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.

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.

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.

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.