Managing It

I woke up in a good mood. Light week for work being the week between Christmas and New Year's, the holidays were actually decent for me which is rare, and there isn't anything too bad looming in the distance. My pain levels had been increasing for days as the things I use to manage and keep it to a level where I can still function had been taken away with holiday stuff and frankly laziness. I saw as the day wore on that my irritation was heightened. I felt like people were telling me things to purposefully jab at me when they were only talking. I started fighting with people online, and though I joke that it's fun for me (it is), I observed that everything was making me angry and my pain was getting worse.

Deal with the anger or the pain? Are they even separate? I stopped fighting and reached out to friends. One validated my feelings while also confirming that my fighting was only hurting myself. Another gave me just enough comfort that I was able to calm and walk away. I finally got away from social media and went to my yoga mat. As I breathed before doing anything I felt the agony of the pains throughout my body. Though I've been told my condition isn't progressive I can feel the pain is worse. Bessel Van der Kolk's book, "The Body Keeps the Score", talks about how we hold our trauma in our bodies. Yoga theory says we hold our emotions in our bodies. This felt very real as I became full of rage, and my muscles spasmed, and I held back tears.

So much work. I can't imagine most people could fathom the level of work I am constantly doing on myself. It's why when someone tells me I should work on myself that I'll smile and hold back telling them they should work on fucking themselves. I'm exhausted from all the work. I feel like I've been swimming in a turbulent ocean forever, and sometimes get sight of the shore, only to be taken over by a wave. When someone throws out a hurtful cliché, or commentary as to what they feel is wrong with me, it feels like being hit over the head just as you are trying to gasp for air. I will always be a work in progress. I know its only through the work that we make it to the other side. But I'm so very tired.

I did my yoga, breathed hard, and saw a huge correlation between my pain and my anger. They fuel each other and keep me in a state of aggression and suffering. My question is which I should manage first yet I know the answer is both. 

I don't hate my anger as it helped me survive. Had I not gotten livid at what happened to me I would have given up. Being angry gave me drive, it helped me endure, and it got me to this moment. I'm not sure what the pain did for me but I guess it could be said it made me more aware of everything. I don't like either but I accept each has its place. 

How much of this comes down to caring about myself first? Putting my peace above the need to slam someone? Doing what is best for my pain levels in managing my emotions?

I take another breath and try once more.

The Stocking

I write letters to a site called Future Me frequently which allows you to send a note to yourself some time in the future. I send them a month out or even years from now, with the purpose of self observation, seeing how bad situations work out, or simply to give myself reminders of things I feel I need to know. I woke up this morning to a Future Me letter from Christmas morning of 2020. I had apparently done some manifesting work and had been encouraged to project what I'd like to the future so this letter came from a year prior detailing my hopes and dreams. It was a long letter that went to great detail of my hopes for today. Nothing, not a single thing, came true. In fact, I'd say it happened for everyone around me but just not for me. Had it been goals I hadn't achieved, things that require action and effort, I could have regrouped and tried again. Yet my longings were the things that seem to be random luck as to whether you get it or not. Another year of nothing. 

I tried to stuff it down but then the Christmas texts started coming in. "Merry Christmas! What are you doing today?" Today I'm doing not doing anything. Today I'm alone. And I don't want to talk about it or have anyone feel sorry for me. I got through a few more texts and then the tears began to fall. I wiped my face as I replied back "I'm doing good. Might do some yoga later and hit the Christmas wine early. Have a great day with your family!" I glanced back at the Future Me letter and the sobbing grew harder. I looked at my little Christmas tree and decided I would take what little decorations I have up and store them away. I don't want to see it anymore.

A few weeks prior to today I'd looked over at a card I received and noticed a Christmas stocking as part of the picture on it. Wavering between trying not to feel, and fully wallowing in self pity, I thought back to my Christmas stockings of the past 25 years. When I was married I did most everything for Christmas. Even hating it I wanted my son to have good memories and to feel happy. In my family growing up Christmas stockings were really just for candy and presents were wrapped under the tree. I did the same when I had a family of my own but usually including a few trinkets the person might like, a gift card, or something of that nature. And every year I got nothing. I'd bring out the stockings and my husband would make a surprised face and turn to me and say, "sorry....I forgot yours". Every. Single. Year. Now he did give me nice Christmas gifts or at least gift cards to places I genuinely liked. But not once did I have anything in my stocking. I'd look over and give a lock jawed smile, nodding that I understood he was supposedly sorry for letting me down once again. All that empty stocking said to me was that I didn't matter.

While minimally decorating for the holidays I came across my old stocking. I looked at it with pain and hatred with the added reminder that once again it would most definitely be empty. I pondered what I could do to turn this around. How could I bring myself some peace or even just a little smile. With this thought in mind I came across a truly frivolous item. Something I didn't need, a bit obnoxious and over the top, and what I'd truly love. I decided this was my gift to myself for enduring so many years of misery. This would be my little trophy to say that I do matter...even if only to myself. I purchased at the first of the week, regular shipping, and by some twist of fate it came in time for Christmas. 

So today I'll sit home alone, likely drink too much wine, and stare out the window wanting time to speed up and have this day be done. I'll write a Future Me letter to next year with the hope that maybe it will be different the next time. I'll look at my new shiny silver glitter purse, and tell myself that I can fill my own stocking, and perhaps this is simply what my life experience will be. 

My only Thanksgiving dinner

Though I'm well into middle age, decently beyond in fact, I have only cooked one Thanksgiving dinner in my life. The expectation is of course being female and a mother that all of a Thanksgiving meal is on me to prepare. I appreciate some men proudly cook, and that's wonderful, but the stigma still remains for women.

My parents divorced the summer I turned 16 and it was about as tumultuous and bitter as they come. My father was insistent on having us the actual day of all holidays and my mother gave this to him to keep the peace. I walk in the door to my father's house, say "Happy Thanksgiving", and he turns to me and says, "When are you going to start cooking?". Sure I could put together basics for myself; boil some noodles, toast, heat a pizza, but I didn't have a clue as to what an entire Thanksgiving meal would entail. Did he say I should know because I'm female or was that the undertone of it all? I can't recall but I walked into the kitchen in tears with all of Thanksgiving resting on me.

My brothers were watching a parade or football on TV while my father hung with them though coming into the kitchen to critique my work. "The turkey doesn't look right." "How are you going to mash those potatoes?". I was incensed with nowhere to put it. Being the only one with a uterus there I was expected to inherently have this skill in my back pocket. I held it together and somehow pulled it off. It wasn't good, it looked worse than something out of a school cafeteria, but it was edible enough that none of us died. 

By the next Thanksgiving my father had remarried as getting a wife to take care of all the "women shit" was first and foremost on his agenda. I managed to go between their house, my mother's, and eventually my in-laws only having to bring pie, rolls or salad. Basically things I could buy and not have to cook. 

It was around this time that I began hating all holidays. If it involved family or tradition it became a day of pain, stress and anxiety. Getting married didn't help things as I married into as much dysfunction as I had with my family. I ate over it, drank over it, and popped any pill the doctor would give me to shove down the agony of the day.

When I see pictures of beautifully cooked turkeys I still think about my father and I peering in on that ugly dead bird in his oven and cringe at how I felt I had no choice. I was indoctrinated to believe that being female my worth was in my homemaking skills, having babies and being subservient to a husband. I sucked at all of these. I have friends today who are living huge lives, no children by choice, and striving towards their hopes and dreams, and while happy for them there is envy that I didn't feel I could do the same. Now I'm thrilled that I have my son, he was deeply wanted and is the reason I've stayed alive many times. But I didn't see that I had choices. I didn't see any other way.

I am here today happily single, no turkey in the oven and a little hungover from the night before where I laughed, danced and lived out loud. At this stage of the game I know I'll never have to cook a Thanksgiving meal again and I couldn't be happier about that.

Honoring Her

I woke up today to a gorgeous sunrise. There was hot pink in the clouds and back in my Evangelical days I liked to tell myself if I saw hot pink, my favorite color, that meant God loved me. Cute little idea I made up to comfort myself when all signs said otherwise. I now see only the beauty of nature without ridiculous meanings but still love a hot pink sunrise. As with most tragic events in life I didn't see what was coming.

A friend had texted me asking how I knew my friend Bridget. This is a typical thing to do in social media when you see you both know someone and are curious as to how the connection happened. I thought nothing of it. Scrolling through Facebook while starting to text my friend back I see a post that sent me sideways. It looked like something had happened to Bridget but I was confused and couldn't figure it out. I then see the words "Sorry...she didn't make it." What? Who didn't make it? Didn't make what? I scrolled further and was pummeled with the posts saying she'd been hit by a car, driver drove away, and she later died. 

I'm piecing together when we met and the timeline of our friendship. I started going to her yoga classes after running a marathon injured and having no other outlet for exercise. She was an amazing guide who could get you into a pose and help you to feel the full expression of it. Though I say my first time I stepped on a mat was 23 years ago, my true yoga practice didn't come about until I met her. I started taking her workshops and got deeper into my yoga journey. When I was curious about yoga teacher training she was my biggest encourager. She believed in me when no one else did. After becoming a teacher she vouched for me and helped me to get a teaching job where she was teaching. There was an acceptance I felt which motivated me to try harder. My most profound mentor.

When someone dies it's typical for people to gush about them, push aside their bad qualities and anoint them to sainthood. But for Bridget she truly was one of the good people. She exuded a kindness that was genuine. When you spoke she listened, was engaged and you felt heard and seen. She radiated a glow around her of warmth and love. She didn't gossip, didn't speak bad about others, and was held in high regard by anyone that came in her presence. The world was truly a better place with her in it.

All the clichés on death are screaming in my head ~ tell people what they mean to you before it's too late, you don't know what you've got till it's gone, I thought there would be more time. Yet they are true. I know I thanked her but did she know just how deeply she touched me? Perhaps I didn't know until this moment. 

So I am pondering how I can honor this amazing woman who I had the priviledge of being in my life for a short time. I look to how she lived her life ~ with kindness, compassion for all, understanding and love. I don't know when my last day will be but I'm committing to a new path of being like Bridget.

My favorite saying which is used frequently in yoga fully defines her life:

Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu ~ May all beings everywhere be happy and free and may the thoughts, words and actions of my own life contribute to that happiness and freedom for all.

Thank you, Bridget. Thank you for your teaching, your wisdom, your guidance, your belief in me and for showing us all how to live. I'll miss you deeply.

He was human

I don't hide that I'm glad my father is dead. I know that's harsh for many to hear as they had a lifetime of being cared for and adored but that wasn't my experience. Today is his birthday. I'm sure one of my brothers is composing some post to honor him, which I will completely ignore. Even when he tried to love me you could tell it was difficult for him. He told me to my face "You are my least favorite." Well gee...then I'm not even a favorite at all. All the "Daddy Issues" snarky cuts and comments apply here. He messed me up.

This isn't about his backstory but I do need to acknowledge how horribly abused he was as a child. He felt by not beating us in the front yard with other kids laughing (this happened to him) that he'd broken the cycle. Instead of going to therapy and dealing with his trauma he became a pastor. I'd say the jokes write themselves from here but that's a pretty painful statement.

Recently I was shuffling my Spotify and one of my favorite songs came on, "Don't fall in love with a dreamer". A memory came back that I'd long forgotten where my father said how much he loved that song. I blew it off in the moment out of not caring but now so many years later it struck me as an odd song for him to like. The song is about two lovers last night together knowing they will say goodbye forever in the morning. My father was hard core Baptist and I can't fathom this had ever been his experience, yet it hit him hard. Another memory sprung up of him telling he loved the song "Memory". 

Touch me
It's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun...

I sensed sadness and regret from him when he'd told of loving these songs. And if I dig deep I could say he always had a melancholy sadness. I do know he wanted to love me. What hurts the most was it was obligatory love and not natural. He believed in truth at all costs so this is why he had no issue telling me I didn't measure up. How much of his own self hatred was projected onto me? Why me? I hurt him too. After a 3 hour knock down fight at a restaurant where I sobbed for him to hear me and care about me, I left saying, "I love you Dad but I don't like you." He never let that go and carried it to his grave.

My father was a human trying to get by on this planet and he made statements that destroyed me. He was a human. Only human. If I allow him grace then how much more grace should I allow myself?

He died at 73 years old of Alzheimer's. His older sister died 2 months later of this. His younger sister now has it. My chances don't look good. I have relationships that need reconciliation. I have some people that I never want to see again. So this gives me roughly 21 years give or take to make it right.

Why are you still thinking about that?

I've been in and out of some form of therapy for at least 30 years. If you looked at the subjects and issues I speak to my therapist(s) about you'd say I was crying over the same stuff with no getting to the other side. Yet I've found even when going over the same things, the therapy and what I get out of it is different. You let something out, gain a new insight, and maybe it's good for a bit but then a memory comes back that sends you sideways and you look at it from a new angle. It's the same but it's not. 

Most people expect our healing to be linear and if you aren't "all better" in whatever timeline they deem appropriate then it's on you. I once had a pastor say that if you weren't over something within a year, no matter how horrific or how long the trauma went on, then you were now sinning. Gee....the church victim blaming? Who would have seen that coming?! Thankfully I no longer believe in "sin" so I'm free to go at whatever pace is right for me.

We tend to expect others to turn their feelings off and on at will. We are dismissive when we see pain that we feel should have been done by now. So the hurting person stays silent for fear of being shamed or having some well worn cliché thrown in their face. We applaud those that seem to skip through life without a care and chastise those whose feelings and thoughts linger on what happened to them. 

Hanging onto bad memories is also a trauma response. Our minds feel the need to stay on guard and part of that is holding the memories close. Our brains do not have the same wiring as those who haven't experienced horror. In many ways we feel behind compared to others.

I do have many thoughts and memories I don't share because I feel to do so would bring on shaming. If you made a bad choice then you might further silence yourself for fear of being told you deserve this pain. Though I will say after decades of this I'm a little better at figuring out who is safe for me. 

When teaching yoga or meditation I frequently say, "You can't control your thoughts. Your brain is going to fire them over and over, and this is good as it means you're alive! But you can acknowledge a thought without attaching to it and spiraling downward with it." I'm working on staying away from that spiral.

The Number

When I travel and first open the door to my hotel I'm always a little excited to see if I have a fabulous room. I love looking around to find anything special or unexpected. While recently traveling I found myself in a gorgeous suite in Las Vegas; amazing view, sunken living room area, phenomenal shower, and a scale. I don't have an exact date but I'd estimate I haven't stepped on a scale in roughly 7 years. Scales are deadly to me in all ways physical and emotional. 

I have an eating disorder that I'm purposefully vocal about both for my healing and the healing of others. A large part of my disorder is a preoccupation with numbers. If you know me well you'll know I actually hate dealing with numbers and it's certainly not my gift in life. When I'm deeply into my disorder my entire life revolves around numbers: weight, measurements, sizes, BMI, hours exercised, calories eaten, calories burned, steps taken, air breathed. At my worst I would weigh myself compulsively; when I woke up, after using the bathroom, after eating, and even in the middle of the night. I would check the sizing of my clothes repeatedly throughout the day and then try desperately to remember if that item of clothing ran large or small, how it fit the last time I wore it, what my weight was the last time I wore it, and endless other questions that I usually couldn't remember the answers to and still I kept asking. I've had times I've cut all the sizes out of my clothes only to still try to figure out what size I thought it was. I say jokingly but with full truth "If you hear me talking numbers then I'm not well."

I gasped when I saw the scale. It was a pretty glass one that complimented the bathroom well. I knew what was going to happen and didn't try and stop it. If I'd reached out to someone in recovery I would have been advised to put it somewhere I couldn't see it or ask the hotel to take it away while I was staying there. But I wanted to know that number. Felt terrified and at the same time excited. I controlled myself the first day but by the morning of the second I woke up thinking about it. I stood before it feeling hopeless as if I had no choice but to do this. I thought for a moment of what number would be acceptable and what number I figured it might be and then stepped on. It was worse that I'd anticipated. Double digits worse. I felt dizzy and held onto the wall as I tried to regulate my breathing. Reminded myself my clothes fit and nothing had actually changed other than I now knew what I weighed. As I got dressed everything felt tight and constricting. Tears welled up in my eyes and I simultaneously started to plan how to lose the weight while also completely defeated.

Eating disorders aren't about weight - they are about control. When life feels unmanageable it's the one thing we can do that no one can take from us. I can starve, over exercise, binge, abuse laxatives, take massive amounts of pills for "energy" or "metabolism" or straight up speed, go on a "detox" (for those of us with ED this is a cute way to restrict that you are praised for), and mistreat my body in ways you'll never know. We can hyper focus on something other than what we need to be dealing with in our lives. 

I'm home now and that number hangs in the air. I put on a pair of pants I wanted to wear yesterday and they were way too tight. My mind flashed to the number on the scale. Mind racing "Fuck! How am I going to lose this? What if I can't this time?" Thankfully I'm far along enough in my recovery that these moments dissipate quickly but the fear hangs in the air around me.

As part of my recovery I've had to accept I'm not going to be the weight I want to be. I've had to accept the body perfection my crazy mind desires would hurt me. But I am more than a number. My worth cannot be measured with a number. I define who I am.

Standing up for myself

In a week I will be back on the same stage where I attempted stand up comedy nearly 30 years ago. Though I'm nervous it feels different this time. I'm grounded as a human being and in who I am and where I'm going. I've done my research, I've tested my material and I feel ready to go. Some 20-something male in the front row spouting shit won't phase me...I'll annihilate him. 

When I first tried stand up it was just to say I did it. I've always been that way in life; I'll try anything to say I did it. I'll embarrass myself, get humiliated, crumble before your eyes, and while wiping tears I'll try the next thing that comes my way. My father was that way too. If they asked for a volunteer to try something he couldn't get up there quick enough, and if it was only for kids he'd be screaming (excited - not angry) for one of us to go up and try it. The only time I recall turning him down was at a rodeo in Louisiana. They wanted kids to come out and run through the mud after pigs and if you pulled the ribbon off the pig's tail you got a prize. Whatever the prize was I was pretty excited about it but I was wearing my special "rodeo outfit" and didn't want to get it dirty. Yes, I have always been prissy. 

Though I'm not at all sad that my father is dead he does haunt me. I told him part of my stand up routine decades ago expecting he'd hate it and he said I was good and called it "tastefully risqué". He'd likely refer to my current act as "garbage" and that actually makes me smile. Though it's a freer life with him gone, I do still frequently wonder what he'd think of me now.

So why do it again? I certainly don't have aspirations of making it big (whatever that means). I want to say I had the balls to do it again. My mind comes up with these comic acts all the time, it used to be what I'd do in traffic, and I feel I have some decent moments. You could compare this latest attempt with someone who enjoys writing music in their spare time, who goes to a random open mic at a coffee shop to see how people dig their new material. Or even a person afraid of heights that still goes sky diving. I just have to try again.

I've rarely stood up for myself in life. And if I have it comes out too big and too much because I've held down the pain and anger for much too long. To get back on that stage is to stand up for myself and say that life hasn't beaten me though it sure tried. It's a scream to the universe that I'm still here. It's a reminder to myself that even if I'm a failure I'm still a bad ass.

While there is nothing inherently special about me I do have resilience that rises above even my own terrors. I've said for many years that what I lack in talent I make up for in tenacity. I may come in last but I'll die making sure I still finish.

Four Years

I received a card from my realtor, who went onto become a good friend, celebrating the 4 year anniversary of me closing on my condo. I remember the date well as the following day would have been my 22 year wedding anniversary. All involved in the paperwork and efforts to get me to close said it was one of the worst they'd experienced. I was still married at the time, divorce finalizing the following month, so my debt to income ratio was still including the house I was in while I was married. It felt like every other day more money was needed and I was ill from the stress. The title people went back and forth saying I was single, married, and then single again (as technically I was married when I closed). The man I was buying from had his own set of issues where he needed his ex wife to sign off, she was in Norway refusing, so he flew there and went through his own special hell before ultimately having her sign it. Even down to the night before my finance people were doing money gymnastics to get me in. It was an amazing group effort and maybe even a miracle or two. (Not that I believe in miracles.)

My first night in my new place was possibly the loneliest I've ever felt, even after a lifetime of feeling it was me against the world. I only took my clothes and a living room set with me and not much more. When my parents divorced my father insisted on getting half of everything no matter how traumatizing it was to his kids. If there were 20 toothpicks in a drawer he sat there and counted out 10 for himself. We had a literal tug of war with a family photo album as I scream cried for him not to take it. I remember going into rooms and seeing them empty, looking for something in the kitchen to find it gone, and how painful it was. I refused to let my son feel that way, as he was staying with his father, and decided I would instead completely start over. (I only took the living room set as he was getting a new one.) Without a bed I laid on the couch with a thin blanket and tried to will myself to sleep. Tears streamed down my face while my eyes were wide open and no sleep was coming. 

Even though years have gone by I still have moments where I go to look for something and realize I don't have it. Things like band aids, light bulbs and other items I would typically have in stock but didn't make the connection that I didn't have them. It's a little pop up reminder of what went down. The first few years I don't recall thinking about this date as much but my memory could be wrong on this. Though I don't want to be with my ex husband, nor does he want me, the length of time gone is weighing on me. Last year was intense between the pandemic and it being what would have been my 25 year anniversary where I added to the drama with burning my wedding dress. Not the same vibe but today feels heavy.

To add to my current level of processing I'm also losing my therapist next week. She has decided to take another position that allows her more time with her children. In a few days I'll have been with her for 6 years. I adore her but I'm not excessively sad as I've felt for awhile that we've gone as far as we can with each other. She asked me to think about all we've been through together and look at my growth. Perhaps this is adding to the heaviness of this moment. And that's OK as I'm ready for it, strong enough for it, and wanting it.

My ex husband is engaged and really hasn't been alone for much at all since I moved out. I honestly and truly wish him well. Though I know it's not actually the truth, it feels like most people I know find someone immediately after divorcing, if not right before. My learning curve back into dating was steep and mistakes were made. I'm leaning into and accepting that maybe I'm a person who isn't meant to be with anyone. I've always been hyper independent, and fiercely guarded while making you think I've revealed a lot, and these things don't mesh well in a healthy relationship.

It's been 4 years and I barely recognize that woman who walked into her first space living alone hyperventilating and crying. I've given myself permission to make my place the crazy ticky tacky look that I love. I'm making it. I've finally surrounded myself with people that dig what I bring to the table. I haven't crumbled, I've held my head high when shit went sideways, I'm still here. 

4 years later I can finally say I'm home.

Don't Let Me Get Me

 I was at an amazing Drag Brunch today, Sunday things, and the song "Don't let me get me" came on from Pink. I love Pink's daring, don't give a single fuck attitude. I've joked for years that she's who I want to be when I grow up. While being a huge fan I'd forgotten this song. and though I was drunk on mimosas, having a blast with friends dancing in the summer sun, I also welled up with tears as I sang along with the lyrics.

"Everyday I fight a war against the mirror

I can't take the person starin' back at me

I'm a hazard to myself

Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else"

I'm at this space in life where the self deprecating thoughts are less, I feel well grounded in who I am, and though not thrilled, I mostly accept it. 

"Everyday I fight a war against the mirror..."

Compliments always shock me a little. Though I work hard to take care of myself I'm always taken aback when I get what appears to be a sincerity. My go to response is to detail to them how they are wrong. Yet I've been working hard at simply saying "thank you". It's interesting as the moment trails away to other conversation that I find I feel anxious at acknowledging and thanking them for the compliment, as it goes so far against my usual response. I'm trying. Trying something new. 

"I'm a hazard to myself"

For most of us that fear compliments it's due to a history of someone taking those kind and awesome words and instead cutting you down. And instead of understanding it was their own projection to hurt you, you take them on, hold them tight, and believe whatever negative vile was thrown on you. When I receive a compliment my first thought is "What do you want?" "Why are you saying this?" "Are you making fun of me?". While taking the smallest of steps, I'm slowly realizing their words are heartfelt, and figuring out how to take it in.

"I wanna be somebody else"

Do I really want to be somebody else? For the first time in my life I'll say I don't. Not to say I wouldn't change a ton of things; soften my big ass mouth, give me more talent in pretty much everything, I'm sure I could critique to all hell every body part, but in most ways I'm OK.

I'm scared to be OK. You see if you say you fully accept yourself it now challenges others to do the same, and very often they let out their own inner hate onto you. So I have to ask myself what exactly do I think would happen if I fully leaned into self acceptance? What could I achieve if I didn't care about anyone's opinions?! What could you do in your own life?

I recently posted about my goal and desire to do stand up again. I thought I'd decently limited the post reach and was astounded at how many people were supportive. I keep getting more likes and loves and think "Really?!". This is immediately followed by fears of what will happen if I let everyone down...what if they believe in me and I crumble before their eyes? How would I face them if I'm not good enough?

I find when my mind is able to come into acceptance that thoughts of my father resurface. We were polar opposites. Most of my core qualities he would hate...especially since I was female. We tried to offer love to each other for the sake of being a parent and a child, but we didn't like each other. He'd hate me now! I find this both hysterical and heartbreaking. I'm glad he's dead. Harsh and horrifying words to speak about a parent but it's my truth. 

While I'll never say "everything happens for a reason" (seriously...I'll cut the next bitch that says that to me), I do believe my life has purpose. I love to compliment others and I'm fully sincere in whatever I say. If I see you fight me on it (as I do to myself) I will push back so hard until I know you believe what I'm saying. I don't want anyone to experience what's happened to me or feel what I've felt. 

I don't believe in an after-life and have accepted I'm flying on this rock through space to my death...and I want it to matter. And to fully matter, to make the most impact, to help the most beings, to live all the way...I have to not let me get me.

All by myself

When children are first leaning some autonomy they frequently say, "I can do it all by myself" when there is an offer to help them. I've had a lifetime of 'all by myself' both chosen and without choice. To do anything else is terrifying. The thought of asking for help in any way, even when offered, makes me quite literally nauseated. I'm the helper. I'm the one that does nice things. I'm the one to call. But I can't ask or allow it for me.

When I was getting divorced 4 years ago I didn't ask anyone for help moving out except for my brother and step father as I stubbornly had to admit I couldn't lift some things on my own. A few friends offered assistance but I turned them down. Finally another guy friend insisted on helping, and as I wasn't sure of my step father's strength, I took him up on the offer, while hating that I needed to do this. Another friend kept offering even when I turned her down. She was relentless. Ultimately she said, "You are hurting me by not letting me do this." I never want to hurt anyone so I allowed it. I needed much more help than I let on. I allowed everyone to do enough to fill a moving truck and said I could do the rest myself and I really couldn't. I went back to the house I'd lived for over a decade and was planning on having everything perfectly organized and even clean before I left. But my soon to be ex was texting at a manic pace asking over and over if I was gone. I couldn't take it, threw what I could see in a box, and left crying.

In the early hours this morning my cat decided to claw his way up the curtains. I was asleep, heard the noise and was grateful that the curtains weren't pulled out of the wall. Then I awoke to the curtains pulled out of the wall. I stared at them knowing full well I suck at all things home maintenance. I'm bad in embarrassing ways. This is the 5th place I've owned, and then countless places I've rented, and I am barely able to keep up with the most basic of things. I was reminded that I can always pay someone to do what I can't. This makes sense but it's not that easy. I'm first ashamed to ask someone, pay someone, to do something that in my mind a "normal adult" could do. Add to this worry that because I'm so stupid about home stuff that they'll take me for a ride and I won't be able to say no. What typically happens is I become immobile.

Today I felt pretty good though, and thought just maybe I give this an try, and at worst I shred the wall in my attempt. I tried to shove the screw back in and it fell out. I went to my drawer in the pantry which has a laughable amount of tools, screws, nails and other home type stuff. I surmised that if I used a longer screw that maybe it would hold. I'm short so even standing on a stool means I'm straining to reach high enough for this curtain. As I was screwing the screw in my arms hurt and I felt more shame that my upper body strength has been depleted. My cat was watching me from the bed, and instead of feeling anger that he did this I felt pity on him for having a mommy that was so unskilled in being an adult. Somehow the screw finally went in and it appears I fixed it. Chances of this all coming down during their night are at 99.9% but right now in this little blink of a moment I did it all by myself.

This is one of those achievements that make me feel powerful, strong, resilient....and so completely by myself. It's not so much someone helping me, well it sorta is, but the isolation of it all. Now I certainly know who I could ask, where I could call, I'm not lacking in ways to get things done. But shame and fear are powerful immobilizers, and logic typically has a hard time overriding them.

My daily meditation book said to share an untold part of my story so someone else could share in the human conditioning and let it set me free. It reminded me of why I write...to set me free and hopefully set another free. Fixing curtains won't matter in the end but knowing I helped another walk a few more steps home is everything.

Anxiety Hangover

I do things that terrify me all the time. I seek out ways to push myself beyond my fears. While journaling this morning about the anxiety I had for a few things I wanted to do I had to ask myself, "Why do you do this? You could easily not do any of these things and be content on the couch." Well there it is; I'm not content on the couch. Doing things that terrify me makes me feel alive. I get a rush from it even while panicking and holding back tears. I want a huge life and I can't obtain that sitting around. 

Beyond living loud and proud I think there is something deeper that pushes me forward. It's not fame as I'm sure not good enough at anything to achieve that. It's not money; as it's likely these antics actually cost me. I feel beyond all this is an innate need to prove myself. But who am I proving this to? The first thought to come to mind was my father. He expected nothing of me, and though he's dead and I don't believe in an afterlife, he hangs in the air around me. Public approval isn't that big a deal to me so this is mostly for myself. When I push myself out of all comfort, and into what is sometimes sheer terror, it confirms for me that I can and will survive.

My friend recently told me "You're my bravest friend...you'll try anything.". I gasped and held back tears reading that. Because though I know I do brave things, force myself to live big, and say I want an enormous life that pushes all limits, deep down it doesn't actually feel like that much. 

I faced a big fear last week. Doing this was actually something I'd done many times before on the regular without a care in the world. But through the words of others, and my own self deprecating head space, I'd lost all confidence. Now this thing is something where I'm well aware of where I can shine and where my weaknesses are. No illusions. It had eaten at me for months and I had to do it, even at the risk of failure and humiliation.

That day my stress was escalating as in addition to getting out there and fucking this fear up, I had a work event which called for a similar amount of confidence and bravery. The work thing went well but my anxiety was sky rocketing. My doctor took me off Xanax for my anxiety disorder months ago due to the high risk of Alzheimer's in my family, but by some miracle I'd found 3 pills in an old pill box. I was down to one, my prized one that I was holding onto like the King's gold, but this was the time to take it. I also took a muscle relaxer for my pain condition (and taking 1 is nothing for me as I typically take 2-3 multiple times a day). Got to the venue and as far as I could tell nothing was kicking in...I wasn't breathing. A few friends gave me some big pep talks and support and I did it. It wasn't great, but it wasn't a bomb, and I felt like I could breathe again. 

Anxiety makes your cortisol go through the roof. My adrenaline was off the charts, so once the moment was done I started coming down hard. I was drinking a caffeinated beverage and falling asleep at the table. Decided I should go home and as I walked in it felt like going to the bedroom was too far. I live in a small 2 bedroom condo and actually the bedroom would have been the closest place to land but I felt I had to be on the couch. I took off my shoes and jeans and passed out as if I was drunk or drugged up. The next day I felt woozy. Not sick but as if my nervous system was blurry. I call this an anxiety hangover. 

The obvious question is why keep putting myself through this? What I just described is a painful nightmare. Yet a mundane existence of work, sleep, a few activities and die, isn't for me. I've always wanted more. And I'm willing to endure suffering I bring on myself to try and reach what is likely unattainable.

I reinvent myself every day. It's how I survive.

The Unknown

{this post will be mostly stream of consciousness, basically a journal entry, but hopefully some meaning will come out in the end}

Yesterday I took an unexpected 3 hour nap. Woke up a few hours from when I'd typically go to bed, disoriented and then upset once I realized what had happened. I'd also fallen asleep on my office floor earlier in the day and nearly missed a meeting with my boss. I didn't feel sick but was so exhausted I was struggling to stay awake. Woke up this morning crying from pain and found myself in one of my worst fibro attacks in years. It seems my body was preparing to fall apart. 

Though I live with incredibly high pain levels daily, it's these moments that really scare me. I have to remind myself of the words from my former rheumatologist, "The good news is you don't have a degenerative disease so this won't get worse." Oh won't it? This feels much worse. And then the next sentence he said, "The bad news is there is nothing we can do for you." My eyes are welling up with tears to see those words again.

That was roughly 10 years ago when I stopped seeing doctors and began my own plan to keep myself a functioning member of society. Through a massive amount of attempts through chiropractic, acupuncture, every herb and supplement imaginable, food eliminations, massage techniques and anything else suggested I've mostly come up with a way to keep upright. My current self made program is basically yoga and weed daily. The yoga keeps me mobile and helps to keep my crazy tight muscles from spasming further and the weed calms them at night. Still in enormous amounts of pain but this allows me to mostly live the life I want. 

As I sit here today feeling like I just got out of a prison brawl I'm so sad. Yes, I just said I'm able to live the life I want but not really. There is so much I used to do that I can't anymore. My eating disorder will scream at me sometimes as it's freaking out that I'm going to gain weight as I can't over-exercise like I used to. (and already being at least 35+ pounds more than my lowest, though that wasn't healthy, it scares me) I see pictures on Facebook of people running, doing kettle ball classes, and working their bodies hard and I sob inside as I'll never be able to do that again. I live in a delicate balance of working my body but it can't be too hard or too much or this triggers an attack. But I'm one of the lucky ones, or perhaps it's my tenacity, as I'm still fighting to keep up.

The unknown is the worst part as I fear the day I might not be able to fight it like I have for decades. I live alone and I get worried that they day may come that I'll need help. I don't like help, I don't like dependence, and I don't like feeling needy. I've established a firm line where I'm the one who helps and not the one who needs it. The unknown terrifies me so I create this existence where I work to control everything. As a yoga teacher I tell people to "be present" and find gratitude in the moment, all while I'm stewing internally as to how I'm going to make it.

When I step outside myself I do know that we're all living in the unknown and not truly in control. As one of my favorite sayings goes, "We're all flying on a rock through space to our death." I don't want to live in the present moment, I want some assurance I'll be OK, and there is none. 

I was looking for a cute way to tie this piece up, with a quote or something hopeful, but I don't have it right now. I'm holding back tears, popping some muscle relaxers and berating myself for feeling more than a little sorry for myself. (deep heavy sigh) I'll live though. I'll find a way to make it. I always do.

Unsteady

With temperatures hotter than even this Southerner can take, I spent the day without a plan. Now I know most people love nothing more than to have an entire day with no obligations. Being unscheduled messes with my mind as I start fearing I've missed something, am wasting time, or becoming overwhelmed with being alone. After going out for a few hours for a writing group, wasting a ridiculous amount of time online shopping, making a note to read a book and then not doing it, I felt a strong urge to do something I'd avoided for some time. Some time as in years. 

When I first bought my place I also bought a little patio set. It was black with red cushions and I loved it. I needed to call where I bought it about an unrelated problem with something else and they asked if there was anything else they could do for me. I offhandedly mentioned that the table on my patio set was unsteady and that I was using a piece of cardboard, "grandpa style", to even it out. I went onto say it was likely my error though I'd tried really hard and no big deal. She said they would send me out a new set with their compliments and to keep the old one. What luck! The new set arrived and knowing how long it took me to get the previous set together I put the box in storage and vowed to put everything together the following year. It didn't happen. Added the task to one of my many lists the following Spring, and due to the circumstances at the time I was too overwhelmed to consider it. Finally the Summer of 2020 arrives, pandemic, stay home, perfect time to accomplish all you've put off. So I put together one chair and once again called it quits. 

As I was shopping today I found myself looking at patio sets and longing for a fully assembled one to magically land on my balcony. I even added one to my cart before reminding myself this would have to be put together also. So after a few glasses of wine and some long sighs I lugged the remaining chair and table out of storage. Putting on a movie to add to some distraction I found myself watching a special where people are going back or forward in time to avoid death, to stop another's death or to die. There were multiple episodes, powerful, emotional and oh so human. Each character had regret and I found myself crying. It should be noted that I rarely if ever cry in movies. But these were hitting me in a place I don't acknowledge. My ex-boyfriend liked to say, "You're messy but you know where everything is." One of those supposed compliments which is really a side cut. I'm hyper organized in what appears to be a chaotic way. Though they were in a mish mash basket of odds and ends, I knew where every screw was. My fingers were hurting from turning the screws as I told myself that I had to complete this. It was no longer about that patio set. My immobility had nothing to do with putting anything together and everything to do with remorse. Shame was again rearing it's ugly head saying, "Anyone else would have had this done immediately. Everyone else would. You are the only one." Of course this isn't true but hard core shame doesn't give a shit about facts. My nails were chipping, I wiped hot tears to see, and I did it. 

Now every piece I've put together, truly anything I've put together, is always unsteady. That company really didn't need to give me a replacement as it's clear I'm the issue here. I look at my ticky tacky balcony that I've put together and I see myself. You can look at each piece and see my journey; some are faded and have seen better days, others look quite nice if you don't get up close and see how it's a wobbly mess. But each piece is together, not perfect, but even in it's unsteadiness it's holding it's own. These pieces will host friends laughing and my cat attempting to jump up and do a tight rope walk on the rails. This set has held me as I stared out at the trees in fear. I didn't get it together in a timely manner but it's together, I'm together, and though unsteady we'll do what needs to be done.

Being Selfish

My life coach gave me an assignment of being selfish. She said I should ask myself during all situations "How do I feel right now? Do I still want to be here?" and then make choices from only what I want and not what others might think or feel. Daunting task for me. This isn't simply uncomfortable for me but an entirely new skill. I have to actively, as in reminders on my calendar, be aware, ask questions and be brave. Though I have made decisions entirely for me over the past few years this has a new level that is terrifying to explore.

I've spoken previously about how I process slowly but beyond that are situations where I don't even see that how I was treated was awful until someone close to me points it out. I was detailing a situation to a friend today where someone made a statement that hurt me. She was appalled at what was said and how she would have been livid at this person. Yet I wasn't mad at all. What started as hurt moved onto shame. The words became a cut down for me where I didn't question if it was valid and true. I thanked her for being honest with me and observed why someone who doesn't really know me could take me down like that. 

Brené Brown could detail this much better than I (and if you don't know who Brené Brown is, please go read everything she's ever written right now), but I think the reason random opinions can pummel me is that deep down I believe they are correct. If someone walked up mocking and laughing at me because they thought I was a purple alien it would mean nothing to me. They could berate me to no end and it wouldn't have an effect. I know that is not who I am so their thoughts about it are ridiculous. It's the best manipulators that know how to figure out where your fears are and use that to knock the wind out of you. 

Words are important to me so that's also why someone using them to tear me down cut so deeply. I'm thoughtful about what I say to others. I work hard to make sure my words don't hurt. There is always a level of shock for me when others casually and cruelly say things that hurt me. Now of course it would be absurd for me to imply I've never hurt another with what I've said. Though I will say that I likely was calculated and this was my form of retaliation for an injury I believe was done to me. This is rare though as I usually internalize and don't speak. Hurt people, hurt people.

Becoming assertive and confident are wonderful qualities if you notice what's happening and act on it. "Being in your own energy and unaffected by others' energy is a superpower." So this is the goal: selfishly (or rather with all the self care) observe how others make me feel, look at their words through the lens of what it means and does to me, no more letting things go for the sake of peace or being liked.

It's embarrassing to be this age and still working through these things. It feels like something I should have achieved decades ago. Yet here I am pushing through the discomfort and awful feelings to become the person I know I truly am.

Slow Processing

I picked him up around 5:30pm to go to dinner. He was acting annoying, thought he was funny when he was teasing me though I'd asked him to stop, saying the same thing over and over. It's now a year and a half later and I'm just realizing he was wasted. It didn't occur to me that someone would already be drunk before dusk on a Tuesday. So how many other times was he obliterated and I didn't get it? My entire experience is now being looked at through a new lens.

I don't process things immediately and especially when a person does something that doesn't make reasonable sense in my mind. I freeze as my brain tries to compute and piece together insane behavior. In a personality test for work many years ago one statement about me stood out "She doesn't understand why everyone doesn't see the world the way she does.". Yep. I have had friends kindly explain to me in so many situations "this person is lying to you". I know people lie. Of course I've lied. Yet I frequently can't comprehend it when someone is looking me in the eye and being untruthful. 

During a deep discussion with a friend I revealed some horrific things said to me during my life. She said, "I have never in all my life had anyone speak to me that way." "What was your reply?" I never replied. When someone shreds me in some way I go into a mini shock. It starts with shame and feelings of worthlessness and then takes a day or longer before I can fully remember what they said and figure out if it holds any weight.

I hate the freeze. I know it's there as a form of self protection but it feels so weak. I find it wildly interesting that I don't freeze when it comes to friends. Say anything bad to my friend and I go straight to annihilation mode. But not for myself. 

I've had many situations in life where I was gaslit. When you've had repeated instances in gaslighting situations you find you question what you've heard and what you know is true. My current attempt to override this is through writing. I have what I call my "intuition book" where I write what  I believe is happening then go back later to affirm if I was correct. I'm nearly always correct and can also see where I got something wrong and the reason why I didn't see that fully. 

The core issues here are self trust and self worth. When you have enough belief in yourself then others words no longer matter (Although do we really believe this?). Lets at least say when you are grounded in who you are then it makes it harder for people to destroy you.

I may always be a slow processor. Perhaps this is nature's way of balancing my quick wit and charm. (Yes, I'm grasping but stay with me here.) And we know there will always be shitty, lying, asshole people. Taking a deep breath and hoping just maybe I can finally say, "You can't talk to me that way." and not taking way too much time to process it through.

Walking each other home

An old friend contacted me recently and after the basic pleasantries she revealed she's had 4 DUIs and will be going to court. I tried to listen more than talk as I know how much I hate when I share something painful and deep and the other person feels they must advise and give commentary. With this instance, as with so many in life, there isn't a cute little cliché saying to throw at the person and stop the uncomfortableness. Can't say everything will be OK at least at the present time. But these are the moments. The life moments where our presence is everything. I asked what she needed and she said, "Hold my hand at my sentencing?". I said, "Absolutely. Say when and where." We haven't seen each other in 5 or 6 years but I'm driving to hold her hand tomorrow.

I know some people care only for their own happiness, for good things to happen for their family, and "thoughts and prayers" to the rest of us, but I want more for my life. I'd like to believe we all want our lives to have meaning yet watching the actions and words of others, especially over these last few years, I see a selfishness that borders on evil in my opinion. I want a life of significance. I want it to matter. Even if all I do is help a single soul, I want to know I did the right thing.

So what is our purpose? It's too big a question for me to answer for all humanity so I can only speak for myself. I believe my core purpose, that I chose for myself, is to be there for others. Being there for others might mean being inconvenienced when another is hurting and going to them. Being there might mean revealing my shame so that someone else finds freedom to share their truth. Being there could mean speaking out for the marginalized. Being there may even mean showing up for myself with firm boundaries as an example of a person who was torn apart and rose from the ashes. 

Am I achieving this? Yes, but poorly. There were 2 deaths in coworker's lives and I haven't sent cards because I'm struggling with what I want to be the perfect words. Sometimes I run out of words to say and I don't know what to do next. I know I give too much advice though I hate when others do it. I'm a human wresting with my own fears, issues and imperfections.

Ram Dass said, "We're all just walking each other home.". Though agnostic and cynical about all things after life, this one resonates. At my funeral I want it said that I cheered for others and not that I made snarky remarks to feel I was better than anyone. (I say this as someone who makes a shit ton of snarky remarks.) I want to be the person who allows herself embarrassment and humiliation so that the person in isolation sees they aren't the only one it happened to.

I'm going to die soon. So are you. Lets walk each other home.

How do I use this suffering?

Today is one of those days of extreme pain where I truly feel like I was beaten with a bat from head to toe. Sometimes I'll even look in the mirror at my skin expecting to see bruising as the agony is so bad. I'll take a hot bath, pop some muscle relaxers, do some yoga, and get it to a manageable level to where I can function. But it's never gone. To live in continual pain changes you as you live in fear that one day it's going to be so bad you won't survive it. 

Thich Nhat Hanh says, "The art of happiness is also the art of knowing how to suffer well. If we know how to use our suffering, we can transform it and suffer much less."

How do I use this suffering? I'd like to believe in sharing my experience I educate and bring understanding about what it's like to live with a chronic pain condition. I hope I show that it's OK to be resilient while still giving space to say I really hate how this feels and what it does to my life. Though I feel the deeper question is how do I use this suffering for my own transformation.

I vacillate between considering this only a physical condition I must manage and exploring if this is a manifestation of trauma. I feel it's both. 

On a random Facebook meme I saw this "Maybe you're not healing because you're trying to be who you were before the trauma, that person doesn't exist anymore, cause there's a new you trying to be born. Breathe life into that person." This resonates deeply. Speaking to a friend this morning we both spoke about who we once were, and though we can talk about those people (ourselves), they no longer exist. 

I do actively work at becoming someone new daily. I suppose the pain keeps me focused and aware as to stop trying would only make the anguish greater. My suffering gives me a level of understanding when I see another in pain that goes beyond empathy and compassion. 

Perhaps healing doesn't mean no longer hurting but instead accepting it and still being happy.

Do I care what you think?

Do I care what you think? Yeah, of course I do but not about everything. So where is the line drawn on what is true to me, that I do for me, and the things where your opinion can get to me? And how do I bridge that gap between what I want and your acceptance?

My decorating style, which isn't what you'd call classic, is something I had to hold back while I was married. I knew the ideas I had would never be accepted and I was also trying to "do things right" (whatever that means). It took me at least 2 years in my place to get it through my head that I owned it and my opinion was the only one that mattered. I first painted my kitchen red, my bedroom pink and my living room yellow. I started adding art that I loved by artists whose work I followed and not merely mass produced things to fill the space. I now look around my space and I smile without a single care if anyone else would like it. It's fully mine.

I know I'm funny. Now will you like my humor? Possibly. Will you think I go too far? Likely. Yet it's one of those things that even if a comedienne I greatly admire were to tell me "You're not very funny" it would hurt but it wouldn't break me or stop me. I might not ever make it to a main stage but I know I can be pretty hysterical.

My aesthetic is something I'm still growing into. I walk a fine line between the quirky things I like to wear and still working in a corporate setting. I like a little of everything and perhaps my style is what I want in the moment. My ex boyfriend tried to cut me down saying the pink in my hair made me look like Bozo the clown. Though critiques and putdowns can generally hurt me that didn't, because I love my fun hair colors and it's not an area anyone can slam me for. 

And then there's the rest of life...

I'm mostly happy with my writing and I see where it can get better. Yet there are so many fears: Am I using commas correctly? Did I end with a preposition? Am I descriptive enough? Or worse yet....am I saying the same shit over and over? It wouldn't take much to take me out.

When I was a child I was in ballet and my dream was to be a ballerina. I did well in class and had a healthy self esteem about it. As my parents were divorcing I was practicing in the living room one day when my mother came in and started watching me. She said, with disdain and a laugh, "What are you doing!?". I said I was practicing. Her tone became more animated, "For what!?". "To be a ballerina." She let out a hoot and said, "You'll never be a ballerina...you're too short." I quit the next day.

Recently I was at an open jam night for people to come play with a band and have some fun. Many are currently in bands, or have been so in the past, and admittedly my only real experience was choir and being a karaoke MC at bars. I expressed to a lady at the table that I'd participated at other places but felt intimidated by this crowd. She started to encourage me when another person interjected and said I shouldn't as there was another that was unequivocally better than me. I fully agreed but hung my head. The lady then came back saying, "Or she can just go do what she wants and have fun!". I nodded a thank you to her but I was already beaten by then.

"You're way too much!" Now this is one I've heard all my life. I have moments where I can be told this and I laugh and think "Nope...you wish you were as much as me!" and others where I cower and shrink and wonder "Why can't I just tone it the fuck down?". 

I saw this on a friend's post today and it gives me hope that one day nothing will cause me to crumble...

I have been told "never" so many times in my life.

I would never be a successful entrepreneur.

I would never be a good mom.

I would never be a good partner.

I would never have money.

I would never be loved all the way through.

The greatest pleasure in my life, is proving all of those "never's" wrong.

What is my story?

 "Writing is a truth serum, one that is not always easy to drink. This is why people often choose to remain 'one day I will write' seekers- they can avoid the actual moment when they find what they are looking for. Because speaking our truths requires us to deal with many different challenges, including our discomfort with vulnerability, our fear of failure, the very real consequences of finally speaking our truths. Writing, like any form of revealing self-expression, calls us to the next stages of awakening. It's seldom just pen to paper. It's far bloodier than that. It changes our lives. It calls us to grow. It transforms our consciousness. No wonder we retreat. No wonder we can't stop..." ~ Jeff Brown

While taking a step back from the goal of publishing, and pondering what exactly I want to say, I've had to ask "What is my story?". For a long time I thought it was my Evangelical upbringing and the way it fucks with your head even after you are out of it. I knew the horrors that occurred after my parents divorce would make for sordid reading. There is something I've alluded to but haven't shared which was my shame in my marriage, where I felt the embarrassment would kill me were I to let everyone know, but I felt it my duty to reveal it and help someone else. As I deliberated this with a friend she said, "I don't think that's your story." It's not? Well what is my story?

A new friend posted part of his story in a private group I'm in and gave me permission to share it. He talked about how Evangelical purity culture deeply damages so many and bravely shared what it did to him. This is what I aspire to. And though I'm mostly (sort of) beyond a lot of the shame, I can't get over that I'll be perceived in a way I can't control. So many times I'll post a piece and see a comment that for me is completely out of left field, and I think "How in hell did they get that from what I wrote?!". Yet how often in life has someone said to you, "Oh I get it!" and you think "Oh no you don't!". It's in bringing up Evangelical culture where I find that most people in an attempt to connect say they understand when you can't unless you've lived it. I remind myself frequently of a favorite quote, "I stopped explaining myself when I realized other people only understand from their level of perception." 

I'm also asking if this story, whatever I tell and wherever it goes, is worthy of sharing? Another middle aged woman talks about a ton of sad shit. Boo hoo hoo. Is this even needed? I believe it is. Doubtful that it would be a New York Times best seller, or even published, but I know without a doubt that someone needs to hear it. I know to the core of my being there is another soul that needs to know they weren't the only one. I feel with all of me there is someone pleading to a silent deity for another to show them some light. 

I say these things to let them out of me where they fester and try to take me down. I reveal my secrets, my insecurities, and my terror, as this is my therapy. I bleed all over the page to lessen the pain for a moment. I want my life to have purpose, and if that purpose is nothing more than to extend a hand on the journey with my words then that is enough to go on.