Let people have their thing

If you know me even slightly then you know I love Star Wars.  Not just a fan...I'm full on crazy for it.  Star Wars is my thing.  I have a lot of things that make me happy but Star Wars is special for me.  I've been laughed at and made fun of for it, and admittedly I've done this to other people who are into something I don't understand, as we all have our thing that does it for us.  

Rarely do we know the backstory to why people get obsessed with something.  Most of us don't share why at 50 years old we want a light saber tattoo or still look to the sky at night in hopes of seeing the Millennium Falcon zoom by.  The reasons may surprise you and you might even find a different understanding towards others odd things they are into.

Star Wars was the 2nd movie I'd seen in a theater (the first being Apple Dumpling Gang) and it blew my mind.  We were living in Leesville, Louisiana, which was a hick  town outside a military base.  We didn't even get hit movies until a good year after they'd been out.  Star Wars was like nothing I'd ever seen and I was mesmerized.  I spent many nights looking out my 2nd story bedroom window at the night sky dreaming of Han Solo taking me out of Leesville.  

My father was a raging misogynist so I wasn't allowed any Star Wars toys because "they are for boys".  My brother had Star Wars sheets, action figures and even a garbage can.  I was only allowed a school folder with Princess Leia on it.  I cherished it and wouldn't use it for school and instead kept it pristine as it was all I had.  A few years ago while at an opening night for the latest movie they gave out trading cards. I put them on my kitchen counter and few days later a friend came over, laughed, and asked what I was going to do with those.  I said, "They are mine! I'm the fan!  I get them!".  I found I was even a little teary eyed about this.  

I walked down the aisle at my wedding to the theme to Star Wars.  I mist up when it comes on and the word crawl on the screen begins.  This song, these movies, allow me a mental escape I rarely get.  I see myself in the characters. Their fate feels important to me as if it's happening to me.  If you're around me it can seem bizarre, as it's pretty opposite of the rest of my life, but it's my thing.  

So when you see that person doing Harry Potter cosplay, painting their home the colors of their favorite sports team, collecting tea cups...know that this may be the one thing that gets them through a day.  It may look odd to you, their exuberance may annoy you, but allow them this.  We are all flying on a rock through space to our deaths. You can shut up your opinions for a second and give another their moment.

Not as I'd planned

Looking back over my blog I found my post from October 2nd talking about what I'd do in my next 90 days.  Before I even started to read it I thought, "Hell....I know I didn't do any of what I said I would."  And that's true, as all the plans for waking up earlier, meditation, maybe even a little less wine/whine just didn't happen.  One line stuck out for me though "I want something bigger though; I want to look at my choices, ideas, decisions and how I react to life.  In short; I want to fully own my life."  

Well it didn't go as planned; and when in life does it really go that way?  But I actually did do as I wanted in a round about way.  I stood up for myself in situations where I'd normally back down.  I set difficult boundaries.  I made painful choices when I saw the truth of the situation.  I said Yes.  I said No.  I made mistakes but it was my life decisions.  I fully owned my life.

My 90 days aren't through yet.  In fact, I expect the next week to be my most painful this year.  I want to hide.  I want to sleep it away.  I don't want to feel this.  Yet it's all necessary.  We try to drink, eat, drug, sex, shop and avoid what won't feel good.  But do we ever actually not feel it?  The pain is there even when we make attempts to buffer over it.  Then if we're doing the hard work to get healthy we have to feel it all over again!  Fuck.  Best to feel it the first time, right?  Rarely happens?  True.

There may be objection to this statement (come at me therapists!) but I think not feeling is OK sometimes. It's survival.  There are times I've had to say, "I fucking can't right now.  Not now." Those moments when your body, mind and soul are too overloaded and to 'feel it' would crumble you.  I'm still facing situations from many decades ago that I didn't have the strength to feel at the time.  Do the work, push yourself, but allow a shit ton of space too.

So to finish out my 90 days I'm choosing me. It will look, feel and be as I choose.  It may appear selfish.  You may disagree.  Either way I choose me.

How far do you have to walk?

One of my favorite quotes is from Ram Dass, "We are all just walking each other home."  It always spoke to me of a release of religion, of basic kindness and caring, and that we're all in this together.  Though I've had to ask a lot these past two years; how far do I have to walk? 

I tend to be a person that put everyone else's needs and wants before my own.  I compromise when I don't want to.  I smile sweetly while seething inside.  Hard to say how much of this is my personality or from social conditioning.  It's not healthy.  Ultimately I hit a breaking point, blow sky high and those around me to experience it come away dazed and confused as they never saw it coming.  I don't recommend being like this. 

It troubles me to no end when I know someone is sad, hurt or worse yet angry at me.  Somehow my boundaries mean less than their feelings.  I've had to ask myself frequently "Why don't my feelings count?", and I'm asking that of myself as I don't let them count. 

Now if you've met me this all may come as a great shock to you.  Upon first meeting me I've been told the following "You looked scary." "You seemed like someone that would pummel me in a back alley." "You clearly don't take any shit."  I'm vocal and opinionated so it's assumed that I have boundaries like a mother fucker and would never allow an overstep.  I'll about kill if I see another person being harmed yet typically hold back when it comes to my needs.

I've had multiple situations in the past few years, and some doozies recently, where people I believed to love me unconditionally left me.  People I thought were my ride or die, people related by blood, people who said they'd always stand up for me.  Yet they didn't stand up for me.They turned a blind eye when I was mistreated or were even part of the mistreatment.  They got enraged when I had the courage to share a hard truth.  They walked away from years and sometimes a lifetime.

So they decided they were walking no further with me.  Maybe sometimes I chose to walk no further with them.  I had to face horrible behavior I'd allowed for years.  I had to face the reality of our relationship.  I had to put myself first even when it hurt terribly.

It still hurts.  I still panic at what happened; though some were recent and others longer ago. The thought comes, "Who is next?".

So how far do we have to walk?  I suppose when respect is gone.  When the pain becomes greater than the happiness.  When you've cleaned your side of the street and they would rather have theirs a mess.  When you fucking feel like it.  

Staying Busy

I'm carrying over quite a bit of PTO from this year to next and was called out on this by a co-worker.  "Your bosses take vacation!  You have the time!  Do it!"  Though vacations are wonderful they make me anxious.  Doing nothing brings up huge fears in me.  These fears aren't fully formed and I can't say exactly what's bothering me.  Not having my hyper-scheduled days planned?  Wondering what's happening at home?  Typically when I take a vacation someone else suggests dates and it's much longer than I want.  I shave a day or two off with an excuse but still get concerned at the length of time.  When I arrive it takes me a solid 2-3 days to truly unwind.  I may be poolside with a drink in hand but my mind is swirling everywhere trying to regain a sense of control.  When I'm busy I feel in control.

I don't think you need to look all too far into my past to see that control and survival are at the core of my busyness.  I can only relax at home when truly everything around me is perfection.  And it's never perfection.  I have no concept of a day watching Netflix or laying in pajamas.  Even when I procrastinate, which is much more than you'd expect from me, my mind is going.  I'm making mental lists, looking at the time, planning the most efficient way to get things done.  I worry constantly that I'm missing something, that I'll drop the ball somewhere, and it will all crash down on me with no one to pick me up.

Even being a yoga and meditation teacher, it takes tremendous effort and will for me to practice what I preach.  I go to yoga almost daily and know well how a class ends; you get comfortable on your back or whatever position feels good, get still, breathe.  And it's hard.  The joke in yoga is that this pose, savasana, is the hardest because you do nothing.  I can't just lie down either; I need to set my blocks so they are ready to be put away, wind up my strap, and make sure I can have everything done so I'm first out of the room.  Why do I do this?  Am I late for something?  No, I just need to get the busyness out of my system to allow myself those few moments of stillness.

Staying busy allows me not to think too deeply about what is bothering me.  When I'm busy I can avoid the hard questions that lurk in my head.  Too much inner thought can take me down scary roads that bring up pain or force me to face the things and take action.  Action could mean discomfort, I may need to say yes, say no, accept a hard truth and no longer pretend I don't know.  

I'm extremely tired...

Processing

I was having a conversation with a friend recently who is working through some hard shit she learned about her past (with her permission: she's adopted and learned she's the product of a rape).  A lot to take in for anyone.  She said, "I feel like I'll never be done processing."  I felt those words.  I can't recall a time in my life I wasn't processing something that happened to me, or if I wasn't then I was stuffing down the pain in some unhealthy way.  

I do feel processing is a necessary part of being a healthy human.  All the people I've met who haven't processed their trauma, "I just don't think about it.  I'm fine." are most certainly not fine and they throw up their inner demons on the rest of us.  But how long does this go on?  For some of us will it never be over?

A friend recently posted this pic that says, "When you can tell your story, and it doesn't make you cry, that's when you know you've healed."  I agree as there are terrible stories of my past I can finally tell without crying.  I still have feelings towards what happened, I'm not numb, but my emotions are in check in a calm manner.  I had a therapist say it a different way, "When you can tell your story the same way you'd talk about the weather then you know you're healed."  

There has been another saying going around that didn't quite sit well with me.  "Trauma is not your fault but healing is your responsibility."  I would carefully say this...Trauma is not your fault. Period. Yes, healing is available and offers hope and freedom. But too often the "your responsibility" part carries unsaid timelines and expectations. Healing comes in waves; you can forgive, go to therapy, do the work and find yourself 5, 10, 15 years later being hit with the trauma from another angle. Though it may appear someone is going on and on about the same tired subject....it's not the same and a new level of processing begins. Ram Dass said, "We are all just walking each other home." And many times that is what is needed more than anything...someone to walk by your side saying, "take all the time you need".

So for those of us doing the work perhaps it's a lifetime of processing.  While understanding the pain and sadness of the past will likely lurk back, I'm learning to have happiness in today.

Am I honest?

I have a lifetime of priding myself on my honesty.  I like to joke that my best quality is that I'm honest and my worst is that I'm really honest.  But am I?  How often do I smile sweetly when I want to rage on a person?  How many times have I said to myself that everything is fine when I was dying inside?  I stay silent to avoid conflict.  I let things go that I shouldn't because I don't want to face the truth of a situation.  I avoid my feelings when facing the truth would force an action I don't want.  So am I honest?

I stayed in my marriage decades longer than I should because telling the truth about it would make me the bad guy.  I pretended I was fine because when others would find out it about it they became a little too interested, gossipy, I felt like a soap opera they where you enjoy watching the drama.  The full truth said out loud would have forced me to act.  So I went numb to not have to deal with it.  So am I honest?

I recently lost a friend when I got honest.  The honesty was not in merely saying how I felt to this person, but also personally accepting the dysfunction in our relationship, and how my silence was a key contributor in this.  Now they will tell you an entirely different story, and they are welcome to that, but in my story it all fell apart when I got honest.  So am I honest?

I'm too terrified of bad karma to do anything dishonest in a monetary way; taxes, payroll, etc... But what about that yoga Groupon where I went to 1 class, they didn't mark redeemed, and now I still have the face value after it expired?  What about the item from Target that was in my bag but wasn't rung up or on the receipt?  What about the gift card I found on Walmart's floor on Black Friday where I didn't ask if anyone dropped it and pocketed it?  So am I honest?

My father was brutally honest; heavy emphasis on the brutal.  He would constantly hurt people by telling them the truth as he saw it.  His favorite commentary was physical appearance; how beautiful or ugly he considered a person, if they weighed an ounce more than he deemed appropriate, race, height...everything was up for his scrutiny and judgement.  I never wanted to be like him so I can't imagine making demeaning comments to another person about how they look.  This means I've lied.  So am I honest?

My biggest honesty issue is how honest I am with myself about my feelings: when I'm hurt, when I'm scared, when I'm angry... I smile and say, "I'm fine.  Everything is fine.  All fine."  So am I honest?

My Next 90 Days

I've felt "off" for about a year now and possibly longer.  Nothing specific but just not as together as I typically am.  At one point each month I'd make some new goals or a plan for organization and well being.  That said, I've been driving with my wedding dress in the trunk of my car for two years, I have boxes in my closet labeled "Shit I can't handle right now", and I can't remember the last time I did exercise involving cardio.  I'm off.  

Saw a Facebook ad a few weeks ago (since Zuckerberg can now read minds) for a planner entitled "My Next 90 Days".  It was appealing.  Worksheets, Reflection Sheets, Thought Prompts, Week at a Glance and Stickers!  The Radiant Raspberry color made my eyes twinkle.  But then I got back to reality and reminded myself I've used a zillion planners, books and prompts, and what actually works for me is a plan with deadlines and achievable goals.  

Back in my running days (and we use the word "run" in its loosest definition for what I did) in order to achieve my goal (marathon) I had to get my miles in.  To get in the miles I had to get up early and split them between morning and night.  Worked decently far from home so there was no room to sleep in, be off by 15 minutes or be in any way lackadaisical.  Having to be highly scheduled meant that everything else in my life had to be in order.  I found I was more productive at work, to do lists were accomplished in record time and I felt secure.  

If I start today then this basically gets me to New Year's Eve (oh so appealing!).  So what do I want in the next 90 days?  When I think on this my eating disorder comes out of hiding and starts screaming about carbs and calories and deprivation.  I've made so many eating plans.  Fuck that noise.  I used to meditate and write every morning, and that grounded me, so I'd like that to be incorporated in some way.  I want something bigger though; I want to look at my choices, ideas, decisions and how I react to life.  In short; I want to fully own my life...in 90 days!!  (Please laugh with me...)  It's a start though.

In the name of accountability, and having a plan, I'll blog about it monthly.  Perhaps you'd like to join me in some way?  Feel free to comment or message me privately.  Encouraging others helps me immensely.  

My Son's Depression

Mental illness runs deep in my family for many generations.  And these are only the diagnosed cases.  I saw psychological issues my entire life, though initially I didn't have a name for the craziness.  I saw families torn a part, insane behavior and people left to be a shell of themselves.  I was scared it would happen to me and even more fearful it would happen to my children.

I tell people my aunt died at 51 of mental illness.  It's an easy explanation and rarely does anyone question me further.  We don't really know how she died; there was alcohol, pills and also the possibility she was killed (crazy side story).  But making a blanket mental illness statement is easiest.  She was an artist and used her art as therapy a lot to process what had happened to her.  Horrifying paintings depicting self hatred and abuse. She had a lifetime of pain and it's hard not to believe that maybe her death was the best thing that could have happened to her tortured heart.

When I got pregnant I wanted a boy.  I hoped, prayed, begged and rubbed my belly every day saying, "Boy Boy Boy" as if I could will the Y chromosome in me.  I was terrified of having a girl.  In my head all the women in the family had mental illness so if I could just have a boy then he'd be safe.  I later learned of the male suicides and had male family members get taken down by it.  I also felt that a girl would be destroyed by my father and having a boy he'd have a chance.  Once my son was born I had my tubes tied so there would be no chance of a baby girl coming from me.

My son's depression seemed to come on after a break up with a horribly abusive ex-girlfriend, though I expect it was happening before then and this is actually what enabled her to keep him.  I tried talking to him, got him a therapist (who he thankfully loves and is still with to this day), made some medication attempts that ended horribly.  A lot of ups and downs but then it felt like it all got very dark for him. If I didn't hear from him at a certain time my first fear was that he'd killed himself.  I'd go into a panic texting, calling, texting my ex-husband, Facebook messages, Twitter messages, Instagram messages and once even charging into the house screaming his name until I found him sleeping in bed.

I don't know how to help my son anymore.  I encourage, check in, offer guidance, pay for therapy but it never feels like enough.  And I do understand this; I know all of these things never got me out of my deepest depression...I wanted it and did it myself.  (Side note: this in no way takes away from therapy, medication and self care.  Hard stop.)  I wanted so much better for him.  I'm mad at it all but nowhere to direct it; mad at my genes, at life, at the universe and at the unknown.

A Big Hard Birthday

I have a difficult birthday coming up in four days.  I'm turning 50.  Yes, it's a time for celebration, and my friends have gone over the top with making sure I feel loved, cared for and not alone.  Yet that number.  That fucking number.  When I hit other age milestones I didn't care that much.  At 30 my son was still a baby and I was so caught up in him that I have no memory of that birthday at all.  40 was a little daunting, and I didn't appreciate my age being written on my calf in marker as I did a triathlon the next day.  Though turning 50 isn't what it's used to be, it clearly signifies your youth is over.

I'm scared to say this, as I've spent a lifetime cutting myself down to beat you to the punch, but I look the best I've ever looked in my life.  I can actually look at some pictures and not cringe and cry as I would before.  I went to a check up with my doctor and she kept looking back at her computer screen, then to me, and back at the screen before she laughed a little.  I said, "Something wrong?".  She said, "No, not at all.  I just have to keep reminding myself you're not in your 30's.  I'm getting notices of all the baselines checks and tests we should be doing for you turning 50 soon and yet there is nothing about you that presents this way.  You are the youngest 49 year old I've ever treated."  How can I look younger but not look like I'm trying to look younger is my daily battle.

We don't get much of a break as women in this area.  It feels like we're not allowed to talk about the reality of what we're facing as it comes back as something to be made fun of, or worse yet something to be used against us.  Either you've let yourself go or if you present as too sexy then you're a cougar on the prowl.  I'm none of these things.  I walk a line between feeling powerful, owning my strength and being proud of my wisdom that age has given me, while on the other side there is shame, fear and regrets that I push aside as they are too painful and nothing I'm able to change.  I go back and forth between insecurity "Do I look OK?  Do I look old? Am I enough?" and "Fuck your opinions".  It's a tiring way to live.

I love pivotal moments.  I love rituals to celebrate, to cleanse and to renew.  So I am looking at the calendar on the last days of my 40's and asking myself, "What is the life you want?  You are closer to death than ever.  You can no longer procrastinate.  All the choice is yours....what do you want?"   First, and I've said this since my divorce, is that I want happiness.  And with the exception of shoes and make up (mind your business...you have something too), I don't care at all about things. I want experiences.  I want to eat well as I laugh with friends.  I want to see amazing sunrises all over the world.  I want to be honest.  Brutally honest.  I want to say, "No".  I want my pain to mean something.  I want to have the bravery to share my most horrific experiences that I survived so someone else feels hope.  I want to release the opinions of others.  I want to make sure those around me know I love them.  

As with most of my blog posts, I don't have a special conclusion here, and I'm OK with that.  Most of life doesn't have perfect answers.  We're all broken, damaged and kicking and clawing our way to our next happy moment.  You're allowed to make mistakes.  Life is full of bad choices.  You're also allowed your own redemption and your own ways to find joy.  It will be over soon....Lets go be happy.

Your Perception

I hate weddings.  When I say hate I don't mean it in the weddings are boring, archaic and a general drag. I mean hate in terms of wanting to slit my throat with a dull knife to get out of it.  Hate them.  But I went to a wedding, or rather had an adventure, where it was magical, lovely and beautiful.  This post isn't about weddings, or my core belief I'll never find love, but about my journey to and from this wedding and the self discovery that happened.

I try to keep my blog rather anonymous so I won't name names here, but a little backstory on what brought me to the Wheel of Bliss retreat center in Hot Springs, North Carolina for a Hippie Mountain Wedding.  I met my friends who married as they were just beginning their journey together.  One was having his 30th birthday party and invited all of his thousands of Facebook friends.  I'd found him, as he was a Christian blogger, and had been following him for sometime but we'd never met.  I saw the party was in Minneapolis, realized that I'd know no one and clearly be the oldest there by a good 15+ years (I'm probably being kind to myself here)....GOING!  I knew he liked yoga so I reached out and asked if he'd like a private class for his birthday.  This morphed into renting a phenomenal space in NE Minneapolis, private candlelit class with a theme of "I am enough".  With the exceptions of the 2 classes I taught at his wedding, I still rank this as the most powerful class I've ever taught (and of no credit to me...the energy in the room was felt by all).  I've become close to these two over the years and was thrilled to be invited to be part of their day.

I also had the honor and joy of meeting another Facebook friend who is one of my biggest supporters and a dear close friend.  We talk nearly every day but had never met.  Flew in to meet her, had an amazing time and then way too soon she was dropping me off at the rental car place for me to drive to the wedding.

Renting a car scared me.  I've done it before but someone was always with me.  This felt daunting and lonely.  I was terrified they'd try to sell me extra insurance and I'd be stuck paying because they would be too persistent for me to say no.  It was easy, car rented, I was decently comfortable in it and off.

Driving in the North Carolina mountains was beautiful and terrifying for me.  My achrophobia was killing me as I went down steep inclines.  This also brought up scary memories of another time I drove a long distance alone.  I was 19 with just enough money for gas and some food and that's it.  No cellphone, no credit card, no GPS, no one to call for help.  I was driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles.  I looked at the sun rising, figured out which way was south and started driving.  My car was a total piece of shit with nothing but a gas gauge and speedometer.  I had a gallon of water and some bagels.  Panic attack the entire way.  With a brief detour in Compton, I made it.

I had to remind myself this was no longer that experience, I was no longer that person and that I would survive.  I told myself of all my resources: phone, credit cards, cash, AAA, internet, to keep myself grounded.  Yet I still had to tell myself to breathe.  Once I was deep in the mountains I lost texting and internet but my GPS kept going.  It directed me to the First Baptist Church of Hot Springs "Your destination is on the left".  The humor wasn't lost on me.  

I then saw there was a Welcome Center, so surely they could help me.  Walked in asking for the Wheel of Bliss retreat center and the old hippie at the desk had never heard of it.  My resources were mostly gone for getting there and I held back tears.  He looked up the website and said he loves places like this and is always looking for one.  He called some "spiritual people" he knows and one explained it was on Meadow Fork and not Meadow Lane as the website had said.  Another 30 minutes away "you're about to go on a very twisty road", "I though the road was already twisty!"...dead look.  So I started twisting and turning my way around the mountain.  It was the craziest curvy road I'd ever seen.  The motion sensor on the car, to keep you in your lane, was beeping out of control. Fighting through tears I pressed on.  When I got to my location the caretaker was there and directed me in.  It looked like I had to take a left and plummet down a huge hill.  He assured me I was fine, and though I wasn't convinced I made the turn.  I pictured the car going over a ravine where I'd surely fall to my death but not after a torturous ride down.  Again trying to regain my bearings I found the parking (up a huge hill), and not understanding how far up another hill the retreat center was, I hauled my huge suitcase up a gravel road in the mountain.  When I arrived I was trying to be cool but I'd had it.  Everyone was welcoming and kind and I softened to the moment.

The wedding was wonderful.  I was accepted and loved and truly felt happy for their joy (I typically don't feel this).  But I had to get back.  I drank and smoked a lot, as I was upset over some other things at home, but also in panic about the drive back through those mountains.  I woke up my final morning and walked back to the entrance where I was sure the steepest more harrowing incline was...and it was a little hill.  It was nothing.  Even in my fear I knew I could drive out.  I started driving down that twisting road that I'd come in on and it was actually pretty peaceful. 

I started to make my way back over the mountains, preparing myself for the panic to come back and deciding how I was going to breathe through this.  After awhile I calmed, even allowed myself to play some music and sing.  I kept wondering when the big mountains would come.  I found I was then 30 minutes from my original location and I'd already gone over the mountains.  They weren't so big after all.

I really wish I had better insights here than the tired old "perception is everything' or "change the way you look at things", but that's it.  I had blown up my fears to the point of being in physical pain.  I had decided the ride would be scary and bad...and it was scary and bad.  I smirked on the plane going back as I thought of my ride back and how it was calm and easy.  I have PTSD and my survival responses are to be on high alert.  Yet the danger wasn't real.  I wasn't alone.  I have people who care what happens to me.  

I even changed my perception on the address glitch and the old hippie at the Welcome Center...I've decided I needed to get off my path to let him know of this place, before I could continue my journey.  

We're all going to make it.  It's not the end.

My Body Pain and My Emotional Pain

I've written before about my condition, Seronegative Spondyloarthropathy, which falls under the fibromyalgia umbrella, and the continual body pain I experience.  I lead an active life, smile and laugh a lot, and most days hide the agony I'm in.  I push through where others would probably lie down in defeat.  Now I don't consider my resilience to be any great attribute of mine, but more my anger and denial that this is happening to me and there seems to be nothing I can do.  As I've said in previous posts about this, please don't give me ideas of what you think I should be doing.  I have nearly 30 years of this and I'm well-versed in possible treatments.  

I was reading an article yesterday written by Lady Gaga about her PTSD diagnosis and how it expresses in body pain.  She writes, "when I am unable to regulate my anxiety, it can result in somatization, which is pain in the body caused by an inability to express my emotional pain in words".  This resonates deeply.  

I've been drinking a lot lately.  Self-medicating.  After writing my previous post about watching a friend blow up her life by being with an abuser she married the fucker.  And blocked me.  I'll just leave that there as there is nothing I can do at this point.  I found after writing that post, and witnessing her horrific choices, that I was sobbing on a daily basis.  At first I thought it was hormonal as I do have PMDD (yes, a life of medical acronyms is quite a treat), but it kept going on much longer than it should.  And while normally I can put on a brave face in front of others I was uncontrollably breaking down.  The pain in my body became horrendous which resulted in me trying to numb it more.  I told a few close friends about the crying but not the pain, as being in agony is part of my daily existence.

So though I see a direct correlation between a PTSD trigger and pain, I don't know what to do about it.  As with most things in life, I keep trying new ideas, take what works and leave the rest.  Though some days nothing works.  There are many times the answer is feel the pain.  Feel the emotional pain, feel the body pain and feel the anguish of not being able to do anything else.  All this pisses me off to no end.  Yet it's my reality.  

So I'll wipe my tears, rub some CBD oil on my neck, take a deep breath and face the day.  Failing isn't an option for me.

Witnessing another's self-destruction

Though I do still process my trauma from my past, all in all I'm pretty far along in my healing journey.  Triggers still happen but they don't immobilize me as they used to.  The horrific events no longer overshadow today.  Yet what can bring it all rushing back in vivid color and terror is watching it happen to another person with no way to stop it.  

I currently have two friends dealing with abusive relationships.  One of the two just got out, and though struggling, she's waking up each morning to do the work to get to the other side.  The other is in deep and won't admit to what is right in front of her face.  I've expended way too much energy on this, as she has made it clear she's staying and doesn't want help, yet I can't look away.

My best friend told me "You are allowed to walk away from this.  You do not have to be her savior.  You are allowed to save yourself first."  I agreed, and thanked her for the reminder, but added that when I talk openly about what happened to me, when I share my truth, and the few times I help someone get out, it heals me just a little more.  It's all a delicate balance that I need to observe and stay aware of when I'm helping another or when I'm hurting myself.

I'm well versed in what abuse looks like both from my personal experience as well as hearing the stories of others, helping get protection orders, calling the police and pleading with friends to leave before they are killed.  Abuse is tricky as it's not simply a matter of being punched in the face and walking away forever.  Abuse cycles are well known yet you excuse it away when you are in it as you don't want to believe this could happen to you.

When you watch someone in an abusive relationship it can be maddening to see them ignore this monster's actions.  Though it can manifest in many different ways, in my experience it always starts like this: the victim meets someone and instantly feels they are everything they've ever wanted, claim to be in love before getting to know them, fast relationship status (which sometimes means marriage) and very shortly after the first incident happens.  The first time they are abused they tend to be a bit dumbfounded.  There is cognitive dissonance because this person was supposed to be the soul mate they've always wanted yet their behavior switched on them.  While still in shock, and maybe even ending it briefly, the abuser comes back with words of love, apology, gifts and promises.  The victim wants to believe those things, and not look at the reality of the situation, and goes back once again.  This pattern continues and only intensifies and gets worse with each incident.  The victim needs to hit a rock bottom before getting out....and hopefully rock bottom isn't their death.  

I'm getting flashes of the stories I've heard and what I've seen in my lifetime.  Watching my mother's body fly across the porch as her abuser beat her, hearing a friend tell of having her hand broken by a shovel and while hiding in her bedroom being told, "I'll kill you and dance on your grave.  I'll fuck your mother up the ass.", seeing my coworker come in with more makeup daily to hide the bruises.  In every one of these situations this wasn't the first time, as they all had domestic violence records a mile long.  

To my friend: I wish I'd had the perfect words to convey to you that he's a piece of shit.  I wish you saw your worth and weren't swayed by his lies.  I know you are mad, or at least annoyed, that I'm not falling for his bullshit and continue to call it out.  I know he's isolating you more and more from anyone that poses a threat to him.  I'm terrified for you.  But know this; you aren't alone and I am ready and waiting to help when you finally see that he's an abusive predator.  I hope it's not too late.

To myself: you did the best you could.  When you ultimately hit rock bottom you scratched and clawed your way out.  You've done amazing inner work and should be proud, as so many give up and never try.  You did it.

My Story Is Not My Own

Though I have a draw, dare I say a calling, to talk about things I don't actually want to talk about, I'm still hesitant.  I've been bold, I've revealed secrets, I've been raw, but I'm holding back.  You see my story isn't my own.  My story, all of our stories, have other characters.  I'm facing that to speak my truth means talking about experiences others don't want shared.  This story isn't only about me.  

I'm the villain in other people's stories.  Though if they said the awful thing I did, I can fully justify it (to myself) that I had good reason for my actions.  But to tell about the bad people in my life, or at least poor responses and actions, means opening it up for them to speak about me. It's fair.  Am I prepared for the ramifications of sharing the stories where it's not all about me?

I hate confrontation.  I despise conflict.  No, I don't want to talk about it.  Though the real bottom line is I don't want to hurt anyone.  With the exceptions of a few evil monsters along the way, I'm not looking for retaliation.  What I say may bring embarrassment to others.  Would you want your worst mistakes told out loud?  

Now though all this is the complete truth there is one big thing I'm not saying: I fear critique.  The internet is a hard core place where people can hide behind a computer or phone and rip you to shreds.  I fully own I'm too insecure to face that kind of ridicule. Or worse...laughter.  

So just don't say anything, right?  But it's eating me up.  I'm no savior but I know I have important, and awful, experiences that someone needs to hear.  I have what...30-40 years left at best?  I don't believe in an after life, so why do I care?  Perhaps only the writers, creatives and empaths will understand....I need to say it.  

Scarcity

I realized a made a big financial mistake today.  The short version is I thought I was contributing to an HSA but it was an FSA (use it or lose it) and I missed the deadline and lost quite a bit of money.  OK, no one died, I'm fine but my fears of not having enough, not making it and survival are spinning out of control. Lesson learned, and it won't matter in the end, but it was my mistake.  My Mistake.  My Fault.  My Screw Up.  If you've read even a few of my posts you'll know that I'll get near ill at anything I don't do perfectly (which is pretty much everything).  

I won't say I grew up poor; we had food, clothing and vacations, but there was a scarcity mentality.  My father acted like we could be desolate at any moment and frequently said so.  There was never a comforting, "You don't need to worry because your parents will take care of you."  Money was something to be worried about and feared.  Once my parents divorced when I was 15 we were flat out poor  No new school clothes and cream of chicken soup with noodles every night for dinner.  I once stole a bra from JC Penneys because I knew my mother didn't have the money to get me a new one.  I came home sobbing and begging forgiveness to Jesus saying "What else could I do???". 

From then on life was about hustle.  I knew no one was going to take care of me and I was on my own.  I can't recall the last time I worked only 1 job.  My near constant thought was "What will happen to me if I don't have enough?"  And enough of what?  Money?  Food?  Clothes?  Shelter?  Any of it, all of it, even the unseen and unknown.  What bad thing might happen to me and would I be prepared to handle it?  

This lead to a life of a scarcity mindset.  I remember once trying to choose between a pretty sweater I loved and some cheap t-shirts on clearance.  I had the concern that if there was a war that I would need t-shirts to work in a machine shop and the beautiful sweater would be of no use.  Was a fucking war eminent?  NO!  Yet somehow I was in terror that I might not be properly attired to be Rosie the Riveter.  Anxiety doesn't always make sense.  I bought the cheap t-shirts.

I've had the overwhelming desire to get rid of all the shit I don't use.  Marie Kondo the hell out of my place.  Now while being a big task this is much more about the petrifying fear it will bring.  The shame of all the things I purchased and never used.  The breath stopping panic that I might get rid of something I'll need later and then won't have the means to get another.  

Back to my mistake.  Again, I'm fine but it was a doozie.  I'm livid at myself.  Not allowing myself any grace here.  But maybe, in going with my commitment to allow hope for a year, just maybe I can be OK.  

Exposure

ex·po·sure

/ikˈspōZHər/

noun

1. 1.

   the state of being exposed to contact with something.

   
   
2. 2.

   the revelation of an identity or fact, especially one that is concealed or likely to arouse disapproval.

This may be my rawest post to date if I can walk through the fires of fear and allow myself to get burned.  I can no longer be stagnant.  I need to keep moving through growth, through pain and through disappointment.  I know I'll never reach the other side, whatever that may be, but I need to keep looking in that direction.  Brutal self honesty is my only hope.  I fear who will leave in the process.  I worry about others not being able to take it.  But my movement towards peace in my life journey is more important than the thoughts and opinions of the weak. Was that a little judgey?  Yep.  And if weakness gives you happiness and joy then please revel in it.  But know that I'm not your people.

One of my greatest fears is being forced to expose information about myself that's not on my terms.  I've written before about how I overshare to avoid vulnerability, and use performances in the same way, to give you the illusion I've said a lot when it's all a diversion tactic.  Opening up and sharing intimate details about myself, my fears, my insecurities, things I've done; has been used against me many times.  Even with those closest to me, who love me unconditionally (yeah, there's a few), I still fear there is some dealbreaker lurking, so I need to be careful about what I say.  I don't like being laughed at unless I'm telling the joke with myself as the punchline.  I don't like the feeling that someone has something on me.  I want to be in control of everything about me. 

Yet I'm not in control at all.  This past week I came home to a note on my door saying I had to get rid of my cat, Teddy, because it was against the rules to have pets. Now being the hyper vigilant freak that I am, I of course had read the rules.  Reread them and it said cats were allowed.  I called the board president, who left the note on my door, and started a rant about what the rules said.  What we ultimately figured out is that when I bought my place they gave me the rules for the wrong condo.  The building next to me allows cats and mine does not.  Of course if I could prove Teddy was my emotional support animal I could keep him.  It would mean having my doctor fill out a form stating my diagnosis, why I need him, and then the board has to approve or deny.  The board president hates me and has spent the last year and a half ready to pounce if I breathe wrong.  She truly does it with glee.  I consider her my arch enemy and now I have to let her know my shit in order to keep my cat.  Fuck.  

So my doctor filled out their form (which had questionable language) and my therapist is writing a letter.  I feel confident I'll be approved and a back up plan (big ass lawsuit) is in place if they dare deny me.  But now strangers get to know I have PTSD.  That bitch who can't stand me gets to know where I am weak.  I didn't want this and I can't even speak for myself as it calls for "professional opinion".  It's making me ill.  No control.

Lots of people have PTSD so what's the big deal, right?  It's not the diagnosis but more all the reasons I have PTSD. I work so hard to maintain this facade of being powerful and unshakable.  I don't want anyone know how to get to me.  While I work hard, intensely responsible, and have my shit together....keeping control of this information feels vital to survival.  

I'm pretty certain that my path is actually all about exposure.  I know and believe that if I can allow true vulnerability, and see that another can hold my trauma and still stay, that I could truly heal.  I know I have experiences that others need to hear.  I believe someone needs to hear the goriest of details of my worst shame so they can find their way out too.  I was given this big ass mouth for a reason.  (And nobody had better dare say "everything happens for a reason" or I'll cut you).  I need to be able to expose myself with my head held high and not shaking with terror.  I'm close.

“I was going to die, sooner or later, whether or not I had even spoken myself. My silences had not protected me. Your silences will not protect you.... What are the words you do not yet have? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence? We have been socialized to respect fear more than our own need for language.

Next time, ask: What's the worst that will happen? Then push yourself a little further than you dare. Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it's personal. And the world won't end.

And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have discovered your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And at last you'll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.”

― Audre Lorde

I Get Derailed Easily

I get derailed easily and fast.  Relatively minor events can send me into a tailspin that spirals me into a dark and lonely place.  Small moments send me back to terrible times and I make associations with the present and past that do not exist.  

I've been looking for a cat for a few months.  I adore cats, and due to my ex-husband hating them, I've been without a cat for many years.  I'm also late 40's, and single AF, so cat lady felt appropriate. I really wanted a black cat.  And I found my perfect little panther named Vixen.  She was shiny black with sparkling blue eyes.  I submitted to adopt her and a home visit was planned.  I started looking at pink cat beds and towers.  I planned where her play area would be.  I dreamed up the Facebook post I would do about her.  I believed I would get her any day. 

The day before the home visit I received a text saying my kitty, Vixen, had been adopted by someone else.  I was never given a heads up that others were in the running before me and I could lose her.  I started out angry but this morphed into hurt.  Friends were trying to comfort me sending me cat pictures of other adoptable cats.  It was just a cat, right?  Yet losing this cat got bigger in my head.  The cat became every major loss I'd experienced.  Not getting her became every situation where I crumbled from disappointment.  "Why?" turned into "Why me?" which descended into "Why is it always me?"  Loneliness overtook me.  I shut off the lights, took a scalding bath, and sobbed for a loss of something I never had.

When this kind of spiral happens it amplifies anything in my life I see as off or wrong.  Headlight out, drain in the bathroom sink is messed up, taxes aren't together, medical procedure I'm scared about. None of these are life-ending things.  Life fucks up every day and these are truly minor inconveniences.  Yet my nervous system was in full survival mode.  Logic couldn't override the feelings.

I know I do this, and I know what experiences happened in my past to trigger these responses.  Awareness helps as I take active steps to pull it together instead of allowing a free fall into despair.  I get exasperated at myself that these "everything is awful" feelings still spring up.  Yet I can't control them.  I can manage them but I haven't found a way to make the thoughts not happen.

Maybe my hope of being a person that can shrug things off and smile is fully unrealistic.  Would any ESFJ, Leo, Type A, PTSD person ever think the glass is half full?  I'm a realist.  Perhaps I can get to a place where I'm content to have the glass at all and not feeling like it's almost empty and I'm dying of thirst.  

Will I ever be healed?

“healing comes in waves, and I'm allowed to feel every rise and every fall of my tide.” ~ Alexandra Elle

Will I ever be healed?  Or perhaps the question is really; will I ever not be broken?  At the end of yoga class today, lying on my mat, I started to cry.  I felt old trauma coming up, issues I've dealt with repeatedly over the years, yet at that moment they were as fresh as when they happened.  This occurs frequently when processing your past, especially a past with a shit ton of nightmares, but it comes in waves.  No two waves are the same in the ocean and it's the same for healing from memories that come back.  Yes, same old fucking issue but taken from a new vantage point, a place of greater strength, a more supportive time.  

I'm not the person I was when these painful instances happened.  I'm new daily.  I'm stronger than I've ever been and see nothing but power on my horizon.  Power over my future, power over my voice, power over who I surround myself with....yet power over the memories, that can bitch slap you out of nowhere, still feels impossible for me to escape.  I've done the therapy, I've done the hard work, but some things run so deep through my soul, truly the core of all I am, that I fear I'll never fully have freedom from the pain.

My yoga teacher spoke about fear in a pose and looking for the escape plan.  I can only feel so much before anxiety and agony overwhelm me and I run for some perceived safety.  On good days I go to yoga, meditate, call a friend, write and get outside a breath.  Good days.  But most days aren't good days.  I also online shop, waste hours on Facebook, drink too much wine, smoke too much weed and stuff myself with sugar.  Don't get worried, my shit is together.  I'm known far and wide for my high level of responsibility.  Yet looking out my window, alone, once I've taken care of the day's tasks, it all comes rushing back.  

As I've said before, I know my words heal.  I know my vulnerability, though truly so limited right now, is what someone needs.  I'm using my suffering for good.  But I'm so pissed.  I'm livid I have to do this.  In the 80's there was a popular song by Moving Pictures called "What about me?" and I felt it was my life's song.  Still do. 

And now I'm standing on the corner, all the world's gone home
Nobody's changed, nobody's been saved
And I'm feeling cold and alone
I guess I'm lucky, I smile a lot
But sometimes I wish for more than I've got

What about me? It isn't fair
I've had enough, now I want my share
Can't you see, I want to live
But you just take more than you give

What about me?
What about me?
What about....me

I feel like I need to put focus on accepting that some things aren't repairable.  Though I can cry the tears and face the world with a smile to mask the pain; some memories will always hurt.  I'm OK though.  Perhaps being broken actually helps weed out the weak people who can't handle adversity and struggle.  Either way....I'll go on.