Hope for 1 Year

I was inspired today by a friend's Facebook post where she asked us to ask ourselves, "What if...?"  I've never really asked myself "What if...?" in a positive way.  All my questions have been "What if it falls apart?" "What if I fail?" "What if I die?" To consider anything else meant to hope and hope wasn't allowed for me.  Hoping meant disappointment.  Hoping was for everyone else.  

Yet today after completing a scary one year project, where I did a selfie a day on Instagram, and didn't implode, I decided to push myself a step further.  I'm going to live for 1 entire year with hope.  When I'm scared I'm going to ask myself how it can go well.  When it falls apart I'm going to look for something better around the corner.  

Please understand this isn't some cute be positive, say some affirmations and skip down the lane thing.  For me to allow myself any hope, much less for a year, is about the equivalent of saying I'm going to spontaneously grow a horn on my head.  Every cell in my body is revolting against this.  My anxiety is leaving me breathless, as it feels this will set me up for awful things to happen.  My protector self is screaming "No!  You're going to get hurt!  I may not be able to save you!"

I'm not good at a lot but I can do scary things.  I'm resilient as fuck and my tenacity has got me to the other side when no one thought I'd make it.  Although I'm already hating this before it begins I'm doing it anyway.

Now if you've known me a long time and are jumping around smugly thinking you've told me this all along, let me please say keep your fucking mouth shut.  I don't need an I told you so.  Really....just don't.  Please don't.  

Here we go....

Scarcity Fears and the New Year

This isn't a New Year's resolutions post.  Well maybe it is but I don't want to call it that.  This is my processing of my life, and you get to witness it through my writing.  I've thought about many of these ideas and moments for so long that I don't remember if I blogged about them or not.  So there may be repeats from previous posts, but fuck it, I do what I want with my blog.

I don't recall a time in my life where I ever felt I was taken care of and that my future needs would be met.  Even in moments such as where I'm at right now; bills paid, food in the fridge, clothed, warm and safe, the future voice of "But what if something bad happens?" looms in the distance.  Though it's nowhere near as bad as it used to be, I still frequently have to go through the hierarchy of needs with myself and get reminded that I'm OK for this moment.  

Up until my parents divorced when I was 15, my needs were met.  My father was a pastor, and didn't make much, but he'd hustle on the side selling cars and houses, so I never went without the basics.  He was also insanely frugal, and in his own scarcity fears, projected onto the rest of us.  At a young age I can remember him ranting about money, talking doom and gloom as if we'd be on the street any moment.  As a young teen I did everything I could to give the appearance that we were decently middle class, though in reality I'm sure we were on the low end.  

When my parents divorced I lived with my mother and youngest brother in South Minneapolis.  My mother did have a job but it wasn't much.  We lived on cream of chicken soup and noodles for  years.  To this day I can't stand a cream sauce.  You could take me to the finest restaurant in town but if cream sauce was served I'll only taste being poor.  Now whether my mother was too prideful to go to a food shelf or just didn't know, there wasn't much food around.  No new school clothes, no extra curricular activities and for a few years no Christmas presents.  The thrifty days of when my parents were together now looked like pure extravagance.  Instead of looking at this as a moment in time, my brain went into survival mode and is struggling to break away from this way of thinking.  

I'm sure many will say it's a great life skill that I can now hustle like a mother fucker.  I am empowered by this as I do know and believe I will survive.  The flip side is living in a near continual state of anxiety that the other shoe will drop and that I should be on alert at all times.  Once I bought 10 t-shirts that were on sale instead of the pretty but more expensive sweater I adored.  My thought was that if there was a war that I'd need those t-shirts in case I had to do manual labor.  Our country was not in a threat of war at that time yet I was somehow convinced I was about to be Rosie the Riveter.  

For all my scarcity fears you'd think I'd have loads saved and be a coupon clipping maniac.  I'm not.  I do spend rather freely but do not always make wise decisions.  Although I'm known for my love of shoes, I actually am more of a clothes hoarder.  Every year I give away bags full of what's not being worn only to fill my closet again.  I feel guilt about giving away things I never wore, and the carelessness of spending that way, and I feel guilt about buying more.  I'll leave food in the fridge that is about to go bad until I can replace it with something else because the sight of an almost empty fridge scares me.  I have to stop myself when leftovers from meetings are put in the break room and ask if I'm hungry or just fearful of not having enough, before I dash to gobble up some cold piece of crap from hours before.  

One of my life goals since my father's death has been to not be like him, and one specific way is his fear of not having enough money, and spending like a miser.  But as much as I'd love to max out some credit cards and fly around the world, I need to balance that with facts and reason.  It's all such a balancing act.  Life your best life!  Treat yo self!  You don't have enough in your 401K and will live in a ditch when you're 90!  I want the coming year to be different.  I want to face these fears with a healthy balance of living a big life and making good choices.  

I really don't have a great way to tie this up.  I'm looking out at my porch at my bike which has sat in the same spot for a year and a half.  I should have brought it in last winter, but instead stared at it with the snow coming down, shaming myself that it's rusting.  I remain immobile.  I'm thinking about the shirt I bought online this morning and how I sorted the price low to high and was price focused and not want/need focused. I'm looking at the pink Christmas cards I bought on clearance and smiling with delight.  

Accepting Compliments

I've been trying to write this post for weeks.  Maybe longer.  I stare at the screen nightly, the words going through my head, but nothing coming out.  So please understand this is hard for me to share.  Hard to express.  And the greater fear, the fear with all my posts, is my words will be used against me.  I worry what I say won't be conveyed in the right way and opinions and perceptions of me will be formed that I don't like.  I'm going to call some people out from my past.  As one of my favorite authors Anne Lamott said, "You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”  And hey....fuck you if you don't understand.

I struggle to accept compliments.  I know many if not most people can relate to this in some way but it runs much deeper.  Because it's not that I can't accept any compliment; it's only certain ones.  If you tell me I'm funny, I will look you dead in the eye and say, "I know!  I'm a riot!!" and I feel it and mean it.  If you tell me I bake a kick ass pumpkin muffin I will say, "I've worked hard at these and really perfected my recipe.  Thank you."  Yet tell me I'm smart, tell me I do a great job or tell me you think I'm beautiful and I'll crumble before you.  

No deep psychological analysis needed to know how I got here.  I didn't get compliments growing up.  Or if I did my parents took credit for it.  I was never Daddy's pretty princess.  My father was a hard core Baptist minister who felt to be anything but blunt was a lie.  So I knew when he never told me I was pretty that he felt I wasn't.  And all other looks, comments and flat out statements proved I was right.  I wasn't skinny, I wasn't cute, I didn't stand out.  This became the basis for my self esteem.

My ex husband never complimented me.  At absolute best he would say, "you look nice".  This includes my wedding day.  In many marriage counseling sessions I said, "It hurts me deeply that you don't think I'm beautiful.  I'm your fucking wife."  The reply was, "Well I never told anyone else I dated that they were beautiful."  In my head this meant he absolutely didn't feel I was because even when I'm pleading that I need this he wouldn't do it.  He told me before we divorced that I had gotten better looking with age.  It's true but it stung deeply.

My best friend tells me constantly that I'm beautiful.  She knows I cringe and cry when she says it and she continues.  She knows that the only way for me to heal is for me to keep hearing it until I believe it.  When I met her years ago she offhandedly said something about me being pretty.  She doesn't know this but I went to the bathroom and cried.  It was the first time I'd ever have a friend call me pretty.  Now my friends had said I looked nice, an outfit looks attractive  on me, I looked good but the words pretty and beautiful were elusive to me.  

I get anxious when I'm complimented at work.  I do work hard and of course want to hear it's appreciated.  Yet now at the holidays I'm being told very nice things, with gifts, and my anxiety is through the roof.  I know I absolutely deserve this but fear overtakes me.  I'm not even sure what the fear is about but I'm wiping tears and scared as I type thinking about it.  

Being single now, and holding up decently well for my age, I get a lot of compliments.  I'm always a little stunned, embarrassed and mostly nervous and wary.  I worry I'm being manipulated.  I fear they see this is my weakness and they are going to use me.  I don't believe them.  

They say you can't love unless you love yourself.  Well that's bullshit.  I love wonderfully.  But no...I don't love myself.  I don't know that I ever will.  Though I do feel with time I can breathe easier when a kind word is said to me.  I think the core fear is that if I believe it then someone will laugh and say I'm wrong.  I can't take that level of devastation.

She just wants to be beautiful
She goes unnoticed, she knows no limits
She craves attention, she praises an image
She prays to be sculpted by the sculptor
Oh, she don't see the light that's shining
Deeper than the eyes can find it
Maybe we have made her blind
So she tries to cover up her pain and cut her woes away
'Cause cover girls don't cry after their face is made

But there's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark
You should know you're beautiful just the way you are
And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful
Oh-oh, oh-oh
And you don't have to change a thing, yhe world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

She has dreams to be an envy, so she's starving
You know, covergirls eat nothing
She says beauty is pain and there's beauty in everything
What's a little bit of hunger?
I could go a little while longer, she fades away
She don't see her perfect, she don't understand she's worth it
Or that beauty goes deeper than the surface
Oh, oh
So to all the girls that's hurting
Let me be your mirror, help you see a little bit clearer
The light that shines within

There's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark
You should know you're beautiful just the way you are
And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

Oh-oh, oh-oh
And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

No better you than the you that you are (no better you than the you that you are)
No better life than the life we're living (no better life than the life we're living)
No better time for your shine, you're a star (no better time for your shine, you're a star)
Oh, you're beautiful, oh, you're beautiful

And there's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark
You should know you're beautiful just the way you are
And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful
Oh-oh, oh-oh
And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart
No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

Scars to Your Beautiful lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group

I'm always in pain

*This post is about revealing what you might not know, but please do not take it as an opportunity to spout off ideas or solutions for me.  I know my condition well. There is absolutely nothing you are offering that I haven't tried.  While I know when suggestions are offered they are given with care and love, but at this point for me they are dismissive to the work I've put in.  Thank you.*

I'm always in pain.  Every day, all day, I'm in continual pain.  I will share with those closest to me when it hits an excruciating level but otherwise no one knows.  I want a big life, I don't want to lie down, I don't want to surrender to this, so I plow through each day doing exactly what I want to do.  Though I'm told my condition is not progressive or degenerative, I do worry the day may come when my tenacity can't override physical limitations.  

I get envious when I hear people say they feel great, talk about how phenomenal a massage was or speak to an amazing level of relaxation.  These are all things I likely will never experience again.  I'm super healthy, and typically have more energy and drive than people half my age, but I hurt.  I hurt so much.  Sometimes it gets overwhelming and I curl in a ball and cry.  Yet I won't let you know.  I will smile, make jokes, dance around the room singing and never let on to the agony I'm experiencing.

I do have a combination of things that brings me brief moments of relief.  So brief.  But neither of these things are possible to do or use for most of my waking hours.  I have roughly an hour and a half each night where the pain isn't gone but it's semi-manageable. I've dealt with this nearly 30 years so I'm grateful that have even these short amounts of time to take full breaths.  But 30 fucking years is a long time to be in agony.  

In yoga theory, and other schools of thought, believe trauma is held in the body.  While I look at this and all things with a skeptic's eye, it makes sense.  I've experienced many forms of severe trauma.  Though I have a diagnosis for my condition the bottom line statement from the doctor (after a full body MRI) was "we don't see anything, we can't help you".  When he told me this I was limping from the pain.  So the body holding trauma, and specifically to my situation makes sense.  There is a book from Dr. Bessel Van der Kolk called, "The Body Keeps the Score" where he is showing with real data that this is true.  I bought the book 5 years ago and haven't read a page.  Releasing stored trauma can't be easy.  I'm scared.

While I'm trying hard not to make this a whining feel sorry for me post, I'll admit I'm using this moment to talk about my reality.  And yeah, I do feel sorry for myself sometimes, while of course knowing I have it great compared to others (have to show gratitude otherwise something worse will happen, right?).  I'll survive.  I always make it.  But what I wouldn't give for a pain free body for a day...

I Hate Christmas

I hate Christmas.  Not simply stressed by the consumption, exhausted from the running around, worry about family issues; I full on hate it.  I know all the Christmas lovers are gasping in horror right now, and I can assure you I wasn't always this way.  It took many years of pain, disappointment and sadness for me to get to this point.

One of my earliest Christmas memories was when I was around 9 years old and wanted a tape recorder.  My mother told me it was too expensive and I assured her it was all I wanted and I'd be happy with only that.  I would sit in front of the Christmas tree staring at the lights wishing and praying for my tape recorder.  Though being brought up hard core Evangelical, I felt guilty for praying for anything for myself (starving kids in Africa and all), so half the time was spent apologizing for wanting this.  One night while I was enjoying the lights in the dark I heard my parents fighting.  What I got from it was that my mother spent $5 more on me than my father said she should. I internalized this as I wasn't worth $5 more.  It felt specific to me.  I cried and didn't let anyone know.  On Christmas morning I did find a tape recorder under the tree.  I looked at my father's face and saw he wasn't pleased.  Again, I saw displeasure as I didn't deserve this.



We were poor many years, but especially after my parents divorced.  My mother could barely make the bills and there wasn't extra money for clothes, school activities or presents.  I looked longingly at other happy families sharing gifts and felt the scarcity of my own situation.  I felt intense shame at our Christmas but did everything I could to hide the reality of it from everyone. 

When my father remarried my step mother's traditions became our new ones.  She liked to view herself as a Martha Stewart and insisted on perfection at all holidays.  We were reprimanded over not sitting in the right spot, talking too loudly (laughing) or not paying enough attention to her.  My entire time there was a walking talking anxiety attack.

Once my son was born I thought Christmas would be different.  My plan was to put all focus on him and make everything wonderful.  Yet my past was still present, and the stress very real, so even though I checked every box I was in misery every year.  I did everything a "good mother" should do for their child yet he knew something was off with me.  

My brother came out as gay to my father on Christmas and I had my worst eating binge of my life as I took on fear and stress from it.  I tried to focus on Baby Jesus and that only hurt more as I never felt he loved me anyway.  I gave to the poor.  I volunteered.  I tried to do more for everyone.  I disassociated.  I called December 26th my favorite day of the year because it was all finally over.

This year has a new level of pain now that I'm divorced.  We spend Christmas Eve morning with my mother and siblings and that night I spend with my son.  Christmas Day I'm all alone.  I can't go somewhere to distract myself because nothing is open...everyone is with their families.  Sure I've had offers to come to others for the day but seeing a smiling happy family only spirals me farther downward.  I've tried to come up with a plan (and please don't give me ideas...just don't) but it all hurts.  I will have to face a day of pain by myself and that's just the hard reality.

In 2015 I had been crying at my therapist's and she was trying to make me find something to look forward to.  I whimpered there was nothing then remembered we had a new Star Wars coming out around Christmas!  This excited me as I was all in for having Star Wars Christmas.  I bought Star Wars towels, ornaments and anything else I could get my hands on.  Thankfully a new Star Wars has come out every year and that's become my focus.

While I'm glad so many of you have wonderful memories and love Christmas the most, just know that for some of us this is a day of incredible suffering.

My openness is not fragility

Most people don't know how to handle a damaged person.  They tiptoe with their words, they give horrific advice that was never requested or worst of all they pretend it didn't happen.  We all get broken a bit but some of us more brutally than others.  It can be uncomfortable being around someone who has been shattered.  Some take everything personally while others go numb.  We form our survival tactics and hold onto them dearly for fear of being wounded again.

In the name of self-awareness, recovery and processing; I'm very open about what has happened to me.  I have no trouble telling in graphic detail what has occurred but I'm guarded as the average person can't handle hearing it.  I've learned not everyone is safe.  Hearing, "Well okay then...", with a look of horror and careful eye roll, is much more painful than the person simply shutting the fuck up.  Sometimes I think people don't want to hear it as it forces them to face their own agony.  I also think there is a level of selfishness in wondering if I'll now lean on them, share more or need their help.  

Yet my openness is not fragility.  I've created a strong core group of people around me who love me as I am and cheer me on daily saying, "You are a bad ass bitch!".  This has been more healing than all the therapy, crying, writing and support groups of my life.  I am a bad ass bitch and if you don't serve my life, accept me flaws and all, then you also aren't going to be allowed to experience how amazing I am.  I stayed small for many years but now I'm burning this mother fucker down and rising stronger than ever. 

So if you're doing the hard work and facing your demons, then please walk this road beside me.  If my pain is too much for you then you won't be able to handle the best of me either.  I'm resilient as fuck and riding this roller coaster screaming with hands up.  You should join me....if you dare.

Releasing what no longer serves me

In yoga we look to find the balance between effort and ease.  While practicing yoga, and mindfulness, I've come to realize my focus in most things is all about effort. Instead of fully appreciating the moment my mind is racing ahead to survive and avoid pain.  Yet living this way causes more pain.  In my yoga lineage there is a saying, "How you do one thing is how you do everything."  I'm seeing this is true for me.  I power through life with little regard for what my own self-care, protection and comfort. 

I will curl up in a ball on the couch when I'm cold instead of doing the obvious thing and grabbing a blanket.  I'll get a migraine because my ponytail is too tight instead of letting my hair down.  I walk alone in the dark.  I freeze my hands though my gloves are in my pockets.  I'll force my muscles and endure what I don't have to endure rather than taking the time to warm them up.  Faster, harder, stronger and sure don't show weakness. 

I do this with people too.  I'll allow rude things to be said to me to avoid the conflict of confrontation.  I'll let toxic people drain me instead of setting boundaries.  I put everyone else first because I don't know how to say what I need.   I suck it up, stuff it down and try to hide the agony.  I knew I could take the discomfort and it felt easier than facing another's displeasure with me.

Yet in the past year I've been working on releasing what no longer serves me.  Getting rid of items that trigger bad memories.  Walking away from friendships, relationships and family members that make me feel small and worthless.  Noticing when something doesn't feel right and making the adjustments so it's OK for me.  The hardest is taking out old ideas about myself; who I am, who I'm not and what the truth really is.  

Putting myself first is new to me.  I've hurt people, though unintentionally, by doing what is best for me.  At this stage in my life I don't want to force it anymore.  I don't want unnecessary pain so I can remain on another's good side. It's my turn. I want every moment to count, to be what's best for me and to bring joy.  If it doesn't serve, no matter the cost or length of time it's been in my life, it needs to go.  

“There is a story of a woman running away from tigers. She runs and runs and the tigers are getting closer and closer. When she comes to the edge of a cliff, she sees some vines there, so she climbs down and holds on to the vines. Looking down, she sees that there are tigers below her as well. She then notices that a mouse is gnawing away at the vine to which she is clinging. She also sees a beautiful little bunch of strawberries close to her, growing out of a clump of grass. She looks up and she looks down. She looks at the mouse. Then she just takes a strawberry, puts it in her mouth, and enjoys it thoroughly. Tigers above, tigers below. This is actually the predicament that we are always in, in terms of our birth and death. Each moment is just what it is. It might be the only moment of our life; it might be the only strawberry we’ll ever eat. We could get depressed about it, or we could finally appreciate it and delight in the preciousness of every single moment of our life.”
― Pema Chödrön, The Wisdom of No Escape: How to Love Yourself and Your World

The Playback

When you are a perfectionist a moment is never actually over.  Once the time has come and gone the playback begins.  All conversations are recalled over and over and over.  You think back to what you said and worry about every possible mistake.  You think about the words said back to you; inflection, nuance, and what wasn't said are analyzed on repeat.  Texts, emails, laughing too loud, too much, too little, your every move plays back on the movie screen in your head as you watch in horror at all your perceived flaws and mistakes.  

You would think this extreme level of self-critique would paralyze me but it usually doesn't.  I will still jump on stage with glee and look for the attention I adore. I laugh, have fun and will be the life of the party.  I walk the earth with an "I do what I want" attitude.  It's not until I'm alone and still that it all replays and I curl up in a ball cringing.  

Even a positive interaction can begin the playback cycle.  There is this need to relive it and see what you did right.  But after the joy of the moment the playback turns negative.  You start looking for flaws, mistakes and may even perceive what was good as now bad.

This is all a PTSD response for control and survival.  I've thought back many times to when this began for me and I think it was something that progressed over time.  I have a deep neural pathway that tells me I need to play it all back in order to be safe and live.  I meditate, do yoga, breath work, essential oils and any other trick I can think of but it doesn't stop the thoughts from coming.  Distraction helps but when I'm alone and still the reply in my head becomes deafening.

In the midst of a playback moment last week I made an interesting observation.  Without going into details there was a person who left my life after a bizarre incident.  The entire moment left me dumbfounded so as part of the playback I shared the story with friends looking for input. I found that the women tended to ask what I had done, didn't do or said.  I heard, "Well clearly you did something!" repeatedly.  The men either laughed or said I'd done nothing wrong and don't even think about it anymore.  Though I was thankful this person was out of my life the playback continues.  I try to make the illogical logical. 

It's exhausting beyond words to function with your mind on hyperdrive.  It's immensely painful to wake up at 3am with a headache because the thoughts turn to dreams that terrify you.  I feel shame when I'm told I need to stop knowing damn well I can't.  

The Anniversary

Tomorrow marks the 27th anniversary of the day I was raped.  Friday the 13th.  It was a beautiful fall night with leaves changing and a chill in the air.  People in my area love fall for pumpkins and bonfires and its beauty.  But most years when I smell that crisp aroma and feel that same vibe I'm brought back to that moment.  My sexual assault therapist told me back then that I would know I was healed when I could talk about it like the weather.  I didn't listen clearly, as often happens with me, and I heard talk as feel.  I can talk about it the same way I'd tell you it's partly cloudy with a chance of storms but the feelings remain.  These feeling have changed over the years, as I can speak it without crying, but it still haunts me. 

This wasn't the first rape by this person.  This was my boyfriend and he'd taken my virginity by raping me months before.  I was brought up in Evangelical Christianity and your virginity, especially for girls, was the end all be all to who you were.  Jesus might forgive you but no man wants something already used!  I didn't fully buy into this but the sentiment hung on.  I did have a romanticized notion of what your first time should look like; you would love the person, it would be magical and a memory to cherish.  My experience was repeatedly saying no and he penetrated me anyway.  When it was done I ran to the bathroom sobbing while he laughed and said, "Ha ha!  You're not a virgin now!"  I don't recall how I left the bathroom, or what happened after, but I stayed with him.  It took me many years to even call that moment rape.  I went into shock and decided I had to make this work out so what happened would be OK. 

He was verbally abusive and told me daily, "You are the ugliest fattest woman on the planet and you're lucky to have me because no one would want you."  My father made sure I knew he didn't think I was all that good looking and he hated my curviness, so my abuser was able to play on my deep insecurities.  I was terrified of him but didn't tell anyone.  When he was at work one night (took my car) I got a wrong number and started a conversation with this man.  We spoke about random things, no flirting or innuendo, but then I got scared of what would happen if I were caught.  I suddenly freaked out and said, "I have to go and don't call back or something bad will happen to me!"  He called back the next night.  We spoke again and he said, "I don't know you but I'll help you.  You are clearly in a horrible situation.  I'll get you out."  I didn't accept the help, as I feared I really was the biggest troll on the planet and surely he'd leave once he saw me, but it woke me up.  I left saying, "Maybe I am all those things.  Maybe I'll always be alone.  Still better than being with you!"  Those words probably sealed my future fate but I love that I said them.

On September 13th he begged me to drive with him to have coffee and talk.  I didn't want to but his continual pestering got to me so I relented.  We had coffee, and he was pleading for me to come back, and when I refused the verbal abuse started again.  I asked to be taken back to my car.  He started driving the other direction and I knew this was bad.  I prayed my heart out for a red light so I could jump out but every light was green.  He brought me to his place where I tried to make a run for it and he caught me.  After raping me he said he hoped I got pregnant.  He let me run at this point.  I was staying at my mother's and told her what happened.  She made me go to the police. Reports, hospital for a rape kit, and he was arrested.  The prosecutor said he couldn't file charges because there was only proof of sex and not rape, so he was released. 

Many years ago, when email was the way to communicate, I sent one of those silly lists where you say your favorite things and get to know each other and friends then send it back with their answers.  The last number said to say something nice about whomever sent the email to you.  My friend said, "She's the biggest survivor I know."  Huge compliment, right?  It haunts me.  My thought then, and still today, is "I didn't want to be a survivor.  I only wanted a fucking break." 

We've all heard of people who have experienced horrors beyond belief say, "I'm thankful it happened because it made me who I am today."  You know what?  Fuck who I am today!  Am I a wonderful, kind, loving, funny, fantastic person?  Yes, I am.  I absolutely am.  But the pain of who I am today, the daily burden, the efforts I have to take to be this person...no, I'm not grateful. Yet though I wish my journey had been different I won't let it all not matter.   

"I am beautiful no matter what they say..." No matter what he said.

These instances broke me hard in ways I'm not ready to talk about.  Yet I did survive.  My life is good.  I actually thrived bigger and better than I ever imagined I could.  I'm deeply flawed but resilient as fuck.  I share this to remind myself I wasn't at fault.  I share this to release it because I'm so tired of carrying it.  I share this because someone else needs to hear it.  

I don't know how to ask for what I need

I don't know how to ask for what I need.  Even using all the "I feel..." therapy words, not being mean, simply saying truth, well this is like learning a foreign language to me.  Now I could give many stories of my attempts at asking where the needs weren't met due to the other person's inability, not caring or ambivalence; but I'm at an age where not learning this basic life skill has gone on much too long. 

I've read I have an anxious attachment style and these types rarely get their needs met.  I've also read that what someone says has everything to do with them and not with you.  Here is where I get hung up.  I take everything much too personally.  I internalize what's not actually mine.  This is about believing that just because someone is unable or unwilling to give you what you need it's not a statement about you.  I can say the words to others, even preach them loud and long, but not when it comes to myself.  I was once told that this feeling that I'm so very different from everyone else is actually my ego talking.  I still think that person needs to fuck off.

I had a friend who would repeatedly talk about not eating, weight loss and diets while knowing I have an eating disorder.  I had asked that we speak about other subjects (this was the best I could do at the time).  She didn't stop.  She'd preface her babbling with "I know you have an eating disorder but this is about me...".  It bothered me, triggered me, upset me....but I never stopped her.  I never said, "I need you to never speak to me about this again.  Ever.  Please and thank you." 

Taking small steps.  Told a coworker I needed something through email and not face to face (because I'm visual and not auditory).  She got mad and told people that I won't discuss something and it's an issue.  But I didn't internalize this. 

Though I pride myself on my honesty, I'm seeing there is dishonesty when I don't ask for what I need.  My smile is a lie when I'm crying inside.  A friend is posting a daily self care thing to do and yesterday's was "set an alarm on your phone with a personal inspirational message".  I didn't do it initially as I became overwhelmed with all I felt I needed in inspiration and self care.  But it showed back up on my news feed today and I immediately thought "I am safe to tell the truth" (WOW!  I wasn't looking at the time and the alarm message just went off now!).  As with so many things in my life I'm walking through the fire to get to the other side.

I can't stop the crying

I can't stop the crying lately.  This may sound like some hormonal issue but it should be mentioned that I am not a crier kind of person.  My life experience made me believe that no one cared about your tears so don't bother shedding them.  When too much would happen and the tears would fall I was told I was too much, too sensitive and it's too bad so suck it up.  I have a lifetime of doing everything possible to not cry.  Tears symbolized weakness to me, and I couldn't be weak as I was on my own.  I learned to push it down, hard, and not let anyone know what was going on.

The first year after my divorce I was numb.  I smiled and did all the things but was largely performing in a zombie state. Yet I'm healthy now or lets say on the road to it. With this new found state of mental health and peace the tears won't stop falling.  Sometimes I'm not even sure why I'm crying.  I'm not crying over spilled milk but it's close.  So close. 

I'm sure there are many tears I never cried that are coming out now, but I think what's really happening is I'm awake and aware.  Woke AF, kids!  :-)  I've found a yoga studio which has been my refuge and I've finally made my practice about tuning into my body's sensations and not how it looks.  With awareness comes feeling and I'm feeling all over the place.  Though interesting is that I cry harder when someone is kind to me than when I'm sad, frustrated or hurt. 

I still see tears as weakness.  I hate when someone sees me cry.  I hope this stage ends soon...

I'm scared to allow myself happiness

I'm scared to allow myself happiness.  This isn't to say I'm never happy.  I do have many happy moments.  Feeling happy while being hyper-vigilant that something bad is about to happen, something I need to prepare for in order to survive, something I need to see coming and can't have a veil of happiness clouding the view.

It doesn't take knowing me too long, or a psychiatry degree, to see this is a trauma response.  From my perception, when I let my guard down one time too many, shit hit the fan hard and I was broken.  I have a deeply embedded neural pathway in my brain that tells me to keep my guard up and happiness isn't allowed.  Yes, we can over time change our brains, and I do work on it daily, but it's slow, painful and daunting.  To work on this daily is as Brene Brown would say "in the arena getting your ass kicked...". 

I should clarify what I mean by happiness.  I allow myself to be happy in what I consider safe moments: dancing at a band, laughing at a joke, seeing a pink sunrise.  Yet when I speak on allowing happiness I'm referring to a content and safe happy feeling.  Nothing in particular is happening, you look out into space and can safely say of your life and existence, "yes, I'm happy".  My stomach clenched typing that.

Back in my evangelical Christian days it was said, "God doesn't care about your happiness, he cares about your holiness."  First thought: I'm fucked.  You were supposed to find happiness in Jesus and all he did for you, since you are a sinful piece of shit.  I was never happy.  The bible quotes Jesus as saying "my burden is light" and I would internally scowl and think "No, it's not light, it's heavy as fuck!"  As I've deconstructed my faith and indoctrination, allowing happiness becomes what I want but still elusive.

I was speaking to my son recently about what's happening in my life and he asked, "Are you happy?"  I smiled both internally and externally and said, "Yes.  Very happy."  It was the most calm I'd had in a long time.  Later, and a wee bit drunk, fear started to overtake me, and I wiped tears as he played an emotional piece for me on the piano.

Yet it happened again after a powerful energetic experience (I may write on this later....still processing at the moment) where I realized I was happy and content.  It didn't scare me so much this time as something had shifted in me.  Now my anxiety, fears, depression, PTSD, pain and general freakiness aren't gone, but it now feels to the side of me, instead of being the dark umbrella over my life. 

I'm still scared but in this moment alone, cool breeze blowing in, Himalayan salt lamp glowing, full of peaches and a teensy bit high...I'll allowing a little grin of happiness.

I'm so angry

In the physical practice of yoga we draw our intentions inward, we observe and notice what's happening with our breath, our bodies, our feelings and our minds.  Oh did you think it was just a hip way to stretch?  Halfway through a class tonight I realized I was saying repeatedly "I'm so angry."  Upon further thought I also realized I'd been saying it for days.  As class progressed I noticed "I'm so angry." had turned to "I'm so sad."  What was I angry about?  What was I sad about?  I'd had recent disappointments, stressful moments, really basic life but this felt far deeper. 

There was a Celebrity Sober House {you can stop judging me right now} episode with Dr. Drew years ago which had a scene that has haunted me for years.  Dr. Drew asked this man what he wanted.  The man began to wail and sob saying he wanted a father that loved him, cared for him and was there for him.  Dr. Drew bluntly but with compassion said, "You don't get that."  You don't get that.  I've rolled back to that statement again and again when all I didn't "get" is brought back to the surface for me.  I'm grateful.  I do know I'm privileged on many levels and have a lot.  But oh the ache when you don't get something that you perceived everyone else as receiving.

I'm finding I can no longer stuff down the past trauma.  I did it all; self-help books, writing, groups, therapy, drugs, praying, begging, pleading, numbing.  But now it's coming out and in ways I hate most.  I don't like others to know I'm in pain.  I don't like for myself to know it.  I'd like to think I can lock jaw through most of life but apparently triggered memories don't give a fuck as to what I want. I had a moment recently where when a body sensation was accidentally set off, I burst into tears.  I didn't want the person I was with to see me cry, I didn't want to talk about why I was crying, so I lied through the sobs saying I was perfectly fine. 

I don't like talking about my past.  I don't like when someone knows too much about me.  I don't like to be truly seen.  Vulnerability feels like torture.  Sharing has been used against me.  Telling too much gives people ammunition, or worse yet they can't take what they've been told and walk away.  Through truly the worst response of all is no response.  No response means you don't matter, you don't exist, it doesn't matter what happened...you don't get that. 

So I'm seeing that all my efforts to go back to smiling, telling inappropriate jokes and not feeling has fallen apart.  Because I'm so angry.  I'm so sad. 

I'm not a perfectionist

Many years ago I was having a mundane session with a therapist, told a little story that happened that week and she said, "Well that makes sense with your perfectionism issues."  I contorted my face, confused and in shock, and said, "I'm not a perfectionist!"  Silence.  Our mutual understanding was gone as we stared each other down tying to understand what the other had just said.  She finally replied, "You're not a perfectionist?"  By now I was welling up with tears and distraught.  "NO!"  More silence.  She bowed her head trying to regroup and get the session back on track, "OK, explain to me how you're not a perfectionist."  "I've never done anything perfectly!!" I wailed, "NEVER!!"  Smiling sweetly, "The fact that you think anyone could do anything perfectly is what makes you a perfectionist."  I couldn't control the sobs and this lack of control only upset me more.  "Do you believe there are people that do things perfectly?"  "Yes."  "Well that's not true." "Yes, it is."  My hysteria turned to rage as I had to prove to her that she was wrong.  "There is a pile of papers on my kitchen counter and a perfectionist would have taken care of them.  I always have empty water bottles on my floor of my car and a perfectionist would clean them up immediately.  I have bad hand writing and a perfectionist has beautiful handwriting.I have a chipped nail right now!"  Nothing she said could convince me I wasn't right.  In exasperation she said, "I would normally never do this but I also know there is no other way through to you except to be extra blunt.  I've been a therapist over 30 years and deal with perfectionism issues daily, and of everyone I've ever experienced  you are the most extreme."  I wasn't phased or convinced but I did leave ther perplexed as to why she'd say that to me.  

I've told friends my therapist story and some have said, "Oh I've never seen you as a perfectionist!" I hear this as a cut down.  Those words, though probably an attempt to comfort me, tell me I'm not measuring up and it's showing.  I don't believe I'm a perfectionist yet I clearly see it as the ultimate goal to reach.  Not good enough and not only does everyone see it, they are laughing about it.

It's been at least 20 years since that appointment and I still don't accept my perfectionism.  Yet if I'm still (When am I ever still?) and honest, I see some truth shining through the cracks I try to conceal. I'm typing yet my gaze keeps going to the shelf where I'm seeing I didn't dust a corner.  The pillows on my couch aren't the way I like them.  My feet suddenly feel dry so I put on lotion as I'm not longer able to concentrate until they feel OK again.  Another chipped fingernail.  Imperfections everywhere.

Oversharing to avoid vulnerability

My therapist recommended I join a group that would be put on at the clinic for women with intimacy issues.  I was annoyed, fought her a bit, but eventually said I'd give it a try.  She said it would be good for me since I avoid being vulnerable.  I was incredulous and left shaking my head.  I called my best friend and said, "Can you believe this bullshit!?!  How do I avoid intimacy and vulnerability?!  I overshare everything!!"  She said, in her factual and nonchalant way, "We all know you overshare to hide what you really don't want to say.  And we still love you."  I went immobile, heart beating out of my chest and jaw tightened.  Finally able to speak, "How can everyone know this!?"  There was a near audible smile "Your wall doesn't hide what you think it does.  We still love you."  

Was she right?  I couldn't deny that her words had me in a panic.  Yes, I hid a lot but in my defense it was after a lifetime of people not being able to handle what I shared.  There are parts of my past too intense for many.  One too many times I let someone know a small snippet of an experience I had and I would be shut down.  Or worse yet the look on their face let me know my story was too much, and this must mean I'm too much.  Letting others in on the dark horrific parts became too much of a risk.

So I created a persona as someone who was loud, funny and would tell graphic details of things most people would keep quiet about.  Yet the things I told, even intensely personal, meant nothing to me.  I rather enjoyed watching their wide-eyed gasps.  Though the simplest of questions could send me into a spiral.  Where did you grow up?  What high school did you go to?  What is your favorite holiday?  Innocuous, easy, getting to know you questions that I dread.  I don't want to have to explain.  I don't want to talk about it.  Yet I'm a terribly shitty liar with facial expressions that always tell the truth.  

I find myself at this new place in life where I'm exhausted from all the hiding.  Yet my protector self (therapy talk) does everything possible to avoid being hurt again.  I'm walking a tightrope between living out loud and perceived safety.  Do you think I trust you?  I probably don't.  And that's a reflection of my trauma and not you.

Yet I choose today to trust.  I choose today to believe that sharing our stories heals us and others.  I choose today to share my truth and fuck you if you can't handle it.

Raw Bleach

What exactly do I have to explain to you?

I opened my mailbox to find a paper saying I was officially divorced during the solar eclipse on August 21, 2017.  23 years together, 22 married and all that was left was a piece of paper saying "Not anymore!!".  I made the right decision.  I knew that.  Yet I was overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty.  Took a deep breath, bit my lip and went on, as survival means not showing weakness.  Went to the Lady Gaga concert, got wasted and puked on my friend's shoes (as one does).  

I literally blew up my life in 2017.  I had no plans to do this.  I simply wasn't happy and began to take active steps towards joy.  Told my husband in March that I was done.  Moved out in late June.  Bought a condo in July.  Divorced in August.  New job in September.  I spent every night on my balcony drinking wine and looking down at three bunnies that played in the grass.  I was immobile and only had energy for minimal action to keep my head up.  

My ex was hurting and posting on pictures on Facebook with his new girlfriend.  People started to notice and the inquiries came in asking what's going on.  I felt defensive.  I felt I was being asked to justify my actions.  What exactly do I have to explain to you? I have 23 years of reasons why I stayed and as many for why I left.  Do you know the energy it takes to have to tell this fucking story again and again!?  I had my childhood best friend call me and I told her what I was able to get out while in tears.  I haven't heard from her since.  Now I did have support and people that held my hand every step of the way.  Yet even with an outpouring of love I felt completely isolated and alone.   

Now the people asking meant no harm and I do know that in my heart.  Yet any questions about my life or choices get me into fight mode.  I'm a child of divorce.  I like to say my parents co-wrote the book "How to be completely selfish and fuck up your child during a divorce."  My father, a pastor, wanted to make sure it was known that he didn't want this divorce and it was my mother's fault.  He pretty much went door to door saying this with no consideration as to how this would devastate his children.  My mother went on to marry 3 more times after that.  So many questions. I found that instead of asking them the questions, people came to me.  I wasn't brought up with healthy boundaries so I never considered not answering or not answering truthfully.  It felt like a continual emotional assault where I was left beaten up and abandoned.  So even well meaning questions get to me to this day.

I'll jump ahead and say that my ex-husband has since thanked me for having the courage to end our marriage.  I never meant him harm and said repeatedly, "Go be happy."  If he needed something I would still be there for him.  

I get compliments frequently on my strength and survival.  I smile and say "thank you" while under my breath whispering "I had no choice."  

Raw Bleach: I'm not toning it down

I've been blogging for years on various subjects, and had been considering a new blog where I talk about both mine and friends stories from online dating.  I had visions of self help posts for men (such as how to take a selfie that doesn't involve a mirror and your mouth half open like a large mouth bass about to catch a fly), and I still may do those, but after months of writer's block I came to realize this blog isn't about the dating as much as my own catharsis.  This is about what I thought would happen that never did.  This about who I thought I was and who I'm becoming.  This is about me living out loud, unashamed and laying it down so I don't have to carry the shame anymore.  This is about me.

The name for this blog came months ago while at the hair salon. While processing my hair my stylist put a toner on it and I said, "I've had toner done for years yet I don't exactly know what it does.  Tell me what a toner does for my hair."  She replied, "It tones down that Raw Bleach look."  I laughed, gasped and squealed "That's it!  That's the perfect name for my blog!  Raw Bleach: I'm not toning it down!"  We've since laughed about this frequently, and when speaking about being empowered women add on #rawbleach. 

Yet I've been stuck.  June 30th was 1 year since I left the home of my 22 year marriage.  July 15th was what would have been my 23 year wedding anniversary.  There is a lot of fear of judgment, shaming and what might be done to me if I share my truth.  I'm walking through the fires of immobility as I believe that even if this is painful there is light on the other side.

Though my posts will be public, while sort of anonymous, if I've shared this with you it's because I believe I can trust you can hold space for my words and not hurt me.

Welcome to Raw Bleach.