some things are just too tough for me to tackle anywhere else. 

Thank you for giving a shit - I truly appreciate it. 

Thank you for listening without judging and creating a safe space for me to explore my thoughts, feelings, traumas, etc. I know I'm very hesitant to open up, but the fact that I've talked to you about things I've never shared with anyone else speaks to the degree of safety I feel during our time together even though my difficulty opening up might seem to indicate otherwise.  

Thank you for validating when I need it the most but also for telling it like it is when I need it too. I know I don't "need" to have my feelings validated but sometimes it's really healing and helpful while I'm learning to trust myself and my feelings. It's good to feel seen and heard. 

Thank you for reminding me that I don't have to have everything figured out - that's part of why I'm in therapy to begin with. Not knowing doesn't always have to be scary or anxiety provoking - sometimes it's just an opportunity to explore new things. 

Thank you for giving me "permission" to be gentle with myself when I didn't even realize that I was waiting for permission (but I realize now that I totally was). I've learned now that I don't have to wait for anyone else's permission.

Thank you for noticing the unspoken things when I don't have the courage to speak. I'm slowly finding my voice - it's meek and quiet, but it's in there. Please bear with me while I figure out how to adjust the volume. 

Thank you for assuring me time and time again that I'm not broken, despite all my protestations to the contrary. Not gonna lie - there will probably be more declarations of brokenness before all is said and done, but the broken place at least doesn't feel as much like "home" as it used to. 

Thank you for encouraging difficult and uncomfortable conversations - or at least conversations that are difficult and uncomfortable for me...which I realize is pretty much most of them right now.

Thank you for being able to read me like a book when I haven't even been able to get past the damn table of contents. I'm working on building up the courage to tackle the rest.

Thank you for well timed humor and lightness and for laughing with me when I know my brain is being absurd (and my brain is often absurd).

Thank you for helping me be able to identify when my brain is being absurd in the first place. Sometimes I need the reminder that my brain often does weird shit to try to keep me protected.

Thank you for being patient with me, especially when I've lost patience with myself. It's helped me start to learn that it's okay to give myself some time and space. 

Thank you for not even batting an eye when I talk about the things I am most ashamed of. I am finally able to start leaning away from the shame even if only in small, seemingly insignificant ways for now.

Thank you for awkward silences, even when they make me uncomfortable (which is pretty much always). I hate the crickets but appreciate the time to gather my thoughts. 

Thank you for not freaking out when I talk about self-harm or feeling suicidal - it's truly a gift to feel safe and supported when talking about those kinds of things. It's literally been the first time I've ever been able to actually verbalize those things with anyone. That may seem like a small thing, but it's a hell of a big step for me. 

Thank you for allowing me to feel sad, angry, broken, hurt and all of the other million things I feel but don't know how to express. Maybe someday I'll be able to confidently delete the bookmark to the feelings wheel on my phone (see, I'm starting to dream big, too).

Thank you for putting up with me being ridiculously guarded - I'm trying to let my guard down... I'll get there eventually but for now, baby steps at least keep me headed in the right direction.

Thank you for encouraging me to set boundaries - I'm ready to stop being such a damn doormat. I don't have to sacrifice my mental health to make anyone else happy.

Thank you for not giving up on me, though I've often wanted to give up on myself - in therapy and in general. My health and well being is worth a little stubbornness - giving up is no longer an option.

Thank you for reminding me to take care of myself even when I don't really have the energy or desire to do so - those are the times I most need to practice self-care. 

Thank you for letting "I don't know" be okay sometimes, but also for pressing me to dig deeper sometimes too. Because sometimes I do know...and I'm just too afraid to say it - and I'm pretty sure that doesn't come as a big surprise. 

Thank you for humoring my use of sarcasm as a defense mechanism - I know my sense of humor is very much an acquired taste. 

Thank you for the "homework" - some days it feels like the only sense of purpose I have. I don't know how much it's helping my progress but damnit I'm trying.

Thank you for holding my pain with me in session and encouraging me to allow others to help do the same outside of session so I'm not left trying to do it on my own...because trying to do it all on my own clearly hasn't worked very well. 

Thank you for letting me be awkward - I honestly don't know any other way to be. 

Thank you for helping bring me back when I feel overwhelmed and start to shut down and for teaching me ways to bring myself back when I start to drift. 

Thank you for challenging me even when I don't particularly want to be challenged - in fact, especially in those times when I don't want to be challenged.

Thank you for understanding that vulnerability is exceptionally difficult for me and trusting that I really am trying. 

Thank you for encouraging me to take the driver's seat in my therapy hour. I'm not used to trusting myself to know where to go and what's important, but I'm at least learning how to read the map. 

Thank you for reminding me to not stop trying to find enjoyment and happiness in things, especially when depression is filling my head with its bullshit lies. I've learned that I deserve to experience happiness even when I feel most unworthy of it. 

Thank you for knowing and seeing my tells and slowing things down when words have been too hard for me. I'm trying to get better at identifying when things are too much so I can back it down before I freeze and shut down.

Thank you for sticking with me when I can't fathom why anyone would. It's a relief to be done with therapist shopping for a while - because therapist shopping just isn't much fun. 

Thank you for reminding me over and over and over that feelings aren't dangerous, even when my brain is trying to tell me they are. I suspect I'll need a few more of those reminders along the way. 

Thank you for the reminders that happiness is most often found in the little moments. It makes even the hardest days more tolerable. 

Thank you for all the things you do for yourself to be able to care for your clients. I know it's your job, but I can't imagine it's easy. 

Thank you for choosing a career helping people - you've already helped me a great deal, though I often feel like I'm that "pain in the ass" client who doesn't seem to ever make progress. 

Thank you for everything. It's appreciated more than I can express (but I tried anyway). 

There Is No Try

"Try not. Do or do not. There is no try." -- Yoda

This may have worked well for a movie, but it really doesn't seem like the best therapeutic approach - at least not for me apparently.

So when my therapist has used this line, it has always kind of rubbed me the wrong way. Of course, me being me, I never actually say anything about it - I just kind of feel preemptively defeated. I mean I understand the sentiment, but the pragmatics of it still trip me up. 

The thing about there not being any "try" is that it sends the message that if you can't succeed right off the bat, you've failed. You either can or you can't. Period. I'm full of black and white thinking, so it's weird that this particular black and white message is where I draw the line. It seems like this should be right up my alley. I guess the difference is that this specific line plays on my fears.

It makes me feel like I've got just one shot to get it right before I become a failure. And that's if I even work up the courage to try. Feeling like my self-worth is on the line is pretty much the biggest deterrent I can think of to actually making an effort. Few things make a task feel more daunting to me than the fear of total failure.

There is no try, so what's the point?

What if I give it everything I've got and I still can't get it right? What if it's something I don't even know if I'm capable of? What if I really just can't? What if I really am just a failure? What if? What if? What if?

Being a failure is a pretty touchy subject for me. I'm terrified of those people I trust and respect seeing me fall flat on my face. Part of my brain realizes that those people I respect and trust are going to be the least likely to judge me if I fail and the least likely to label me as a failure just because I couldn't accomplish one specific thing. I wish that knowledge comforted me, but it doesn't. My brain is a goddamn asshole and it just won't allow me to view things logically sometimes. 

So there has to be a try - it has to be worth something. Please don't take that away from me. I'll try earnestly to succeed, but I need just trying my hardest to be okay too.