Contact

My apologies for taking a break from my fiction series, but an event happened the other day that I really need to work out before I can get back to my story. Admittedly, A. is probably the only person upset I haven't added a new chapter, but I needed to purge these thoughts from my head first.

I was making dinner on Monday night when I received a text from my mom. It said,

"We just got a card from (nursing home) in (town). It looks like Uncle S.'s writing. It is addressed to you. Do you want us to open it?"

I cannot express how I felt when I got this text. Throughout my therapy, I've tried to accept the fact that I may never know what happened to me. I've tried to accept that I'd never hear from my uncle again, that I'd never be able to ask him any questions about my past, that he was possibly dead. I've just tried to let it go, to shut that door forever.  With that one text from my mom, the door has been cracked open.

My heart dropped into my stomach. Instant anxiety. The first contact from my abuser in over 10 years.

The thoughts raced through my head.

I need them to open that. 

I need to know what it says.

It might upset Mom.

Doesn't matter. I need to know.

I wrote my mom back. I told her that I wanted them to open it. I also told her that it was ok if just Dad opened it, if my mom thought it would upset her. While my parents both know I'm in therapy for something my uncle did to me, I've never shared any details. Uncle S. is my mom's brother and I think the knowledge that he did something to me greatly distresses her.

I guess my mom needed to know, however. She opened the letter and wrote me back:

"It is a card that says, 'Thinking of You'. There is a note also. 'Well, don't know how to begin so I will keep it short. It's been so long. I hope you and (brother)'s life is good. I think of him also. You were the closest to me. I'm living in (nursing home) probably around 10 years after being homeless. I finally got a tablet and gmail and I'm learning but still not that good. I hope to see you and (brother) one day. (insert email) I love you.'"

I was floored. I had so many reactions, so many thoughts. Mainly anxiety. Anger. Hurt. Questioning everything I've ever thought.

This letter said basically nothing. What was I expecting? An admission of guilt? I think I was expecting an admission of guilt or, at the very least, some answers.

I went to bed on Monday night feeling numb.

I woke up feeling distraught on Tuesday. It was a gray, rainy day but I told A. that I must run. I ran outside with no cell phone, no headphones. Only A. following me slowly in the car. I ran until I couldn't run anymore. I ran until my legs and back hurt, and I was puffing on air. I ran until my head cleared minutely.

A million voices pummeled me while I ran. There was an angry voice screaming "HOW DARE HE??? WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS???"

There was also the underlying sinister voice that always says, "Maybe his note said nothing because nothing happened. Maybe he's just a sad, lonely uncle reaching out to his favorite niece."

I ran until I outran these voices.

I don't know how I'm feeling today. All over the place would probably be an accurate description. Luckily, I have therapy tomorrow so I'm hoping my therapist can help me sort this out. I think what I need to sort out is if I'm going to contact my uncle back. Part of me says that's a ridiculous idea because my uncle is manipulative and a liar. Part of me says that due to this, I'll never get the truth anyway. Part of me says I need to at least contact him to tell him that I know what he did, he did not get away with it, and to never contact me again.

There's only a couple of things I know for a fact after receiving this information:

1. My uncle is alive.

2. He tried to contact me.

The biggest question I'm left with is this: Why now? Why did he reach out to me now, after all these years?

Life After Life

While I was in Oregon, my mom's friend dropped off a book for her to read. If there is one thing I do on vacation besides exercise, yoga, eating, and drinking, it's read. So I began to read the book, called "Life After Life" by Kate Atkinson. It's hard to get into, mainly because there are a million jumps in time in the story. The basic premise is that this girl lives and dies, over and over. In one flash, she dies at birth. Then the next chapter begins with her overcoming a difficult birth, only to catch a cold and die a few weeks later. The chapter after that picks up a few months into her life. Does this make sense? As this girl grows, she dies. Over and over. Always with a second chance afterwards. The point of the story being that she eventually becomes aware she has lived and died, many, many times, and as such, she tries to change the future. It's an amazing book if you can stick with it.

Every time she dies, she later wakes up just after dying. In the same situation in which she died, its just the second time around, she always makes a different decision in the situation. For example, in one flash, she goes downstairs upon hearing her family's maid return from a protest late at night. It turns out the maid catches the Spanish flu at the protest, and gives the flu to the entire family, killing some members. Including the main character. After the main character's death, she then wakes up in her bed, hearing the maid coming home from the protest. Instead of going downstairs this time, she is filled with horrible dread, and pulls the covers over her head to hide. She does not go downstairs.

The whole book is a collection of decisions, and then immediately, shows what would happen if the main character had made a different decision. Isn't that a fascinating concept?

I read this about a month ago, so I've had ample time to ponder the ideas planted by the book. I've often thought my self-destructive path should have ended in death. Perhaps a few decisions made differently would have meant that. I believe my husband has been one of the best decisions I've made, and I believe without him, I probably would be dead. He's the only one who got me to pause in my path, leave the path, and attempt to find a new one.

There was a moment, almost 10 years ago, when he called me for the first time. I almost didn't answer the phone. I watched it ring at least 7 times before I answered it. I stared at that old school Nokia phone, playing Eminem's "Shake That". Because I was scared. I did answer the phone, right before it went to voicemail. But, what if I hadn't answered it?

I was dating someone else at the time my husband and I met. I was in one of my typical, atrociously chosen relationships. He was 13 years older than me, an alcoholic with 2 DUI's under his belt (along with a jail stint), a 16-year old daughter to my 23 years, and he was married. What the fuck was I thinking? At any rate, that relationship could have been the end of me. If I had chosen him, I know I would have kept drinking until one day I would inevitably drink too much. I had no business dating a married man. He told me he was separated, but looking back on the situation, we only met in hotels. Now that I'm no longer a child, I see this was likely a lie and he was having an affair on his wife. I was so naive at the time though, I believed him. Children have absolutely no understanding of the complexity of relationships, especially marriage. Fortunately I answered that phone call, started dating my husband, and eventually, chose my husband over the married man.

There was another moment, probably 9 years ago, right after my husband and I had started dating. As I mentioned before, I was 23 when I met my husband, fresh out of college. I was still living the club-kid lifestyle. While I was in college, I took a job at a bank and I stayed with it after I graduated. After I graduated from college, the bank wanted to put me through a banker program which I happily accepted. In banker school, I met a woman who was probably a little too much like myself. We were immediately drawn to each other, and before I knew it, we were drinking gallons of vodka every weekend. We were at a club one January,  me, her, and my future husband. She told me she was going to go do coke in the bathroom, did I want any?

What a pivotal moment in my life. A fork in the road. The husband-to-be greatly influenced my decision and got me to say no, and for that, I believe I am alive. I have an addictive personality, and a dark passenger. If I had tried the coke, who knows where it may have stopped. My guess would be with a needle in my arm and a heart that no longer beats. One path led to life. One path was inevitably leading to death. How in the world did I choose the correct fork in the road?

Which all leads me to an incredibly frightening experience that happened 2 days ago.

I'd wanted to go walking. The hubby wanted to get a haircut. So, he dropped me off at my usual spot and he was going to come pick me up when he was done. I'd walked a quarter mile when a man in light blue SUV drove by me. It kind of gave me the creeps, so after about 30 seconds I turned around. The man was turning his SUV around where the road is big enough for cars to park, where the hubby dropped me off. I felt weird, but kept walking. He drove past me again, and drove about a quarter of a mile ahead and turned off the road. I watched him turn his car around, park, and just sit there. Soon, I walked past him, just hanging out in his car. I kept walking. The further I walked, the more panic gripped my insides. With every step, it felt like my innards were turning to jello. Then my legs started to shake. My mind was screaming, "CALL A! CALL A!"

I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid and to keep walking. But I couldn't. The place where I walk is an abandoned road that runs right next to the highway. I got to a place in the road that was highly visible to the highway and stopped. I turned around. The man had gotten out of his car and was walking behind me. He seemed to be in his 20's, maybe 30's. He had blondish-brown hair that was slightly longer than a buzz cut, wearing a blue t-shirt, black shorts, and blue compression socks. He had a creepy look, or at least my hyper-vigilance told me so. As soon as I turned around, so did he. He walked quickly back to his car, around a small bluff. I couldn't see him anymore.

I called A. as fast as I could.

"I'm having a panic attack. Can you come back and get me?" I said breathlessly. "Hurry!"

Hurry, he did. A. was about 9 miles away, but he turned the car around. I asked him to stay on the phone with me while I kept an eye out for the man. My whole body was shaking, my hands tightened reflexively around my water bottle, filled with ice and water. It would be heavy enough to swing at the man, and then I would jump the fence and get in the highway. Luckily, it never came to that. After a couple of minutes, his car pulled out in the other direction. He drove to end of the road, and turned left.

Just then, A. pulled on to the road and drove towards me. I jumped in the car and asked if he'd seen the man. Turns out the guy just turned left, pulled over, and parked. When we got to the end of the road, the man turned back on to the road and slowly began to drive back down. A. and I gave him the hard stare-down as he passed us, then we just looked at each other. Had he been trying to make me think he left so I would keep walking? We'll never know.

I stayed in the car, trying to calm myself while A. got his haircut.

Thoughts swirled. I felt extremely anxious, unsafe. My mind had already gone to this book, thinking about what had just happened to me. What was it that led me to feeling that awful, awful dread? What turned my legs to jello and panic to jettison throughout my body? Could I just be picking up "vibes" given off by this guy? Or could it be something more?

Chances are, this encounter was nothing.

But what if it was everything? What if this was a fork in the road and I had absolutely no idea? What if I had kept walking? What if he had come up behind me, attacked me, kidnapped me, or killed me?

I'm still feeling quite unsafe. But later that night, I sat and stared into my rescue dog's eyes. There could be a world where neither of us existed. What if I hadn't seen his picture on that rescue site, and emailed them? What if his foster mother hadn't seen and replied to my application? What if the shelter where his previous parents dropped him off had euthanized him?

And, what if I hadn't called A? What if I hadn't gotten myself out of that situation?

What if me and my rescue dog had never locked eyes? Never got to cuddle together watching "How I Met Your Mother" while the hubby works the night shift? Because, what if he wasn't there? What if I wasn't there? And so we sat there, staring at each other, one of us feeling love, the other feeling like there was a chance this moment might never have happened.

It's safe to say I won't be walking by myself down there. Ever again. This incident has been haunting.

The Singularity

I recently read an article talking about famous artists, thinkers, philosophers, and the like, and how many of them loved to take long walks. Aristotle, Muir, Wordsworth, Thoreau, and more. It's been said that Charles Dickens used to walk 20-30 miles a day. While I walk anywhere from 5-11 miles a day, I don't think I could walk 30! Anyways, I was out on my daily walk yesterday when my mind wandered back to something that's crossed it before- the singularity. I'd planned on writing my last bit about my Oregon vacation, but I'll save that for later. I want to talk about the singularity today while thoughts from yesterday are still in the back of my mind.

I was well into my 3rd mile yesterday, when a seemingly innocuous pop song came on. It was "Talking Body" by Tove Lo. For whatever reason, the lyric "On and on. On and on and on" sent a jolt through my body. I've become really attuned to these blips of anxiety as they hit me, so I zeroed in on the feeling right away and began to think about it.

One of the first most intense emotions I remember feeling, even as a little girl, is a feeling that I can't even put words to. It's a feeling of pressure; unrelenting, unabated pressure. It's the feeling that this feeling would never end. By feeling, I guess I mean the pressure. I think I was so young at the time, I did't know what emotion I was feeling. Perhaps fear? Unrelenting fear. The most disturbing part of remembering this emotion is the feeling that it will literally never end. I can put more feelings with this emotion, including feeling so paralyzed I can't open my mouth to make a sound, and something so heavy sitting on my chest that I feel like I'm being smothered. My breathing becomes shallow because I feel like I can't breathe. I'm not sure what the "memory" is that is associated with this "emotion" but this same feeling reoccurs sometimes during Ambien dreams or night terrors. On and on. On and on and on, is how the feeling felt. Never ending.

The girl who grew up with all these feelings and emotions felt lost. Unhappy, fearful, and with an anxious tummy most of the time. That girl soothed herself with make-believe Barbie games, hoards of library books, and her favorite foods. When she turned 12 and the boys took notice, she soothed herself that way. And when she was 16, she discovered alcohol. Then marijuana. Then over-the-counter sleeping pills. Then cigarettes. Sex. Shopping. Anything to fill that void.

What is the attractiveness of all these substances? They numbed the girl. They made her feel like a different person, a happy person whose body actually felt good. For a couple of blissful hours, that skin-crawling anxiety that makes one want to rip their face off would be gone. She would be free. She could laugh and talk to strangers. She could flirt with the cute boy and put her hand upon his arm. She could, for 2 seconds, not think about whatever it is that is inside her that makes her want to end it all.

And what is it? It screams at the girl every single day, telling her she cannot go on even one more second, that it demands something. Because it is never satisfied. It is a pit that will never be filled. It is a black hole within the girl that only seems to get bigger with age. She dances around the event horizon, never getting close enough to reach the point of no return. Coming close, yes, but never fully engulfed by the darkness. She has never tried cocaine or heroin, lost all of her family and support, spent all her money on drugs, and been forced into rehab. She has never cheated on her husband, forcing him to divorce and leave her. She has never had a mental breakdown, forcing her into a pysch eval at a mental institution. Because she dances. She flirts, but she does not fall.

It tells the girl that it will get her someday. Someday, when her guard is down and she's had too many drinks or drugs, it will eviscerate her. It will put temptation in her way that it knows she will not have to will power to deny. Because she is weak. She is bad. She has no self-control. The singularity will find a way to show the world that.

And then, it will win.

Because that's what it wants. Ultimately, it wants the girl to have nothing and no one left so it can end it all.

I call "it" my Dark Passenger. That ol' Dexter reference again. I fight "it" everyday. When I have dark thoughts, I realize it's because I feel like I'm going to be doing battle every single day for the rest of my life. And that in itself is what's unbearable. I picture how utterly long 30 to 40 years could be, and I picture feeling the way I feel every. single. day. It's a scary thought. It makes me wonder if that's why some people actually go through with suicide. Because they can't image having to feel what they are feeling for the rest of their lives.

Does everyone have a singularity? A portion of themselves that's so dark that no light can escape from it? A portion so dark you can't gaze upon it and see anything at all? In my (non-scientific) opinion,  it's the singularity that drives addiction. How? The singularity causes a person to feel a certain way. If that person happens to try drugs or alcohol, they are going to discover that these things make them feel better. This will lead to the person seeking them out more and more often, until eventually they become an uncontrollable force in their lives. A person without a singularity isn't going to find the same "relief" that a person with a singularity does and therefore, they aren't likely to seek it out as much. Can't you see this is why some people who try drugs do not become addicts?

It's this belief that led me to follow Amber Lyon and her website Reset.Me. I've been looking into medicines like psilocybin, ayahuasca, and Ibogaine. Numerous studies are showing that these medicines are having a great effect on depression, anxiety, PTSD, and addiction. I'm really beginning to think that in order to feel better, in order to destroy that part of me that says "I WANT I WANT I WANT", I'm going to have to get rid of the black hole. As of right now, I don't know what the answer is. I feel stuck. I'm making progress in therapy, but it's frustrating because I know the Dark Passenger is still there. It still beckons and calls every day. It wants me to drink vodka everyday. It wants me to smoke cigarettes everyday. It wishes it could get its hands on some Xanex, Vicodin, or Percocet. Some days I do great ignoring the requests of the singularity. Other days are an abject failure. I don't feel like I'm getting the bottom of things. I don't know where the bottom is. I don't know what caused the singularity or what traumatic memories linger that makes it remain. All I do know is that the research being done on medicines like psilocybin, ayahuasca, or Iboga are finding that they may actually repair neural pathways. Pathways that may have been decimated by trauma.

Could this be the answer to the singularity? A destroyed neural pathway that could possibly be repaired?

It's a tantalizing thought.

Home From Vacation: Part II

Well. I certainly didn't plan to be gone for a month. It just happened. Expect this to be a rambling post, and I'm not sure whether it will long or short yet.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post that I run a food blog. About 2 months ago, I decided to take a break and I pretty much made the commitment that I would return after the Oregon vacation. I was just getting back into the swing of things. By the swing of things, I mean that I normally post 3-4 times a week. I'd think I'd posted about a week's worth of work when disaster struck. I was putting the final touches on a post, when I dropped my cup of coffee on the computer. How does one do that? I cursed and ran around the house, but eventually I thought I had it cleaned and dried. The computer worked fine until about 3pm that afternoon when it suddenly died and would not turn back on. It still hasn't ever turned back on.

A. and I ended up driving about 2 hours to get to the nearest Mac store, just to find out that they only stock Mac Book Air's, not regular laptops. We basically drove 2 hours just to order a laptop and be assured it would arrive in 7-10 business days. For the love. So, I was without a computer for almost 2 weeks.

I felt gagged. Binded. No way to release my creativity. No way to write in my journal. I ended up going to bed at 8 pm and dragging my butt from bed at 8 am those days. That's a lot of sleeping time, even for me. I tried to keep up exercise, but I felt lack-luster. Luckily, I kept creating recipes and taking lots of pictures.

The computer finally arrived, and not a moment too soon. I'd begun to receive harassing phone calls from friends and family members wondering why the heck there were no food posts. I was feeling the pressure. A. got the new laptop up and running and handed it over to me to get caught up. I plugged my trusty camera into the new computer and prepared to import the photos.

There were 400. Combine that with 300 from the old computer that I hadn't edited yet. That's a freakin' ton of photos to have on deck to edit. I normally edit shoot-to-shoot to avoid getting overwhelmed, and needless to say this group of 700 photos consisted of about 7 shoots.

I felt buried.

I ended up tackling the photos the same way I do everything. One photo at a time. It took me an entire evening, but I made my way through them. The food blog is caught up, photos are caught up, now what?

I have been feeling a lot better since vacation. I think I've adjusted back to real time. I sometimes wonder how much of an effect our diets have on our mental health and for how long. I ate tons of food in Oregon that I never eat anymore. Stuff that is processed and made with lots of chemicals and preservatives. I'd been feeling immensely better since cleaning up my diet and then boom. 2 weeks of eating dirty and I'm right back where I used to be. Slow. Listless. Hopeless. Angry. Distracted. The opposite of mindful.

Is there a connection?  I suspect so, but I'm no scientist. I'm back on my normal "diet". I don't diet (as in watch what I eat for calories) so when I say diet, I just mean what I eat normally every day. I follow an IF (intermittent fasting) lifestyle, which I believe also contributes to my clear head. Most days I don't eat until after 1 pm, usually later. I have coffee in the morning, and I drink water throughout the day, but I don't eat much the first half of the day. IF is not for everyone, but it's something I've accepted after I realized I was following it without knowing it almost my entire life. There are numerous articles out there extolling the benefits of fasting, I can vouch that I feel a lot of them. No, I'm not hungry all day. No, I don't think about food 24 hours a day. Like I said, my body has pretty much been doing this my entire life anyway, I just recognize it now. When I do get to eating, I try to eat mostly clean. One of my favorite afternoon snacks to break the fast is homemade guacamole made with avocados, red onion, cilantro, lime, and a little kosher salt. So good, and mostly clean. Dinner is usually vegetarian, chicken, or fish with LOTS of vegetables. I snack a lot after dinner, eating a ton of fruit. Usually a bowl of peaches, raspberries, strawberries, grapes, kiwis, or watermelon. I usually have a bowl of air-popped popcorn. I always end the night with a cup of chamomile tea and a piece of dark chocolate. I think eating this way clears a majority of the cobwebs that seem to gather in my head.

I'm still up about 2 lbs from Oregon, but I think that will come off eventually. I've trying to get back to my routine of exercising daily, but sometimes it seems that something always comes up. I'm doing my best though, in fact, I ran a straight mile yesterday for the first time in months.

I bitched a lot about my garden in the last post, and most of that stuff remains true. Unfortunately. I'm not going to have a cucumber, zucchini, or pumpkin crop this year. Thanks to Jiffy pots. A word of advice? Those little pots DO NOT decompose, run far FAR away if you see these in the store. I may have some tomatoes, but that remains to be seen. I'm trying to keep the potatoes from death. The plants and leaves all turned yellow with black spots, and just when I was about to throw in the towel and dig everything up, the potatoes began growing new growth. I'm treating them everyday with baking soda fungicide and DE, so we'll see. I began a new pot of cilantro, which is growing fabulously. Other than that, my herbs are growing great. Peppers? Perfection! I'm trying not to be too hard on myself for my garden failures, after all it's only my 2nd year doing it and I've learned a ton. But no Jiffy pots next year. Never again!

The puppy? Almost potty-trained. We eventually had to block off most of the house and only give the little guy the living room to explore. This has led to him always going to the door to be let out.

Reading over this post, I'm reminded of how utterly useless my anxiety is. I worried, and worried, and then worried some more about that Oregon trip. Everything I thought would go wrong at home almost did. But what did that worry help? Everything happened anyway. And everything eventually got cleaned up and put back to normal. Why do I sit and stress about what's going to happen and cleaning it up? Again, what purpose does that serve? I could sit here and examine my anxiety from every angle, and I would still think it was useless. And yet, I would still feel it. I would still have it.

What a rambling post indeed. As I was writing this post, I remembered one other Oregon issue I wanted to talk about. And I don't have the energy to do it now. So, one more vacation wrap-up post and then I'm going to move on those intriguing flowing ideas I get when I'm running or doing yoga :)

Home From Vacation: Part I

I haven't written in awhile. I just got home yesterday from my annual trip to visit my parents. Gone for 2 weeks, but it might as well have been a month. I'm feeling super foggy and disorientated. It's crazy how far from your routine you can get in 2 weeks. It's going to take some time to feel back to normal, to get my body off vacation time. During vacation, everything feels like excess. Too much food, too much drink, too much smoking, too much socializing, too much shopping... It's a time of the year I enjoy the American lifestyle, just as everyone else in this country does. My problem with this is there's not a lot of time for self-reflection. How can you when you are running around all day, constantly sending your brain little jolts of pleasure from alcohol, from food, from shopping all day long... Constantly talking. And talking. And talking. All those words mean very little when you haven't found peace with yourself.

So today, I start trudging back to a clearer mind. Working hard outside, yoga and meditation, regular exercise, and regular fasting. Eating lots of vegetables, not so much meat (we must have ate 3 truckloads of red meat on our vacation), and water more than anything. I think I gained 5-8 lbs on the trip, which is probably also fogging up my brain.

Ugh. I'll feel better in a week or so.

In the meantime, I'd thought I'd talk about my trip. To start with, I have never not wanted to go on a trip as much as this one. I dreaded it for days. I got anxious about it at least a week beforehand. I was nervous about leaving the puppy, and it was such a bad time of year to leave the garden. I knew my husband's aunt and uncle wouldn't feed my birds or change my hummingbird feeder. But the tickets were bought in January, circumstances be damned.

What did I find when I got home yesterday?

The puppy seems to have forgotten all of his potty training. He's going everywhere in the house. He peed in the bed last night, and he's never done that. I spent an hour last night with a roll of paper towels and the carpet cleaner, just roving from room to room cleaning up urine stains. The cilantro bolted in the garden. Something is seriously eating the potato plants. My cucumber plants turned yellow. My bird bath hasn't been scrubbed in two weeks. Something dug up and ate my lavender starts. The bird feeders were all empty, and even though I've filled them, no one has returned. The house is filthy. Laundry is flowing out of the hamper onto the floor.

I. am. frustrated.

Almost everything I thought would happen during vacation, did. Minus one of the dogs getting lost, and I might have actually killed my husband's family if that had happened.

So, I was dreading the trip. But I went. The anxiety seemed to lessen as soon as the hubby and I left for the airport. It's almost like my body knew that there was nothing I could do now. Travel went smoothly and we arrived in Oregon at 10 in the morning. The initial meeting with my brother and dad was a blur, as was lunch soon after. In fact the rest of the day is kind of blurry from jet lag, my husband and I ended up in bed very early.

The trip had begun.

I didn't notice right away, but I did notice soon after arriving how different my brother was acting. He'd last come out to visit us in the South last August, and that trip was pretty jovial and relaxing. Now, my brother seemed angry. And bitter. And lashed out at everyone. He said some hurtful things to me, and about issues that are extremely important to me. One of his comments has been burned in my head, probably forever. My brother is a high school teacher, and basketball coach, and near the end of the school year, one of his players committed suicide. My brother was telling my husband that because he is a teacher, he had to be sympathetic and compassionate to the students and parents. He said he had to "say the right thing". But deep down, he didn't feel sympathy. He said he thought that student was selfish and was trying to become a martyr. He said the kid was trying to make sure that everyone focused on him and talked about him at graduation. He then said he thought that kid was a "piece of shit".

I was floored. Shocked. Rocked.

How could anyone say that? I walked away at this time, but I thought a lot about what he said. Such a lack of empathy, especially for someone I thought was exactly like me. I thought my brother put on a big show of being an asshole and pretending not to have feelings, but maybe it's not a show. Maybe he really doesn't care. Maybe he really doesn't have compassion, and empathy for others. His student drove his car off a cliff. When that didn't kill him, he kicked the windshield out of the car, climbed the cliff, and proceeded to find a tree and hang himself. That is pure desperation there. Pure and simple. Human brains have evolved over millions of years to have systems that protect us from suicide. One of the brain's main functions is to keep us alive. People have to be sick, very sick, in order to override those systems. I know what it's like to look out at the world from eyes that see nothing but pain, destruction, unhappiness, inequality, and despair. I know what it's like to feel like you can't stand a single second more. It's terrifying to have those thoughts. These thoughts almost feel physical at times, like an anchor tied to your ankle in the ocean. When you are at the bottom, it literally feels like you're drowning. How can my brother not see how desperate that poor kid was? That he was sick, and he saw no other alternative than to do what he did?

I feel like I don't know who my brother is anymore. It almost felt like I was punched in the stomach when I realized that my brother is fake.

He says the right things. He pretends to care. He smiles and pats the kids on the back, but who knows what he's thinking inside. He says the right things to me. Is this for real? I found myself, for most of the trip, second-guessing everything he said. Did he mean what he just said, or was that sarcasm? This, of course, let to lots of retrospection on my brother's failed marriage, which ended 1 year ago. My brother got engaged after dating this girl for about 9 months. They were married within 6 months of that. She left about 16 months into the marriage, and they are now divorced. My mom and my brother talk mad shit about this girl. They say horrible, awful things like she was manipulative, a liar, and a bitch. They appall me.

I don't agree with the way my former sister-in-law went about things, but I'll just say this, she is in no way the things that my family says about her. She was a good person, with a good heart. They just did not make a good match. For one, she was very religious and my whole family is squarely in the Agnostic/Athiest camp. This, for me, was the biggest red flag. The second biggest problem was that she doesn't smoke or approve of smoking, and my brother is a stoner. A huge stoner. I think these 2 factors alone are enough for anyone to say that this might not be a forever-match here.

My former sister-in-law said it was ok that my brother was Agnostic. I think that was a lie.

My former sister-in-law said it was ok that my brother smoked weed. Occasionally. I think that was a lie.

But let's be honest, this girl was 22 when they got married. At 22, I still told guys what they wanted to hear in order to have a relationship. You always think you can change someone if they love you enough. I thought this way. I think most young girls do. Does this make them a bad person? Fuck no. It makes them youthful, optimistic, and immature, but that's what the majority of people are at 22. It's a sign of youth, not of being manipulative. And in defense of my former sister-in-law, I'm pretty sure my brother put on his good-guy act until they got married. I guarantee that this girl started to see the real person behind my brother's persona, and she probably realized she didn't even know this person. Put that together with their major lifestyle differences and of course someone is going to pull the plug on this marriage.

I forgive my former sister-in-law. I understand that these 2 people were fundamentally different. Our time on Earth is so incredibly short, we can't waste a second being unhappy. In the long run, I think my brother will be better off. He'll find someone (hopefully) that's also agnostic, and perhaps a little bit of a liberal, pot-smoking hippy. And it will work so much better. So why harbor so much animosity?

If you want to get down to brass-tax, I think my brother is in the "Anger" phase of his grieving. It must have been that he was so busy during the school year that he didn't process any of his emotions, and he's just now having time to think about it. All I can say is, I hope this phase passes. I also hope comments he made were made out of anger, and not out of him revealing his true self.

I've got lots more talking about the trip to do, but unfortunately, I also have quite a long to-do list. Till next time!

Mourning All That Will Never Be

I go back and forth with my mourning. Just when I think I've processed everything there is to process, more shit comes gurgling up. Thrown in my face. Tearing my heart into tiny little jagged pieces.

I mourn for that baby girl that I suspect was abused as an infant. About 2 years ago, I recovered a hazy memory of a baby in a baby bath, one toy navy boat, and my uncle. Due to the fact I was in a baby bath (you know, one of those little baths you place inside the actual bathtub),  I've estimated my age at 6 months, maybe a year. Because I'm so young in this memory, I consistently and constantly question this memory.  But when I'm feeling healthy, I try to tell myself to just accept it, not to question it to death. My point in all that is that I feel I never stood a chance. Corrupted from the beginning. What could I have been if this any of this had never happened?

I mourn for the girl who might have been happy.

I mourn for the girl that might never have suffered depression, anxiety, PTSD, insomnia, chronic headaches, and IBS.

I mourn for the girl who didn't respect her body, or even herself.

I mourn for the girl who may have been outgoing. I mourn for the girl who may have been popular, who may have made the cheerleading squad. I mourn for the girl who may have become homecoming queen.

I mourn for the girl that got bullied for being different. I mourn for the little girl who looked in the mirror, and only saw glasses, braces, chubby cheeks, and a mushroom haircut.

I mourn for the girl that may have been a doctor. That may have gone to law school.

I mourn for the girl that may have had children of her own.

I mourn for the unborn babies she will never have, and the experiences that won't darken her doorstep. She decided when she was 12 that she would never have children, and now she is 32. Childless. Stuck with a biological clock that never started ticking. Only the memory of the day the decision was made.

I can vividly recall that day when I was 12. I was terribly sad that day. This wasn't unusual. It was summer, and I was laying on my back in the grass in the backyard of my parents' house. The clouds weren't flying by especially fast that day, they were just big fluffy air masses lazily making their way across my field of vision. Like large, white cotton balls among the brilliant cerulean sky. I heard shrieks and happy screams of the neighbor kids riding their bikes up and down the street, throwing rocks at each other, playing games. Those happy shrieks felt like a knife to my heart, and in the moment I told myself I would never have kids. I would never subject another human being to the awfulness that was life. How could I willingly bring someone into the world when everything hurt so bad? I could not, I would not. And my mind has never changed.

I mourn that I will never have the experiences that all my former friends are having right now. Some of them have 3 to 4 kids! Pregnancy announcements and baby pictures fill my Facebook feed. Sometimes I smile, with tears in my eyes. Sometimes I just have to close the laptop, the pain is too great. I mourn that I will never experience "the greatest of all loves". I mourn that I will never see my husband's happy face when I tell him I'm pregnant. I mourn that I will never see that grin when his children take their first steps. Say their first word. I mourn that I am selfish and I worry about who will take care of me when I'm old.

I mourn for the girl who only felt hate and anger. I mourn for the people she hurt when she was younger, and didn't know any better.

I mourn for the girl who saw forgiveness as weak.

I mourn for the teenager who could never let go.

I mourn for the girl who spent half her teen years and all of her 20's numbing herself with alcohol, painkillers, and benzo's, with absolutely no inkling of "why?".

I mourn all of this. And then I try to let it go.

This is life, take it or leave it. I could sit here all day with the "what if's?" and the "who knows?". Everything that has come to pass, I cannot change. I can only try to accept it.

After all, it's made me who I am today.

Dear Diary

Yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a while.

I went down into our basement, and into the boxes of my childhood stuff I've kept over the years.  I went down there looking for a journal. It was a specific purple spiral notebook, one I'd filled with quotes from poems and songs, and a few fiction stories I wrote in high school. I was looking for some inspiration for writing. As soon as I opened the first box, I felt a slight twinge that said this might be a mistake. There were so many pictures from high school in that box. Pictures of a young, smiling, goofy teenager. One who was so good at hiding the pain. Too good. There were stuffed animals, candles, dance awards, and trophies. I lovingly, delicately ran my fingers over the spine of a white teddy bear. I picked up the bear, and there it was. My childhood diary. Thoughts and events from my life from the time I was in 6th grade till I was a sophomore in high school.  Maybe I thought the purple journal would be in that big, black binder that was my diary, but nevertheless, I grabbed it and brought it upstairs.

I set the somewhat-crumbling binder down on the kitchen counter, and opened it. There was a clump of small pieces of paper tucked in the front cover. I smiled when I found $5 in McDonald's gift certificates, circa 1997, and a $10 Applebees gift certificate from my high school best friend. 'No expiration date' it claimed on the front. I imagined taking that certificate to the Applebees in my hometown during my next visit, just to see if they would take it. Nestled behind those certificates was a letter with my name on it. My dad's handwriting. It was an apology he had wrote me after "The Toilet Paper Incident". I was crying by the time I got to the end of letter and the words that moved me the most. At the end he had wrote,

"I'm going through a confusing time right now; something I don't understand, but am determined to resolve no matter what. I know it's tearing our family apart right now, but my hope is that it's temporary, and will lead to me becoming a better, more centered person. I have to do this because I don't see any other way right now. If I discover what's going on with me, I'll be home that day, that hour, that minute, but until then I have to keep searching."

That paragraph hit me hard. I didn't understand the letter when I received it, how could I? After all, I was only 17. It sure means a lot now, though. I completely understand what he went through, because that's what I'm going through. Complete and total personal upheaval.  The only difference is I don't have a family that I'm responsible for. I honestly believe that that makes my journey 100% easier than whatever my dad went through. Another thing was made clear by this letter- "the toilet paper incident" occurred when my parents were separated, not when I was in middle school being chased home from the bus. Memory is a tricky thing, isn't it? I'm trying not to beat myself up over not remembering something perfectly, I spend way too much time doing that as it it. And that in itself can cause more pain. More on that another time, though.

I wiped away tears with the back of my hand, and settled in to read the actual diary. The first thing that struck me, that always strikes me on reading that diary, is how much pain is inferred through the passages. The main reoccurring theme throughout the first handful of pages is how unhappy I am. I hate school, my friends don't like me and talk about me behind my back, and I am angry. Lots of scrawling, hateful epithets written in all capital letters. Lots of anger with my mom, and with my brother. The second thing that knocked the wind out of me was a passage written on 12-16-95. It was regarding an incident that was one of the first traumatic memories to boil over in EMDR. My mom was taking me to my first concert that day, a Reba McEntire concert in Portland, OR. On our way, my mom and I saw a German Shepherd get hit by a car. In the entry, I described the scene exactly how it's been burned into my brain since that day. That memory used to cause so much distress, pain, and depression, and it struck me how much that has changed since EMDR. Recalling that memory yesterday was a good way to evaluate that that memory still feels less disturbing since the onset of EMDR. Even though it's been almost a year since we reprocessed that memory. Which is the purpose of EMDR, so that's very positive. Another important issue regarding this memory was that I never remembered the date. I never remembered it was around the holidays. December is, by far, my worst month. I spend the entire month in a funk, every year. I always thought it was just because of the holidays, the pressure, my birthday... Now I'm wondering if this traumatic memory is also involved a bit in my holiday madness?

Another thing became transparent to me upon reading the diary. I've quite clearly had dysfunctional relationships with the opposite sex since the beginning. It was interesting to read about the onset of my first relationship and all the flawed thinking I've always displayed. I saw how elated I was when the relationship became physical, when I was 13. I saw how unstable in the relationship I was- always complaining about how he was obsessed with me and way too nice, so I ended the relationship. At which time, I became panicked and all I could write about was getting him back. And I did get him back. And the relationship became more physical. I noted that I didn't include in my diary that I lost my viriginity to him. I remember my mindset at that age. It was always in the back of my mind that my mom could find my diary, so I never included that. Reading through the entries though, I knew where it had happened.

The on-again/off-again relationship came to its inevitable end. And I wrote about the loss for no less than 1 year, truly fixated and unable to move on. I was in eighth grade. What 13-year old mourns the loss of a boyfriend for a year? I wrote that I felt like I'd lost a best friend, that I missed the closeness, that I felt lost. Empty. Alone.

And then, one year later, I met someone else. And the exact same process started over. Except this time, there were a few more detailed entries to go off of. This time, the boy I was dating went to a different school so I only saw him on the weekends. It was obvious, from reading the entires, that I was ok with the relationship when we were together (fooling around, being touched, etc.) but during our time apart, I got squirrely. I would start to doubt the relationship and how much he cared for me. I would think about breaking up with him, but then if we did break up, he would be all I would think about. And yes, this relationship became on-again/off-again too.

It was obvious. Written in front of me, in black and white. Only, I'd never seen it before. In my young brain, things were only balanced in these "relationships" when they were physical. Sex= Love. That's where I felt right. That's where I felt safe. And let's face it- when you are 13, you don't get a whole lot of time to do these things. So, I spent most of my relationships feeling depressed. Like things were wrong. Like I wasn't good enough.

And how does a young girl come right out of the gate, and behave this way?

The answer is plain and straight-forward- programming. I was taught to think this way, yet I had no inkling of what had happened to me as a child. Not one thought, not one time. Ever. I never thought, "Maybe I'm this way because something happened to me?". I remember how I felt at the time-

Born broken. I would be forever broken. Possibly just bad genetics. Possibly I was just a terrible person.

These revelations have put a lot into perspective. I realize now why my college relationship was so difficult, and why so many other relationships were. I (subconsciously) became paranoid over my relationships if they weren't physical. And during college, I was on Depo-Provera and had zero sex-drive. With the lack of physical closeness, I became even nuttier. More paranoid. Needy. And no successful relationship exists in harmony with that much negative emotion. I was more unlike myself than I've ever been during that relationship.

It's clear to me now why I feel my marriage is in trouble if we haven't had sex in a couple of days.

And while these things are evident to me, now I'm left wondering,

"How do I change this?" How do I break the association of love and sex? As A has mentioned many times, we are only getting older. Both of our sex drives will naturally decrease, and am I going to be thinking he doesn't love me for larger and larger amount of times?

I don't want this to be the case.

What is EMDR?

What exactly is EMDR?

EMDR is a relatively new therapy developed in 1988 by Francine Shapiro. It stands for Eye Movement Desensitizing and Reprocessing. Here are a couple of links in case you want to check it out:

EMDR Institute (this website was touted by my therapist as the only website I should check out on EMDR. I just don't work that way, but it is a good resource).

EMDR- Wiki (Sorry, but I love me some Wiki)

My PTSD (Be careful with this website. It's a community forum, so you may read some triggering information on this site. I searched EMDR and read other people's experiences with the therapy. I suspect the therapy might be different for everyone because some people had experiences that I definitely did not have. So, as I said above, be careful. Read with an open mind and take everything with a grain of salt. Just because someone had a bad experience does not mean you automatically will too).

To be completely un-technical, EMDR is basically a therapy where you think about a disturbing memory while the left and right sides of your brain are stimulated continuously, one after the other, for a short amount of time. Most people report their memories being less disturbing after their brain is stimulated in this fashion. The theory is that emotional disturbance is caused by unprocessed memories. After a session of EMDR, memories associated with the disturbing memory may have come up for processing. My therapist explained it to me this way, in layman's terms:

Say your brain is like a filing cabinet. Some people are able to accept a memory and file it in the correct spot immediately, resulting in an orderly cabinet all the time. Other brains may look like a tornado went through. Papers scattered everywhere. Furniture tipped over, files spilling out. Dust flying up the air, waiting to settle. EMDR helps put the furniture back up right. Picks up those pieces of paper off the floor, and begins to put them in the correct alphabetical order within the files. Runs a duster over the entire room.

In that fashion, there can be lots of memories scattered about that someone is not even aware are out of their files. That's how the whole process has felt for me. I wish I'd written down my very first experience in session, but that was over a year ago. So I thought I'd share my experience from my last session, which was a couple of days ago-

*********Trigger Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Animal (Dog,Cat) Pain**********

Sessions always start with me and my therapist sitting down as she asks me how my week went. If anything disturbing happened, we hash that out. For example, a couple of weeks ago I found out that my mother has to have a double mastectomy, my brother may have congenital degenerative heart failure, and one of my absolute best couple friends is getting a divorce. I learned all this news in 2 days. Needless to say, we spent that session just talking. However, if I'm feeling good, we move along. A year ago, I chose "tappers" as my brain stimulation. Meaning, I hold little vibrating handles. EMDR can also be done with light instead of vibration. So, she hands me the tappers and asks me to begin some deep breathing. To relax. She then brings up whatever memory we are working on that day.

That day, we were working on a memory from when I was teenager. It was a day when I'd been chased home from the school bus by the neighbor kids. I was carrying my tenor saxophone case and in an absolute panic because it was so hard to run with that case. When I made it home and collapsed in the arm chair in the living room, my father appeared from the bathroom. Apparently, someone had used the last of the toilet paper and not changed the roll. My father, face red and angry, asked if I had done it. I honestly didn't know, but I shrugged. Most likely, disrespectfully. With his face even redder, he threw the empty cardboard tube at me and told me I was a selfish little bitch and a horrible person.

We start the EMDR session by me picturing this. My therapist always tells me to just observe the thoughts or memories that flow from here. Like watching scenery from a train. I'm not supposed to actively think, I just observe what comes next. As I was sitting there, eyes closed, remembering this event, my therapist starts the tapper.

Most of the time, memories just flow one into the other. Sometimes, I just sit there and my brain remembers the event in detail. Or my brain focuses on the anxiety of my stomach. This session was pretty normal though, and the memories began to flow. Straight from the memory of my dad throwing the tube at me, a flood wall gave out. Memories came seeping out very fast, seconds of events that slid into seconds of different events. These memories were all related to my college boyfriend. I saw the night we broke up, except I only saw me with tears streaming down my face, standing outside the University library in the rain. Then I saw a night at his house when he told me we'd never get back together right after we'd been intimate. This flashed to the memory of coming up behind his mom at one of his baseball games, only to hear her talking to her friend about her son's "trashy" girlfriend. To taking photos for one of his photography classes where he had to take pictures of a person, and he told me while I was posing that I looked hideous and couldn't I at least try to be pretty? Driving in his convertible to a 4th of July party as he's arguing with me about how much weight I've gained. Seeing him at a party, making out with one of my sorority sisters. Pushing me at a beach party. Telling me his friends hated me. Telling me that no one would ever love me because I was disgusting. When I say the memories flash, I mean flash. There was literally 1 second of each memory, and there were a lot more memories. By the time my therapist stopped the tappers to regroup, I was overwhelmed.

My therapist and I have concluded (long before this) that this college relationship was pretty traumatic. Memories from this relationship pop up repeatedly. As soon as I think I've "filed" all the memories, more come gushing out. I get frustrated but my therapist reminds me I'm trying to file an entire lifetime of memories that may not have been filed correctly. I've only been doing this a year in contrast to the 30+ years of memories I'm trying to muddle through.

After we regroup, we repeat the process usually 2-3 more times. We regroup every time and discuss the issues that arise. We always end with me focusing on my stomach because it's almost always anxious. By doing this technique, I'm usually able to quell the anxiety before I exit her office. I am always exhausted by this process. I tend to go home, collapse, and be completely useless the rest of the day. I don't cook, I don't clean, I can barely take my dogs outside. Depending on the severity of the session, the next day is usually exhaustive as well. I seem to come out of the fog on day 2, and unless it's PMS-time of the month, I feel good until I go back to her office.

It's hard work. But I'm feeling better than I have ever remembered feeling. Things that used to be impossible don't feel the same way to my body anymore. In the past, if I saw a dead dog or cat or even a bunny on the side of the road, I could be emotionally wiped for the rest of the day. The image would be burned in my brain. The image would flash up periodically throughout the day, tears pricking my eyes every time, the intrusive thoughts always picturing the poor animal gasping for its last breath. Completely alone. The thoughts that accompanied these experiences were always the same-

"There is so much pain in the world. So much pain it will never end."

"I cannot keep doing this. I cannot live the rest of my life feeling this way."

"We are doomed. We've destroyed our planet, each other, we hurt everything. What is the point?"

"I do not want to live. I can't do this anymore."

Anyone that is depressed can tell you how nearly impossible it is the live with these thoughts. How heavy and slow your body feels. How dragging a breath into your weary body feels like a 100-lb weight slowly bearing down on your chest. How even looking around the world feels murky and oppressive. However, I've been undergoing EMDR for over a year and I can readily tell you that those thoughts have been significantly reduced. I still get them occasionally, but my life isn't ruled by them any longer. I have also come to completely realize what people mean when they say, "Everything will be ok". I've heard these words my entire life, but they never developed one iota of comprehension until recently. The calm that comes with feeling rather than hearing that statement is truly something that every person can only understand for themselves once they've finally achieved it.

Some people recover repressed memories through EMDR. This has not happened to me. Every single memory that has come during EMDR is one I actively remember. My recovery of repressed memories has strictly come out of session. The reason I mention this is because my therapist and I did CBT for 1 year before we started the EMDR. My therapist wanted to make sure I had the tools to cope with whatever memories may come. Say what you want about CBT, but I'm a believer. The brain is a powerful instrument that we don't fully understand, but I believe there is something to be said for trying to change the way your brain works. A lot of the techniques I've learned from CBT work tremendously, diffusion being one of the most effective for me. In fact, when I had my latest flashback, I was able to diffuse almost immediately. Progress!

Feel free to email me with any questions you may have on EMDR. Please be aware that I am not a psychologist or therapist, I'm strictly a patient who can level with you on personal experience. As I mentioned above, I really do think everyone is different. My experience may not be your experience.

Till next time!

How Did I Become My Mom?

I have been writing and rewriting this post in my head. It's something I ponder quite a bit. I was just looking out the window, as the single-cup coffee brewer roared beside me, admiring the turtledoves that were roaming my garden. It warms my heart to see birds in the garden. I'm trying companion gardening this year, which means I've planted many different varieties of plants to encourage beneficial insects and birds to the garden. Besides the variety, I've added a bird bath. Hopefully to entice butterflies as much as birds to quench their thirst, and maybe stick around for lunch on a cucumber beetle. I catch myself thinking these things, and it makes me smile. If you'd know me growing up, you would find it so out of character that I concern myself with anything that involves being outdoors. And that's a tale that begins with my mom.

My mom and I have always had a complicated relationship. She had always pushed me to be more outgoing, and just generally out of my comfort zone. I begrudged her relentless couponing. Her frugalness embarrassed me in front of my friends. She was always trying to get me to help her outside, in the garden or with the lawn. I hated being outside. I hated getting dirty, and even worse, I had a monstrous fear of bees. A scream-and-run-for-your-life kind of fear. We fought. Constantly. I resented her so much, and the resentment didn't stop until I was 16. When I was 16, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. On top of the cancer diagnosis, my parents were going through a trial separation. It was a difficult time for both me and my brother. Because my father was temporarily out of the picture, I took his place in driving Mom to her chemo and radiation appointments. I also took his place as her confidante. I remember coming home from school so many days to my weepy mom, who would then place her head in my lap and sob. She confided in me things that no mom should have to confide to a child. My heart broke, every time. Silently, I made a vow to always protect my mom.

I can't remember the last time my mom and I had a fight. I can't remember the last time my little brother and my mom had a fight. The world changed when cancer hit.

My mother and father eventually reconciled. Mom and I retained our closeness for about 5 minutes. We didn't go back to a typical mother-daughter relationship, we are more like close acquaintances. I say acquaintances because we no longer share anything real. After what she's gone through in her life, my mom shut down emotionally. She copes with life by watching sports 24/7 and a glass of red wine at night. She'll talk to you all night about football but if I were to ask her to share any memories she has of her mom or childhood, the conversation would be over. Last September, my parents made their annual trip east to visit my husband and I. There was one really palpable moment where my mom and I were sitting on the back patio, and somehow the conversation started to turn genuine and emotional. I think we were talking about my therapy. I was in mid-sentence when I actively saw her eyes glaze over, and then she abruptly changed the subject. To sports.

I was so hurt in that moment. It's taken me a long time to accept that her behavior is not about me. It's about her. I have come to accept that that's just how my mom is. That moment took me back to one from childhood, and it's crazy how that's immediately where my mind went. It was a moment back when I was 13, or 14. I can't remember what we were doing, but my mom had taken me and my brother somewhere. Out of town, maybe for shopping? I do remember stopping at Arctic Circle (anyone remember those??). My mom was sitting next to me, and my brother across from us. My mom turned to me and asked how I got my eye lashes so curly. I was super-excited she asked, because at that age I was obsessed with makeup. I loved to talk about it. I excitedly began chattering away, and again, when I was in mid-sentence, my mom's eyes glazed over. She then turned to my brother and asked him about his cheeseburger. I was crushed. I can still remember, to this day, how stinging that was to me. Tears pricked my eyes, and I felt embarrassed for having shown my passion. Even today, I'm extremely sensitive to when a group of people I'm talking to doesn't care to be listening any longer. You don't have to stop me mid-breath, I know when to stop talking.

The way my mom is, is the exact opposite of how I want to be. My mom pushes her emotions down and in my opinion, doesn't process them. I tried for 32 years to not process my emotions, and I'm paying for it now. Immensely. Feeling a life time's worth of emotions all at once. It can be overwhelming, but I've come to realize, it's necessary. Yes, there is tons of pain that can bring on depressions. Yes, there are some days I do not want to get out of bed. Days I can't even brush my hair. Days where I'm crying from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. That's life though. These moments and feelings pass. You just have to wait for the feeling to crest, and then it will subside. Depression and anxiety are temporary. They always pass. It's the process of feeling that anxiety build, and looking for an inappropriate outlet that is unhealthy. My typical inappropriate outlets include vodka. Xanax. Vicodin. And more vodka. My mom's is football and ESPN 24 hours a day. Neither one is healthy, because neither deals with the problem at hand.

I'm either so much like her, or I've just learned to emulate her. Because yes, my first instinct with anxiety is to push it away. It's a problem I still struggle with today, a problem I will probably always struggle with. But I'm trying to be different. I'm trying to deal with my emotions in a healthy manner.

But you know what? I'm not just like her in the "bad" ways either. As an adult, I began couponing when A was laid off to save money. I got really into it. I ended up building a stockpile that A and I have been living off for 2 years. Man, did I catch grief on that one. Mowing the lawn became my chore, because I love being outside so much. Being outside in nature provides me with so much relief from all my feelings. It makes me feel one with the wind and sky. It helps me diffuse from emotions, and realize that most of my problems are problems created by society. People problems, I like to call them. I feel so at peace with a yoga playlist blaring in my ears, marching that lawn mower up and down the yard in rows. I love getting dirty. Screw garden gloves, you'll find me planting and pulling weeds with bare hands. I've actually read that getting your hands and feet in the dirt helps stave off depression. Bring it on, I say. While I'm still afraid of bees, EMDR helps every day with that (that's another topic entirely, one I will get to at some point). The more I age, the more it appears I picked up quite a few of her best qualities. Especially the ones I never expected to get.

Every once in awhile, A will suggest watching a movie or documentary and I will hem and haw, grumble, and drag my feet. It's times like those where he bursts out laughing and tells me I'm so much like my mom. 'Shall we just turn on sports?' he teases me. We have a good laugh, and then I change my mindset to watch the movie.

I may have inherited some of her less desirable traits, but I definitely got some of her finest. And some, all my own.

God IS Love

Running has been powerful therapy for me. I actually have no clue how it became an effective therapy for me, but I guess the point is that I found it. I was the child who hated to run. My mom made me play sports like soccer, basketball, and running track. I hated them all because they involved an exorbitant amount of running, soccer being the worst of all the sports my mom made me play. I just physically hated the feeling of running. My legs got tired, I could never find a rhythm to breathe, and I was slow. I would start to feel that cold sensation in my chest when I couldn't breathe, and there is nothing I hated more than that sensation. I seemed to have no endurance. How my brother was blessed with the tempo and endurance of a marathon runner, I'll never know. When I got to high school, I was deemed fit to choose my sports. I chose volleyball and dance team. In volleyball, the only running we did was during daily doubles and everyone knew the running only lasted 2 weeks. On dance team, I believe we only ran 1 time and it was because our coach couldn't get us to simmer the fuck down.

I knew what was up. I knew where the running was and where it wasn't. So how I became a runner as an adult is nothing short of a miracle.

When I first began therapy in the fall of 2013, I was given techniques to release stress and self-soothe. I was really good at pushing myself past my limits at that point, and not so good at taking it easy. I would rush into my therapist office, spit out an entire laundry list of things I wanted to accomplish that day, and then proceed to sit there and worry I wouldn't get it all done. I was wound as tight as Giselle Bundchen's ass. One of the first concepts the therapist and I needed to conquer was the concept that I needed time each day to relax. To have me time. My therapist suggested running. I looked at her like she'd grown a third tit. 'Never' I thought in that stubborn head of mine.

Never came sooner than I thought. A and I signed up for a breast cancer 5k, and we decided to do some training so we could run it. On our first practice run, I couldn't even run half a mile. It was summer, 70+ degrees, and I thought I was going. to. die. I think more water came out of my body on that first run than I'd ever put in my body! I ended up walking most of those first 3 miles, but everyone has to start somewhere. I ended up doing a combination of running and walking for that first 5k, but I was kind of hooked. I didn't feel the same way I felt when I was younger. I've thought about this so many times, and the only thing I can come up with is that I hated running because I felt like people were making me do it. And I don't do anything well when someone is making me do it.

It took me a couple of months before I could run a straight mile. It took me even longer before I could run a straight 3 miles. But along the way, I found something else. Something indescribable about myself. I could take the pain. I could handle the dead legs and the feeling that my heart was going to explode inside my chest. With each foot pounding the payment, I told myself that I was strong. That if I could handle this physical pain, I could handle anything. Any kind of mental pain, I could withstand. Every run I finished gave me such a high. A and I signed up for oodles of races.

We did one run during a very cold winter called the "Jingle Bell Jog". It was a night race, something A and I'd never done, and something we've never done again. The night was clear, but so very cold, around 30º I think. I stood in one spot, and jumped up and down until the race began. Once it began though, I calmed. Quite a bit. I found my pace, and tuned into my music. The race took us through downtown of our extremely small town, along the river, and under the bridge that separates Ohio from Kentucky.   I was running under the bridge, listening to Rihanna's "We Found Love", and staring up at the clear, frigid night sky. The stars seemed so bright, like I could reach out and touch them. Just then, for whatever reason, I tuned into a lyric in the song as Rihanna sang, "We found love in a hopeless place".

That resonated with me. A and I live in a despondently depressed area. The town at one time prospered, however large employers have since moved out of the area. The population is shrinking, and the population that has stuck around is largely on drugs. Pills are huge around here, although heroin and meth are becoming much cheaper and easier to come by since the local police began to crack down on pills. There are no unique restaurants, only chains. No unique stores, only Walmart and Kroger are left. The town is crumbling and dilapidated. Yet, as I ran along the river, I could not help but notice the beauty around me. The battered flood wall, covered with murals depicting the town's storied past. The way the large blue-green bridge gleamed in the moonlight. The water lapping gently at the rocky shore. Hoards of pounding feet behind, and in front of me. And I only felt love. I felt so much love I felt my heart would beat out of chest.

And that's when I saw it.

Spray-painted on the underside of the big bridge were these exact words- "God IS Love".

I don't know why these words threw me, but they did. Yes, I am an atheist. As much of an atheist as one can be at least, as I am not arrogant enough to proclaim I 100% know there is no god. But what if? What if everything that theists's claim they know about "God" is false? Part of the reason I can't jump on the religion train is because I can't get on board with so much pain and so much suffering. I just can't. There is no reason in the world a gentle and loving creator would allow the things that happen on Earth to happen (please read this article if you need an example). The only explanation can be chaos, and a universe that doesn't care what happens to us. I have no idea why the human brain must insist that we are the pinnacle of evolution, that we are huge, that we are everything. It's mind-boggling. But what if "God" is that part of us that is "Love"?

I was really feeling it in that moment. I saw beauty all around me, in front of me, and behind. And I loved them all. I saw a pack of people not caring about anything but their feet hitting the payment, and the feeling of drawing one more clear burst of air into their lungs. I saw people that were running for a cause, because the Jingle Bell Jog was supporting the local food pantry. I saw a crowd that was doing the best that they possibly could in that very moment.

And I felt love.

I felt compassion.

'Could this be God?' I dreamily pondered. Could it be that "God" was not some figure-head in the sky, but an overwhelmingly warm feeling manifested out of our own bodies? If so, I never wanted to leave the moment.

But, as all moments do, it passed. I think I stumbled a few minutes later, and began to think about my ankle being a bit sore. A few minutes after that, I realized I was nearing the end and picked up the pace. And just a few minutes after that, I was sweaty and out of breath at the finish line, no doubt with a brain completely full of different thoughts.

I never forget that moment though. Seeing those words on the bridge is burned in my brain, a split-second I will never forget. I can close my eyes, and still see those words. Hauntingly beautiful in cheap, red, Walmart spray paint.

A lot of the time, it's hard to feel that way again. Every now and then, a run will make me that introspective. Yoga and mediation do the trick, too. I spend a lot of time mediating on love and its so-closely-related emotion, hate. Compassion. Empathy. Forgiveness. I mediate on these feelings, and try to let them encompass me. Let them open my heart, fill my body, and push out the doubt. The shame and heaviness that I'm convinced all humans feel. And you know what?

It makes me feel better.

I feel like this post flows freely into a post on forgiveness, so I'm going to stop there for today. The only thing I'm hoping people get out of this post today is to show you these technique that therapists try to get everyone to do- like exercise- they do work. They can work way more effectively than medicine sometimes, in my opinion. I'm also hoping you yourself might take some time to ponder on what I think is the most powerful emotion in the universe- love.

Till next time!

My Most Vivid Flashback

It's Saturday morning. I'm sitting here, completely and utterly annoyed. I'm trying not to be, but unfortunately, I get like this a lot. My irritability is part of the reason I chose not to have kids, as I feel bad enough when I snap at my dogs when I'm cranky. Part of the reason I'm so annoyed is because me and A (my husband) got a new puppy. Right now we are in the process of potty training, as well as life training. Those of you who've raised dogs from puppies know what I'm talking about. Not only do they have to learn they can't take a huge shit on your living room floor, they have to learn not to bark at the UPS guy. Not to dig in my lettuce beds. Not to attempt chewing off my fingers. Among other things. Due to the potty training, the puppy has to go out A LOT. Like, a lot, a lot, a lot.  And when he goes outside, he gets a treat. Well, my 2 older dogs want in on this. Now they are sitting by the door at all odd hours, wanting to go out. It might not sound like much, but if every time you walked into a room where 1 of 3 dogs were constantly wanting to go out, you might get annoyed too.

The other reason I'm annoyed is my other blog. Yep, I run another blog. A pretty, shiny, happy food blog. One where'd you never guess the author is a sexually abused, introverted, potty-mouthed, uber-liberal hippy. My audience is Christian soccer mom's and young girls dreaming of getting famous on social media. I love my blog. I love food. I don't love the dog and pony show. The exhausting amount of networking you must do in order to score just one comment on a post. I don't love pretending that life is sunshine and roses all the time. I don't like pretending that the worst thing that comes out of my mouth is "Well, gosh darnit".  And I hate being in the closet about religion. I hate that everyone else gets to write about praising the man in the sky, and thanking Jesus for making them the last person at Starbucks to get a piece of lemon loaf. I mean, really. You think Jesus has time to make sure that no one else got that piece of cake so you could have it? Groan.

Sorry to gripe, but in case you couldn't tell, I just finished working on some social networking for the other blog. Sometimes I'd just like to yell "FUCK IT!" and write about being depressed. Or anxious. Or being so shaky in the morning you are scared to drive your car. Or tell everyone I think they are ridiculous for believing in someone who lets children be sold in sex trafficking, gives cancer to some of the most generous, kind people, and allows someone to walk into a crowded theater and kill 60 people?

Yeah, I wish I could do that. But I won't. And that's why I have this space now.

*********************Trigger Warning******************************

A couple of weeks ago I had my most vivid flashback to date. I wanted to detail the process because it is rather fascinating. Scary and crazy, but also fascinating. With this latest flashback, everything started about a week before I had it. My husband was out of town on business, and I was home alone for the week. I was extremely anxious. I didn't feel like myself. I could not, for the life of me, get the pit in my stomach to go away. I once read a quote that said, "People will do almost anything to alleviate their anxiety". That's a true statement. The first night the hubby was gone, I made a margarita, had a couple of beers, smoked a cigarette, and then smoked more weed than I have in a long time. I felt better (pharmaceutically, at least) for the time being. Till the next morning, when the pit was still there. The whole week the hubby was gone, I drank more than I should have. I smoked more cigarettes than I should have (considering cigarettes should be ZERO since I quit). I found myself leaving dishes in the sink, something I never do. I also did tons of other things I never do, such as not making the bed, leaving laundry in the dryer instead of folding it, and not picking up the dog toys strewn about the house. It was like I was a different person. I could not (no matter how much I thought about it) pin-point the anxiety. I chalked it up to being worried about A. But then the hubby came home. And the pit was still there.

The hubby returned home on a Thursday. On Saturday, still with the pit and no end in site, I decided to do some yoga and mediation. The yoga helped tremendously. At the time. As soon as I was done, and I went to take a shower, the knotty stomach returned. I found myself arguing with myself in the shower. I honestly felt like there was some dark force trying to grab hold.

Just to let y'all know, I'm a huge fan of the show "Dexter". I loved his analogy of his "Dark Passenger". So much so in fact, that I've named the self-destructive part of myself my Dark Passenger. Don't misunderstand, I don't have DID. I've never been diagnosed, because I don't believe I have full-on different people in me. I do believe that there is some part of my brain that is hugely self-destructive. It whispers at me to drink. To smoke cigarettes. To try to get my hands on my mother-in-law's Ativan. To just slide that razor across a little bit of skin to get some relief. Sometimes it's easy to not listen, other times not so much.

So there I am in the shower. I closed my eyes and pictured myself driving a car. There is darkness in the passenger seat. Not a person, just darkness. And it's reaching for the wheel. In my mind, I actually pictured myself saying, "No. You cannot drive." Then I opened my eyes, and kind of shook off the feeling. It was weird.

Just 1-2 minutes later, I was reaching for my face wash. I closed my eyes to splash water on my face, when I heard distinctly, and right in my ear, "I love you". I immediately opened my eyes, confused. 'Where the heck had that come from?' I thought uncomfortably. So I closed my eyes again. And it happened.

I actively felt prickly mustache hairs on my ear, and I heard a voice saying, "I love you" over and over. In my head I saw me, 4 or 5 years old, wearing a satiny purple nightgown that I remember, in bed at my grandma's old house. My uncle was behind me. He had one arm slung over me and he was rubbing me inappropriately over my nightgown. He was rubbing himself against my back. He was hard. I felt good. Warm, and tingly. The human body cannot help what it likes.

This was about all I could take, and my eyes flew open.

I stood there in shock for maybe one second. And then, a flood began. I felt deep shame. Anger. Disgust. I collapsed right there, and began to cry. I cried for that child. How could someone do that to a child? In that second, I realized I'd been conditioned to believe that sex equals love. From him touching me to whispering 'I love you' continuously, what else could a 4-5 year old think? From a very young age, someone actively taught me that. I cried because I realized as a child, I'd never stood a chance of becoming anything other than what I was. Of course I ran after all the boys. Of course I let them touch me however they wanted, even if we'd just met. Although I was not aware of it, my mind was telling my body that this is how you become loved. I thought of all my friends who had been raised normally and who'd looked down on me for being promiscuous, drinking, and in general, an immoral person. And I cried.

When I stood up, everything had changed. The world felt different. I felt different.

The biggest thing of all? The pit in my stomach was gone. How was it that the strongest emotion I felt after all this was relief?

Here's the deal. If this had happened to me even just 3 years ago, I would have drunk a bottle of vodka. And then probably taken some Ambien. And more than likely, I would have self-harmed. Because I would have been filled with so much disgust, shame, and anxiety that the only way to alleviate all those emotions would have been to get fucking drunk.

But today, after being in therapy for 2 1/2 years and 1 year of EMDR, the only thing I felt was relief.

I now realize that this memory must have been getting ready to surface the week before it did. I just didn't know it. I only felt the anxiety, and I felt driven to push it down. I think I was subconsciously scared of what was happening and trying to keep it away. What's positive about this situation is that when the flashback did come, I was in a place where I was able to accept the memory, and not blame myself. Not feel ashamed of what I did. Because I was a young child. So young that I had no say in the matter. My uncle did awful, reprehensible things to a defenseless child. Would I look at any other child in this situation and blame them?

FUCK NO.

So I don't blame myself.

When my therapist and I discussed this later, she did indicate that I am making progress. Progress takes time, a lot more time than some people are willing to give. From reading a lot of other mental health blogs, I realize a lot of people have the roughest time not blaming themselves. It makes me sad, because a lot of these people are in the same boat I am. These things happened to them when they were children. I don't know if their integral "badness" was forced on them harder than it was forced on me, but I've been able to see how what my uncle did was wrong and I had no control.

My hope is that other people someday are able to see what I see.

Innocent children being broken. These innocent, broken children growing up into broken adults. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, DID, addiction, promiscuity, personality disorders, you name it. All because they were conditioned as children to believe they are awful, horrible, evil people.

It. is. so. wrong.

How I Got Here

Time for the first post.

How did I get here? That's such a long story. Sometimes I don't even know where to start, but as for today, I'll try to start at the beginning. Which is basically childhood. I'm going to throw it out right now, there may be triggers in this post. I'm going to be frank and honest, and it won't all be pretty. Please practice good self-care, and if you are in a bad spot right now, you may want to refrain from reading. Here we go-

*************Trigger Warning***************

In some way or fashion, I've always known that I was different. I can remember, very clearly, at a young age (5 or 6) feeling sad. And lonely. And most all, inadequate. I was an extremely shy child, and I had a hard time approaching anyone. The reason for this, in my young mind, was that I thought I was boring, ugly,  and no one would want to talk to me anyway. I mean, most of the time, I couldn't even think of anything to add to a conversation. So I clung to my mom. This vastly annoyed my mother, as she was (and still is) extremely outgoing and vivacious. She will talk to anyone, and I think it bothered her that her daughter was the complete opposite. This led to her pushing me to be more outgoing my entire young life. When we'd be out shopping, and she'd see one of the "popular" girls, she shove me in their direction to go say hi. Or sometimes worse, she'd drag me over and start the conversation herself. She signed me up for multiple sports to encourage me to socialize. During the summers, she'd send me to volleyball camps. Yes, to increase my skill, but also to force me to talk to people. I love my mother, but as a child and teen I hated her for this.

I was an extremely fearful child, haunted by nightmares of ghosts, aliens, and monsters under the bed. I can remember lying in my bed as child, paralyzed by fear, unable to close my eyes. My fear of the dark led to later sleeping problems. When I was 5, I began stealing stuff. I don't mean shoplifting either. I started stealing my cousin's doll and Barbie stuff. The first time my parents found my stolen items, they marched me over to my cousin's house, made me hand over the items, and mumble an apology. I became much more secretive about stealing after that. The stealing escalated until I was in 5th grade, and I'd stolen a hoard of stuff from my friend whose house I was staying the night at. Her parent's found my stash, and confronted me. They also called in my parents. I was mortified, and despite the obvious need for the truth at that point, I denied it. I continued to deny it my entire childhood.

My stealing, shyness, and awkward appearance made me a target with the other kids. After the 5th grade incident, my friends were never the same. Understandably. Nevertheless, they became more like frenemies and kept me on the outside until we graduated high school. Middle school was the hardest, and definitely where I suffered the most bullying, paranoia, and anxiety. Insomnia started at this time. When I was 12, I had my first drink.

My favorite book when I was kid was "Gone with the Wind". I read it constantly, over and over. In the book, whenever Scarlett has a problem or can't sleep, she turns to brandy. One night when it became obvious I wasn't going to sleep at all, I crept upstairs and into my parents liquor cabinet. I pulled out the brandy, and poured myself a glass. That first sip was disgusting. It burned like fire, and I was afraid I was going to throw up. However, about 1 minute after downing the shot, the flavor began to die down. All I was left with was a wonderful warming sensation down my throat and into my stomach. I took another drink. Then I finished the glass. Then I went back to my room, and I fell asleep.

As you can imagine, I began turning to alcohol whenever I couldn't sleep. Which wasn't much, but keep in mind that I was only 12 or 13 years old. When I was 16, I fell in with the wrong crowd. And older crowd that liked to "party". In those days, "partying" was drinking, smoking marijuana, and hooking up. I'd lost my virginity at 13, so by 16 hooking up was old news. I gave myself away freely. At the time, I didn't know why. I'd heard multiple boyfriends' parents call me "fast" or "loose", which I took as a reflection on me. I was bad. I had no self-control. I honestly didn't know why anyone would waste their time on me. It was never a surprise when a relationship ended, I always expected them to end. I always expected them to end with me being left. All of these feelings simply culminated in me wanting to be drunk or high the majority of time. When I was drunk or high, I wasn't shy anymore. I could approach boys and flirt with them. I could talk to girls, and make friends. It made me a different person, and that's exactly what I wanted.

I'll just tell you now, I spent my teenage years and my 20's numbing myself. With alcohol. And one night stands. When I went to collage, I gave up marijuana and just drank. And drank. By the time I graduated collage, I could drink a 5th of vodka in a night. There were multiple sorority functions that I don't even remember. I only know I was there because I saw the pictures. After I graduated, life became drinking a bottle of wine or 12-pack of beer after work. Every night. At the time, I also used food to soothe what I now know was anxiety. Between the alcohol and overeating, I gained 60 lbs after high school.

I could regale you with tons of tales from this time period, but now is not the time. After all, that's why I started this blog. There will be plenty of time for that later. But here's the gist- during this time period I met the man who would become my husband. I continued living in the same fashion up until my husband got laid off from his job. When he was unable to find a job where we lived, we made the decision to move across the United States. From the West Coast where I grew up, to living in the Bible Belt. My husband and I stayed in a pretty run-down rental the first year we moved here, while he was looking for a job. We didn't plan for me to work, so I stayed home. That first year in the South was almost unbearable. The anxiety was overwhelming. I began to have what I thought were fantasies, images of an adult taking advantage of a child. I was disturbed by these thoughts, they only convinced me that I was just as sick as I'd always thought. Only now, I thought I was sicker than I'd ever believed.

After a couple of months, in one vision, I was jolted with the startling revelation that I was the child. And then I saw my uncle's face. My world came crashing down around me, and I was left with a sickening realization that nothing was as it seemed. More and more images came, and along with it, more anxiety. Insomnia that lasted for days. Night terrors and nightmares if I did sleep. Relentless migraines. I continued to put up with it until one day when I had a full-on flashback. I cut myself for the first time in 8 years that night. A month later, I self-harmed again. My husband gave me an ultimatum- I needed to go to a psychiatrist. Or else.

Luckily, I never found out the "or else". I made an appointment with a therapist, and I've been seeing her for 2 1/2 years now. I was able to find relief almost immediately, just having someone to talk to. I was given tools, new ways to think. Encouraged to self-soothe and find new ways to relieve anxiety instead of doing things the same ineffective way I'd been doing my entire life. I quit drinking. I started running. I gave up Vicodin, Xanex, and Ambien, and returned to marijuana. Memories continue to be introduced, but I now feel I have the tools to work through them and process them. Some may say I've gotten nowhere, since I still use marijuana. I vehemently disagree. Medical cannabis has solved many problems for me. It soothes my IBS. It takes care of the insomnia much more safely than Ambien. If I'm having a day where I feel so anxious I don't think I can get out of bed or leave the house, a couple of hits releases the anxiety. I don't think I'd be where I am today without it. I stay in the closet about it, mainly because our drug-obsessed society is so judgmental about it. I'll tell you this though- not a single person I know would ever guess that I use cannabis. Whatever the stereotypes or connotations, they don't apply to everyone. I don't get stoned all day every day. I'm not obese because I have the munchies all the time. I'm not laying on the couch, because it makes me lazy. Sometimes a couple of hits is the only way I can relief the anxiety enough to go on a run. I think most people would agree that medical cannabis is much safer than drinking, taking pain and anxiety pills, and popping Ambien every night to sleep.

I think this is a good start. As I mentioned before, there's so much more. You can't reduce 30+ years to one story. This definitely doesn't paint a full picture of me as a person.

That will come in time.