I remember the moment when I decided having kids wasn't meant for me. It was last winter towards the end of a therapy program I was taking called Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT). It was an 8 week program that met 4 days a week, 3 hours per day. For the first time in my life, I had found a program and a therapist that really fit for me. One aspect of the program was called "committed action," which is basically like a goal. We were asked, "What will you do between now and when we meet again that you can commit to?" One thing- only one committed action. Sometimes each committed action was one small step closer to a larger goal. I decided my larger goal was to play the double bass again. I quit when I was 16 at a time in my life when I was really struggling with anxiety and depression and experienced my first hospitalization due to an intentional overdose. For a long time I felt like that was the time that I stopped living. I've never really felt like I ever recovered. All my interests disappeared when I was in high school, and I still mourn the life I wish I could have lived if mental illness was not in my life. Playing the bass again would be one step closer to claiming my life back and living fully. So each day I committed to one more piece of the puzzle to playing bass again. I had to contact my old teacher and research bass rentals. I always thought returning back to my previous passions would be so hard and impossible. It really wasn't! I wish I had done it sooner! My lesson every week became something I look forward to and brought me joy. It's now a year later and I'm still going strong! I went back to doing something I love after a 15 year break. It's never too late!
The empowerment and happiness I felt from achieving this one goal was awesome. I am only just beginning this journey of doing things for myself. I don't want to sacrifice that for children. I want to realize more my dreams. Another of my passions is writing. Starting this blog gave me that opportunity to do that again. I'm on a roll! Who I am got lost in a sea of blackness for so long. I can't allow myself to drown again. I wonder what else is in store for me. I can't wait to find out!
I haven't totally accepted that I won't have kids, though. There is definitely a period of mourning. It's an experience that I'll never have. I wonder what being pregnant would feel like, or giving birth, or breast feeding. There are a lifetime of events I will never enjoy: graduations, weddings, being a grandmother. Am I missing out? Will I have a less fulfilled life? Under different circumstances, maybe I could have been ready, but I'm not. Part of me feels ashamed of myself for admitting that I am emotionally and mentally incapable of being a mother. Does that make me less of a person? Do I have it so much easier and carefree not being tied down? Am I inferior? My "wise mind" tells me I am no less than anyone else, but it hasn't totally been absorbed into how I feel.
There are also some feelings of guilt. I have friends that are trying so hard to have children and here I am wasting a perfectly good batch of eggs. It's just not fair! I wish I could put my ovaries in a gift box with a bow and hand it to someone who desperately wants a baby. It's also hard to relate to most people, because not having kids is definitely the minority. People talk about their kids all the time and trade tips and tricks with each other on parenting. I have nothing to contribute, and frankly, sometimes I just don't care about that stuff! I'm constantly wondering if there are other people out there that are in the same boat as me and wish that I could find them to be my friends. I have the freedom to do anything I want at the drop of a hat without having to consider who will be taking care of the kids. I know there are a lot of childless-by-choice people out there that actually love kids and relish spending time with them. I can't say I'm one of them. I am generally uncomfortable around kids and get easily stressed out and annoyed by the chaos and volume. I'm not a complete ogre, though. I hang out with my friends' kids, and I understand that being their friend means also accepting their children. I've even been known to babysit now and again.
I am a very nostalgic person which conflicts greatly with a lack of children. What will happen to my wedding ring when I die? What about my grandmother's Pfalzgraff dishes? Will our family scrapbooks get thrown away? All these things mean so much to me, and nothing to anyone else. I have no one to entrust these valuables to. I'm definitely having to change my ideas about "things." Things are just things. They are nothing compared to people and relationships. Would I rather have a life worth living, or offspring to be curator of my collection of stuff?
I think most of us can admit the world isn't such a beautiful place. I look around me and I see corrupt politics, regular school shootings, racism, war, cancer, and so much more. My heart breaks for what humanity has become, and I fear for the future of my country. I can't in good conscience bring an innocent being into this world. I have no faith that it would do them right. I would rather shower love and acceptance and influence onto the people in my life. Maybe I can leave it a little brighter than when I came into it. The immense pain that mental illness has brought to my life is nothing I would wish upon my offspring. The risk of planting that seed in a child of mine is too great a risk.
I went into my marriage with having children being a given. Maybe I thought it would make me happier or give me a purpose, as if a child would be the remedy for the deep hollow in my chest. Many marriages end because one spouse wants kids and the other doesn't. My husband loves kids. He would jump at the chance to have his own. In both his career and in his volunteering, he chooses to spend it with children. But he tells me that he married me. He didn't marry the kids that I may or may not have. He gets his "kid fix" in a different way, and he does not feel like his life is lacking in any way because of that.
There is also a practical reason for not having kids. We are broke! Mortgage, car payments, utilities, medical bills, school loans. I honestly don't know how people can afford to pay for another human being, or two, or three, or more! Bills already stress me out. I don't want to add more costs to my life than there already are. Seriously- it's like my whole paycheck would just be dumped into daycare, anyway. What's the point in that? Might as well just stay home with the kid! Oh wait- can't afford that, either!
So, maybe you have kids. That's great. Maybe you don't. That's just as awesome. Each person is unique in their desires and each road is valid and fulfilling. There is more than one path- just be sure you are happy with the one you choose. It might even be living childless-by-choice, the ever growing lifestyle option. Hey, I still have another good decade of fertility. I may change my mind yet!
P.S. Ranger is the dog!
Monday, November 28, 2016
Saturday, October 15, 2016
"I Have Mood Swings"
Those were the socks I put on this morning. I like to think of socks as a secret way to express myself or poke fun of myself. Maybe it was just a foreshadowing of the day I was going to have or a statement about the week I was already having. Either way, one of my biggest fears materialized today: I lost my shit in front of people.
As you can probably tell by now, I'm trying to be open about my journey through mental illness. I'll talk to anyone about it. I get pretty excited when I find other people that are equally mentally unstable. It happens quite a bit at work. People come in looking for a book to cope with anxiety, learn how to deal with a relative that has an addiction, help a child that is OCD, whatever. You name, I've seen it. I don't just sell books, I give away unsolicited psychotherapy. They'll not only walk away with a pile of books on mindfulness, meditation, aromatherapy, DBT or whatever else I hand them, but they'll hear about different therapies I've tried, clinics that I've had good luck with, where family members can find support, and maybe a little hope. "Hey, I get what you're going through. Look at me, I came out on the other side, so you can too." I get really excited when I run into someone like me, and they usually get equally thrilled. It's like this secret club and now there is a new member. We feel empowered to not feel alone.
Just because I am honest about who I am, doesn't mean I like to manifest my emotional side for people to encounter first hand. I am completely terrified of not being able to hold myself together in public. If I feel a meltdown coming on, my instinct is to RUN and HIDE, ASAP. Most of the time I can. Last month, my husband and I showed up to a financial class for the first session. Unfortunately, we also found out we had been given the incorrect start date. We were actually showing up to the 2nd session. Any reasonable human being would probably brush that off and go with the flow. Not me. I immediately felt panic coming on. I felt singled out, embarrassed, and exposed. Everyone else had the correct date. I HAD to go to ALL the sessions. Not one less. It is all or nothing in my head. Tears immediately started to well up. I had to get out, NOW. So I did. I got up and left and never came back. When my husband didn't come out right away to take me back home, I just started walking. I had to get even further away from the situation.
My first bass recital after coming back to it after a 14 year break was a disaster. Or, should I say the recital went great- I just happened not to be there! Solos sound a lot different on your own. Then you add a piano accompaniment and a second bass player, and suddenly things don't go quite right. In my head, "not quite right" is synonymous with "not perfect." I had to be perfect, for an assortment of reasons. First off, I am the grown up. I should be better than all the little middle-schoolers and high-schoolers, simply because I am in my 30's. Who cares that I haven't played in 14 years. That doesn't matter. My head told me that older must equal better. Reason #2: someone else was playing "my" song. That is an immediate recipe for self-judgement. There was only one way that this situation was going to be okay for me: I had to play better than this second person. If I wasn't better than them then A) I would judge myself, and B) other people would judge me, too. Which brings me to reason #3: a room full of musicians is just another source of even more judgement! Reason #4: If I don't play awesome, it will make my teacher look bad. And finally, Reason #5: my mom just happened to be the piano accompanist. Which is totally cool, by the way. My mom is a bitchin' pianist. So not only was I letting myself down, my teacher down, and all the people who had come to see me, but my mom had donated her time and talents, so I couldn't let her down either. After a less than perfect trial run of my solo, I immediately left and fell into a puddle of tears in some vacant hallway where no one could find me. I begged my husband to come pick me up. Again, that sense of panic and immediate need to escape was boiling up inside me. I couldn't get away fast enough and far enough- so again, I walked. (On a side note, I had recently injured my knee with some sort of ligament tear and cartilage crack, so I was a blubbery mess walking with a limp and a knee that felt like a basketball inflated into it.). I basically avoided everyone, including my mom and my teacher and all my guests for days afterward. I was embarrassed and humiliated, and I thought everyone would hate me because I had let them all down. Which is all a bunch of bullshit.
My mind is spent in a general state of rumination almost 24/7. It is exhausting. I judge myself, I think others judge me. I beat myself up when things don't go perfectly. I see the world through black and white lenses. I am a success or I am a failure. I am good or I am bad. I have a long list of myths circling my mind that I believe are true. I believe that if I am not always doing something, then I am useless. My backbone is the consistency of rice paper.
Which brings me back to today: I lost it at work. I can't say that it's the first time it's happened. But the last time it happened, I lost my previous job. Not directly, of course, but it was a step in a series of steps that led to the unemployment line. First, I couldn't hold my shit together for one day. One day turned into two days. Which turned into a hospitalization. Which turned into a medical leave, and another hospitalization, and a longer medical leave, and on and on. Will my next meltdown be the trigger for another hospitalization? Will one negative experience trigger another attempted suicide? I am constantly walking on eggshells, wondering if the slightest step will trigger a landmine in my delicate brain. Will a day come that I won't be able to hold it together long enough to hold a job anymore?
I spent so many years feeling like I had to hide my mental illness, then I am told that we live in a different kind of world now- a world where people can't fire you for having a mental illness, a world where employers WANT to know what you struggle with, so they can help. Just when I started to believe that this new way of thinking was true, my previous employer decided not to make accommodations for my treatment schedule, and fired me. Okay, maybe I still hold a grudge. Maybe part of me thinks it's okay to SAY I am mentally ill, and people will think it's totally courageous, but when you SHOW it, people are totally weirded out and think you are overreacting to the dumbest little thing. And it's true- I do overreact to the dumbest little things.
I am so worried about looking normal to the world, that I over compensate. Not only am I gonna be awesome, but I am gonna be a fucking ball of infinite joy and happiness. I want to do anything and everything any normal person can do, but I'll do it better and more of it. I will handle every situation with wisdom and grace. I'm pretty sure "normal" people can't do all that, so I'm not sure why I think I need to be Super Woman. I can't live up to my own expectations which are generally ridiculously higher than most other people actually have for me, I would guess.
The past month I have been a balloon being slowly, continuously stuffed with more air. I've been adding more to my life little by little. More responsibilities, more demands, more expectations- ultimately trying to build my crumbled life back up to as normal as it can be. My limits have been stretched and ultimately overreached. Packing a bag lunch feels like an impossible task. Finding a clean outfit that fits properly is daunting. Today it just all came to a head. I am out of tears and out of energy. Yet I feel like I am on this train called life that just won't stop even though my body and mind are telling me that it is so incredibly done. I sit here wondering how another day has gone by and how I will be able to possibly get up again tomorrow and do it again. And again. And again. And never stop.
As you can probably tell by now, I'm trying to be open about my journey through mental illness. I'll talk to anyone about it. I get pretty excited when I find other people that are equally mentally unstable. It happens quite a bit at work. People come in looking for a book to cope with anxiety, learn how to deal with a relative that has an addiction, help a child that is OCD, whatever. You name, I've seen it. I don't just sell books, I give away unsolicited psychotherapy. They'll not only walk away with a pile of books on mindfulness, meditation, aromatherapy, DBT or whatever else I hand them, but they'll hear about different therapies I've tried, clinics that I've had good luck with, where family members can find support, and maybe a little hope. "Hey, I get what you're going through. Look at me, I came out on the other side, so you can too." I get really excited when I run into someone like me, and they usually get equally thrilled. It's like this secret club and now there is a new member. We feel empowered to not feel alone.
Just because I am honest about who I am, doesn't mean I like to manifest my emotional side for people to encounter first hand. I am completely terrified of not being able to hold myself together in public. If I feel a meltdown coming on, my instinct is to RUN and HIDE, ASAP. Most of the time I can. Last month, my husband and I showed up to a financial class for the first session. Unfortunately, we also found out we had been given the incorrect start date. We were actually showing up to the 2nd session. Any reasonable human being would probably brush that off and go with the flow. Not me. I immediately felt panic coming on. I felt singled out, embarrassed, and exposed. Everyone else had the correct date. I HAD to go to ALL the sessions. Not one less. It is all or nothing in my head. Tears immediately started to well up. I had to get out, NOW. So I did. I got up and left and never came back. When my husband didn't come out right away to take me back home, I just started walking. I had to get even further away from the situation.
My first bass recital after coming back to it after a 14 year break was a disaster. Or, should I say the recital went great- I just happened not to be there! Solos sound a lot different on your own. Then you add a piano accompaniment and a second bass player, and suddenly things don't go quite right. In my head, "not quite right" is synonymous with "not perfect." I had to be perfect, for an assortment of reasons. First off, I am the grown up. I should be better than all the little middle-schoolers and high-schoolers, simply because I am in my 30's. Who cares that I haven't played in 14 years. That doesn't matter. My head told me that older must equal better. Reason #2: someone else was playing "my" song. That is an immediate recipe for self-judgement. There was only one way that this situation was going to be okay for me: I had to play better than this second person. If I wasn't better than them then A) I would judge myself, and B) other people would judge me, too. Which brings me to reason #3: a room full of musicians is just another source of even more judgement! Reason #4: If I don't play awesome, it will make my teacher look bad. And finally, Reason #5: my mom just happened to be the piano accompanist. Which is totally cool, by the way. My mom is a bitchin' pianist. So not only was I letting myself down, my teacher down, and all the people who had come to see me, but my mom had donated her time and talents, so I couldn't let her down either. After a less than perfect trial run of my solo, I immediately left and fell into a puddle of tears in some vacant hallway where no one could find me. I begged my husband to come pick me up. Again, that sense of panic and immediate need to escape was boiling up inside me. I couldn't get away fast enough and far enough- so again, I walked. (On a side note, I had recently injured my knee with some sort of ligament tear and cartilage crack, so I was a blubbery mess walking with a limp and a knee that felt like a basketball inflated into it.). I basically avoided everyone, including my mom and my teacher and all my guests for days afterward. I was embarrassed and humiliated, and I thought everyone would hate me because I had let them all down. Which is all a bunch of bullshit.
My mind is spent in a general state of rumination almost 24/7. It is exhausting. I judge myself, I think others judge me. I beat myself up when things don't go perfectly. I see the world through black and white lenses. I am a success or I am a failure. I am good or I am bad. I have a long list of myths circling my mind that I believe are true. I believe that if I am not always doing something, then I am useless. My backbone is the consistency of rice paper.
Which brings me back to today: I lost it at work. I can't say that it's the first time it's happened. But the last time it happened, I lost my previous job. Not directly, of course, but it was a step in a series of steps that led to the unemployment line. First, I couldn't hold my shit together for one day. One day turned into two days. Which turned into a hospitalization. Which turned into a medical leave, and another hospitalization, and a longer medical leave, and on and on. Will my next meltdown be the trigger for another hospitalization? Will one negative experience trigger another attempted suicide? I am constantly walking on eggshells, wondering if the slightest step will trigger a landmine in my delicate brain. Will a day come that I won't be able to hold it together long enough to hold a job anymore?
I spent so many years feeling like I had to hide my mental illness, then I am told that we live in a different kind of world now- a world where people can't fire you for having a mental illness, a world where employers WANT to know what you struggle with, so they can help. Just when I started to believe that this new way of thinking was true, my previous employer decided not to make accommodations for my treatment schedule, and fired me. Okay, maybe I still hold a grudge. Maybe part of me thinks it's okay to SAY I am mentally ill, and people will think it's totally courageous, but when you SHOW it, people are totally weirded out and think you are overreacting to the dumbest little thing. And it's true- I do overreact to the dumbest little things.
I am so worried about looking normal to the world, that I over compensate. Not only am I gonna be awesome, but I am gonna be a fucking ball of infinite joy and happiness. I want to do anything and everything any normal person can do, but I'll do it better and more of it. I will handle every situation with wisdom and grace. I'm pretty sure "normal" people can't do all that, so I'm not sure why I think I need to be Super Woman. I can't live up to my own expectations which are generally ridiculously higher than most other people actually have for me, I would guess.
The past month I have been a balloon being slowly, continuously stuffed with more air. I've been adding more to my life little by little. More responsibilities, more demands, more expectations- ultimately trying to build my crumbled life back up to as normal as it can be. My limits have been stretched and ultimately overreached. Packing a bag lunch feels like an impossible task. Finding a clean outfit that fits properly is daunting. Today it just all came to a head. I am out of tears and out of energy. Yet I feel like I am on this train called life that just won't stop even though my body and mind are telling me that it is so incredibly done. I sit here wondering how another day has gone by and how I will be able to possibly get up again tomorrow and do it again. And again. And again. And never stop.
Friday, August 26, 2016
The Perfect Family
For much of my life, I had very little idea of what I wanted to do with it. When I did come up with an idea, it would likely change before it came to fruition. My solution was that I would marry a well-off guy so that I wouldn't have to make up my mind. Screw having a career! I wanted to be taken care of! He would work and get paid enough for the both of us, and I would stay home with all of our fabulous well-behaved, intelligent children. They would come into the world with smiles on their faces because I would have laid in luxury and anxiety-free bliss for the duration of my pregnancy being hand fed strawberries by my doting husband (Eh, maybe that's taking it a little too far?). These kids would have a perfect upbringing due to my staying at home with them and getting my undivided attention. They would have all the opportunities in the world. They would be well rounded, adept at both sports and the arts, street smarts, and book smarts. They would all be in the gifted and talented program and take all the AP courses in high school. Since my parents were divorced, my mom had to work 150% (200%? 250%? Just tell me when to stop, Mom!) harder to provide for us. I wanted to make sure that the family I created would never have to face the emotional pain or hardship of divorce. My sole mission was to be everything for my kids. I would NEVER get divorced. We would eat EVERY single meal together as a family and we would LIKE it! Basically, I wanted to create the "perfect" familial world. I couldn't control my upbringing, but I could control someone else's. It would be EVERYTHING for my kids that I dreamed it could have been for me.
Well, now that I am past my teenage years and early 20's, I've finally come to the realization of the absurdity of this thinking. Hearing how my friend's kids will just pull their pants down in public and start peeing on the sidewalk, I think my perfect expectations of child rearing were a little skewed! I think it finally hit me when I sat down with a family member (regrettably, at a McDonald's) several years ago who drilled into me the hard work and sacrifices that my mother made to provide for me and my sister. THAT is what love is; working an extra day (or two) of the week so that we could have piano, ballet, and swim lessons, new school clothes, a home with a nice big yard and my own room, and a family trip every summer. I spent so many years HATING my family. I wanted someone else's and I wanted to run away anywhere I could to find it! Sometimes that would mean running into the arms of some really crappy romantic relationships for the sense of family I longed for.
It's taken me a long time to get there, but I love my little messed up family. I call my mom every day and see her at least once a week. She is my fashion editor, my workout buddy, my coffee companion, my financial adviser, my thrift store scout, chocolate angel dessert chef, music teacher, and faith builder. And now, instead of yelling at each other and shoving each other around like we did as kids, my sister and me have become great friends now. And even when I thought she hated me growing up, we always put that aside when things mattered the most. When our parents fought, my sister's bedroom was my safe haven. When one of my hamsters died, she was always there to put her arm around me. I look to her for advice on everything from reading a recipe to major career leaps, and I like to look to her and her wife's loving example of marriage in my own.
"This is a post about family, but you haven't talked about your dad yet," you might be wondering. I guess I've been avoiding it. As a little girl, he was perfect in my eyes. I lived for the few days I could see him, and I mourned the days that I couldn't. He made mistakes that I was too young to remember or understand. It was those same mistakes that destroyed his marriage that, repeated later in life, would shatter our relationship in my adulthood and cause me to walk down the aisle in my wedding dress alone. How do you forgive the unforgivable? It's taken hours and hours of therapy, but I've accepted that my relationship with my dad will never be what it was or what I want it to be now. He can never be what I expect of him, and he refuses to change. So that leaves me with two options: I take him out of my life, or I accept the imperfect version that he is. I chose the second option. It is a shell of what our relationship used to be, and he will forever be kept at an arm's length away from my heart because of the choices he's made. But this is my family, and I own it in spite of every awkward Father's Day and Christmas present exchange. I would rather have a flawed relationship than none at all.
I remember one night having a slumber party on the floor of my sister's bedroom when I was about seven years old while my parents fought downstairs. We had the boombox going and Linda Perry/4 Non Blondes' song "What's Up" was playing. I just loved that song- I still do. I'll leave you here with the lyrics to ponder.
P.S. All you have to Google is "Hey ey ey ey ey Hey ey ey song" and it will miraculously come up! Google is a genius!
Listen to it while you are reading the lyrics:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NXnxTNIWkc
P.P.S. This post was supposed to be about being childless by choice. I'm not sure what happened. Guess you better tune in next week!
As you listened to that song and read the lyrics, where did it take you? A memory? Crushed dreams? Do you feel like you are still trying to climb that hill of hope? Maybe the top of that hill is nowhere in sight. Maybe there isn't so much hope left. Maybe, after all these years, you still mourn the life that has been stolen from you for any number of reasons. We like to blame it on circumstance or our parents. Convenient, huh? We have all been placed in a family, whether we like them or not. Maybe you are like me and have seen the effects that divorce, adultery, abuse, and alcoholism can have on a family. It really bites! You can either let it suck all the life out of you, or you can tell that bag of shit to fuck off! It won't be easy. It could take years. You might need some therapy, or you might need to sever a family member out of your life. But you are NOT your family. YOU pave your own way. And cut your family a little slack, too. They are just as imperfect as you are. You are going to screw up your kids a little (a lot?) just like they did to you. Sorry, it's inevitable!
So, are you ready?
Get your butt out of bed tomorrow morning and step outside.
You may be 25 or 75,
You might still be looking for that destination,
But you keep climbing that hill of hope.
You won't be alone, and you WILL get up there.
And when you do, you go ahead and scream at the top of your lungs,
"What the FUCK is going on?!"
(Hellz, YEAH!)
Well, now that I am past my teenage years and early 20's, I've finally come to the realization of the absurdity of this thinking. Hearing how my friend's kids will just pull their pants down in public and start peeing on the sidewalk, I think my perfect expectations of child rearing were a little skewed! I think it finally hit me when I sat down with a family member (regrettably, at a McDonald's) several years ago who drilled into me the hard work and sacrifices that my mother made to provide for me and my sister. THAT is what love is; working an extra day (or two) of the week so that we could have piano, ballet, and swim lessons, new school clothes, a home with a nice big yard and my own room, and a family trip every summer. I spent so many years HATING my family. I wanted someone else's and I wanted to run away anywhere I could to find it! Sometimes that would mean running into the arms of some really crappy romantic relationships for the sense of family I longed for.
It's taken me a long time to get there, but I love my little messed up family. I call my mom every day and see her at least once a week. She is my fashion editor, my workout buddy, my coffee companion, my financial adviser, my thrift store scout, chocolate angel dessert chef, music teacher, and faith builder. And now, instead of yelling at each other and shoving each other around like we did as kids, my sister and me have become great friends now. And even when I thought she hated me growing up, we always put that aside when things mattered the most. When our parents fought, my sister's bedroom was my safe haven. When one of my hamsters died, she was always there to put her arm around me. I look to her for advice on everything from reading a recipe to major career leaps, and I like to look to her and her wife's loving example of marriage in my own.
"This is a post about family, but you haven't talked about your dad yet," you might be wondering. I guess I've been avoiding it. As a little girl, he was perfect in my eyes. I lived for the few days I could see him, and I mourned the days that I couldn't. He made mistakes that I was too young to remember or understand. It was those same mistakes that destroyed his marriage that, repeated later in life, would shatter our relationship in my adulthood and cause me to walk down the aisle in my wedding dress alone. How do you forgive the unforgivable? It's taken hours and hours of therapy, but I've accepted that my relationship with my dad will never be what it was or what I want it to be now. He can never be what I expect of him, and he refuses to change. So that leaves me with two options: I take him out of my life, or I accept the imperfect version that he is. I chose the second option. It is a shell of what our relationship used to be, and he will forever be kept at an arm's length away from my heart because of the choices he's made. But this is my family, and I own it in spite of every awkward Father's Day and Christmas present exchange. I would rather have a flawed relationship than none at all.
I remember one night having a slumber party on the floor of my sister's bedroom when I was about seven years old while my parents fought downstairs. We had the boombox going and Linda Perry/4 Non Blondes' song "What's Up" was playing. I just loved that song- I still do. I'll leave you here with the lyrics to ponder.
P.S. All you have to Google is "Hey ey ey ey ey Hey ey ey song" and it will miraculously come up! Google is a genius!
Listen to it while you are reading the lyrics:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NXnxTNIWkc
P.P.S. This post was supposed to be about being childless by choice. I'm not sure what happened. Guess you better tune in next week!
Twenty-five years and my life is still
Trying to get up that great big hill of hope
For a destination
Trying to get up that great big hill of hope
For a destination
I realized quickly when I knew I should
That the world was made up of this brotherhood of man
For whatever that means
That the world was made up of this brotherhood of man
For whatever that means
And so I cry sometimes
When I'm lying in bed just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
When I'm lying in bed just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's going on?
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's going on?
And I say, hey yeah yeah, hey yeah yeah
I said hey, what's going on?
I said hey, what's going on?
And I say, hey yeah yeah, hey yeah yeah
I said hey, what's going on?
I said hey, what's going on?
Oh, oh oh
Oh, oh oh
Oh, oh oh
And I try, oh my god do I try
I try all the time, in this institution
I try all the time, in this institution
And I pray, oh my god do I pray
I pray every single day
For a revolution.
I pray every single day
For a revolution.
And so I cry sometimes
When I'm lying bed
Just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
When I'm lying bed
Just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's going on?
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's going on?
And I say, hey hey hey hey
I said hey, what's going on? (Repeated a whole bunch of times)
I said hey, what's going on? (Repeated a whole bunch of times)
Oh, oh oh oh
Twenty-five years and my life is still
Trying to get up that great big hill of hope
For a destination
Written by Linda Perry • Copyright © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLCTrying to get up that great big hill of hope
For a destination
As you listened to that song and read the lyrics, where did it take you? A memory? Crushed dreams? Do you feel like you are still trying to climb that hill of hope? Maybe the top of that hill is nowhere in sight. Maybe there isn't so much hope left. Maybe, after all these years, you still mourn the life that has been stolen from you for any number of reasons. We like to blame it on circumstance or our parents. Convenient, huh? We have all been placed in a family, whether we like them or not. Maybe you are like me and have seen the effects that divorce, adultery, abuse, and alcoholism can have on a family. It really bites! You can either let it suck all the life out of you, or you can tell that bag of shit to fuck off! It won't be easy. It could take years. You might need some therapy, or you might need to sever a family member out of your life. But you are NOT your family. YOU pave your own way. And cut your family a little slack, too. They are just as imperfect as you are. You are going to screw up your kids a little (a lot?) just like they did to you. Sorry, it's inevitable!
So, are you ready?
Get your butt out of bed tomorrow morning and step outside.
You may be 25 or 75,
You might still be looking for that destination,
But you keep climbing that hill of hope.
You won't be alone, and you WILL get up there.
And when you do, you go ahead and scream at the top of your lungs,
"What the FUCK is going on?!"
(Hellz, YEAH!)
Saturday, August 13, 2016
If I Don't Do It, Who Will?
Today I went to the funeral of my 8th grade English teacher. Most of the memories I have of being in middle and high school include being depressed, despising my "broken" family, hacking up my body with a razor blade, and losing friends. My English teacher, however, was a bright spot in my dark world. Ever competitive at my heart, I was determined to be the top speller in his class. I was pretty bitter about being tied for first place, but it was rewarded with a Beanie Baby! Now, 18 years ago, that was pretty sweet stuff! Every time I hear Alanis Morissette's song, "Ironic," I always think of his lesson on what irony is. We went through each line of the song to determine if it was irony or not. "That's not irony!," he would say. "That's just bad luck!" I'm not sure how, but I kept running into him over the years. He would be acting in plays or directing plays that I would go see or he would come into my work (a bookstore) looking for the latest collectibles, and we would catch up. Then all of a sudden there was a car accident, days later he passed away, and I found it hard to believe I had only seen his smiling face the week before at a summer play he had directed. As I sat in the sanctuary today, I giggled to myself half wondering if the pastor might begin with, "Please silence your cell phones for the duration of the service. There aren't any Pokemon in here; I already checked."
Thinking about death is nothing new to me. I've feared it. I've fantasized about it. I've embraced it. I've attempted it. When I found out that my beloved teacher had suffered severe brain damage and would likely die, I immediately thought, "I don't deserve to live. I'm not doing anything that matters. Good people are doing great things, yet keep dying!" I wallowed in this line of suicidal thinking in the days my teacher laid unresponsive in the ICU. He had lived his too short life fully and reached so many people in both small and massive ways. "He's not done!" I pleaded with God. "What about all the people that he hasn't reached yet- the friends, the teachers, the students, the strangers, the poor, the sad? He's doing such a great job being the hands and feet of Christ. There will be a huge hole in the universe now. An emptiness that can't be filled. Take me! I am nothing! I cry too much, I sleep too much, I yell too much, I hide too much, I neglect too much. I'm not doing anything! Take me instead!"
A few days later I had a bizarre dream. I was standing outside with a coworker of mine. All of a sudden meteors plummeted to the Earth, burrowing into the ground, narrowly missing us. "What does this mean?" my friend asked. Without skipping a beat, I answered, "God is telling us he is in charge." God definitely got His message across to me. Not my will be done, but His. I am meant to be alive, and my teacher was meant to die. I may not understand why, but God makes no mistakes- He is in charge.
The truth of this one sentence spoken in my dream could not have become more clear as I listened to the four people at the funeral speak about how my teacher had touched their lives, made them laugh and smile, and shared memories and stories. His children and family carry him with them in the way they act on the love he shared with them. The teachers and students carry his many lessons on to new generations. There is not a hole in the universe as I originally thought. The torch has been passed to the people that he reached. We all carry a piece of him wherever we go. The people he didn't have a chance to reach yet will be reached by all the people that were sitting in those pews this morning. The teachers he touched will go on in his place to nurture blossoming students. The actors and directors and speech coaches will continue the legacy he left on this Earth that he can no longer carry for himself.
The question the pastor kept repeating during his message today was, "If I don't do it, who will?" I thought that if my teacher couldn't do it, then no one would! That his light would extinguish, and darkness would eternally appear where he had once shown his infectiously radiant presence. That question stirred a new purpose inside of me. "If I don't do it, who will?" I will! We will! We all will! I may not know what "it" is in my life right now, but there is an "it" and only I can do it. I'm not dead; I am alive. If I am alive, then there is still work for me to do.
So I challenge you all to ask that question of yourselves today: "If I don't do it, who will?" What is the "it" in your life? Is "it" that person you really want to get to know, but are too afraid to ask? Is "it" that family member, friend, or pet that you probably don't invest as much time in as you would like? Is "it" a great idea that's been bouncing around in your head for a while but hasn't come to fruition? There are as many "its" in the world as there are people.
Go out and find your "it." Do whatever "it" is. And like my teacher did, live it with all your being. You may not have another tomorrow to act on it.
Thinking about death is nothing new to me. I've feared it. I've fantasized about it. I've embraced it. I've attempted it. When I found out that my beloved teacher had suffered severe brain damage and would likely die, I immediately thought, "I don't deserve to live. I'm not doing anything that matters. Good people are doing great things, yet keep dying!" I wallowed in this line of suicidal thinking in the days my teacher laid unresponsive in the ICU. He had lived his too short life fully and reached so many people in both small and massive ways. "He's not done!" I pleaded with God. "What about all the people that he hasn't reached yet- the friends, the teachers, the students, the strangers, the poor, the sad? He's doing such a great job being the hands and feet of Christ. There will be a huge hole in the universe now. An emptiness that can't be filled. Take me! I am nothing! I cry too much, I sleep too much, I yell too much, I hide too much, I neglect too much. I'm not doing anything! Take me instead!"
A few days later I had a bizarre dream. I was standing outside with a coworker of mine. All of a sudden meteors plummeted to the Earth, burrowing into the ground, narrowly missing us. "What does this mean?" my friend asked. Without skipping a beat, I answered, "God is telling us he is in charge." God definitely got His message across to me. Not my will be done, but His. I am meant to be alive, and my teacher was meant to die. I may not understand why, but God makes no mistakes- He is in charge.
The truth of this one sentence spoken in my dream could not have become more clear as I listened to the four people at the funeral speak about how my teacher had touched their lives, made them laugh and smile, and shared memories and stories. His children and family carry him with them in the way they act on the love he shared with them. The teachers and students carry his many lessons on to new generations. There is not a hole in the universe as I originally thought. The torch has been passed to the people that he reached. We all carry a piece of him wherever we go. The people he didn't have a chance to reach yet will be reached by all the people that were sitting in those pews this morning. The teachers he touched will go on in his place to nurture blossoming students. The actors and directors and speech coaches will continue the legacy he left on this Earth that he can no longer carry for himself.
The question the pastor kept repeating during his message today was, "If I don't do it, who will?" I thought that if my teacher couldn't do it, then no one would! That his light would extinguish, and darkness would eternally appear where he had once shown his infectiously radiant presence. That question stirred a new purpose inside of me. "If I don't do it, who will?" I will! We will! We all will! I may not know what "it" is in my life right now, but there is an "it" and only I can do it. I'm not dead; I am alive. If I am alive, then there is still work for me to do.
So I challenge you all to ask that question of yourselves today: "If I don't do it, who will?" What is the "it" in your life? Is "it" that person you really want to get to know, but are too afraid to ask? Is "it" that family member, friend, or pet that you probably don't invest as much time in as you would like? Is "it" a great idea that's been bouncing around in your head for a while but hasn't come to fruition? There are as many "its" in the world as there are people.
Go out and find your "it." Do whatever "it" is. And like my teacher did, live it with all your being. You may not have another tomorrow to act on it.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
I Don't Wanna!
Some days, I want to stay in my comfortable rut. Depression and anxiety are my constant companions. I want to be taken care of so I don't have to take care of myself. I relish the sense of calm and satisfaction I get from chewing my fingers and picking my skin until they bleed. It's like popping a fresh sheet of bubble wrap (Note to self- buy bubble wrap), but more awesome. To get healthy means exiting my comfort zone, putting forth a great deal of effort, and trying new things. It requires patience and diligence and a slew of other character traits that I don't feel I possess. It means fighting the magnetic pull my pillow has to my head. It means picking up a fruit or vegetable when all I want is a king size Reese's Fast Break and a cherry Icee (Seriously, both quite tasty). Like cleaning your house, it means getting more messy and shedding more tears, so that my life can ultimately be more content and satisfying. It means folding clothes, doing dishes, cleaning hamster cages on a regular basis, taking the dog for walks, paying bills, planning and cooking meals, flossing, exercising, and- I better stop there. You've heard the saying "All or Nothing?" Yeah, that's me. I look at the mountain of to-do lists and I give up before I try. I think I need to take it all on rather than taking one small step at a time. "Don't quit picking all at once," my therapist tells me. "Pick one body part, the left side of your face or your right arm, and don't pick that one spot."
I know that people in their 30's should not be the way I am. People in their 30's should be able to function like an adult. I'm not proud of myself. It makes me feel ashamed. Sometimes some people get so used to being my parent and caretaker that they have been conditioned to enable me. If someone else does something for me, then I don't have to. Which is great for me. I love avoiding the anxiety of being responsible and making decisions. I would rather be ignorant of my financial situation than face it and fix it. All of that has to change, though. I made the year-long commitment to learn new skills, do the therapy, and improve my ways.
Writing it down makes it real and puts it out in the open: I admittedly am incompetent and I'd like to stay that way. The people in my life can't expect little from me anymore. I will fight responsibility, I will hate the people I love, I will have tantrums, I will cry and panic, and the weight of adulthood might even make me feel like I can't go on. And when the pain becomes too much, the people I love can't help me. It's an odd but necessary requirement of my therapy. I have 24/7 access to my therapist which allows me to call her anytime I fall apart, can't stop crying, or can't keep living. I've had access to this luxury for the past three weeks, but I haven't worked up the guts to utilize it. I tell myself that I am a bother, a nuisance, that it's really not bad enough to call. No one else can change my thoughts and feelings but me, and there is no one else that can teach me the skills to rein in my feelings than the gifted talent of a great psychologist.
I don't wanna, but here I go, reluctantly off to uncharted territory.
I know that people in their 30's should not be the way I am. People in their 30's should be able to function like an adult. I'm not proud of myself. It makes me feel ashamed. Sometimes some people get so used to being my parent and caretaker that they have been conditioned to enable me. If someone else does something for me, then I don't have to. Which is great for me. I love avoiding the anxiety of being responsible and making decisions. I would rather be ignorant of my financial situation than face it and fix it. All of that has to change, though. I made the year-long commitment to learn new skills, do the therapy, and improve my ways.
Writing it down makes it real and puts it out in the open: I admittedly am incompetent and I'd like to stay that way. The people in my life can't expect little from me anymore. I will fight responsibility, I will hate the people I love, I will have tantrums, I will cry and panic, and the weight of adulthood might even make me feel like I can't go on. And when the pain becomes too much, the people I love can't help me. It's an odd but necessary requirement of my therapy. I have 24/7 access to my therapist which allows me to call her anytime I fall apart, can't stop crying, or can't keep living. I've had access to this luxury for the past three weeks, but I haven't worked up the guts to utilize it. I tell myself that I am a bother, a nuisance, that it's really not bad enough to call. No one else can change my thoughts and feelings but me, and there is no one else that can teach me the skills to rein in my feelings than the gifted talent of a great psychologist.
I don't wanna, but here I go, reluctantly off to uncharted territory.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
The Mental Health Hospital Experience
Imagine going into the Emergency Room with severe chest pains and being told, "Sorry, we don't offer that specialty, but could we give you a $1000 ambulance ride (which you have to pay for) to another facility?" Or how about, "Sure, we can get you in for that, but it might be a few days." It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? For many people coming into the hospital for mental health reasons, these are realistic circumstances. Not all hospitals are equipped with a mental health unit. One can wait several days sitting around in a "regular" hospital room waiting for an opening at an in-patient mental health facility. One of my many hospitalizations began with a three day wait before I could get treatment at a different hospital. With each day that passed, my mood spiraled even further down hill. There were no therapists to talk to, either. I felt like I was only taking up space. I felt even more hopeless knowing that getting help was so tricky. One nurse even had the gall to tell me how many other patients in the hospital were also waiting for an opening at a different hospital (it was a lot!). How could there not be enough care for all these people when there is such a huge demand for it?! I immediately fell into a puddle of tears, certain that I would be stuck in my dark hole forever. Thankfully, after three days, the wait was over, and I was transferred to another hospital for treatment.
Another barrier in hospital care occurred to me when I was a teenager, about 15 years ago. Not only was there a shortage of mental health care in hospitals at the time, but being underage made it even more challenging to find a place to go. Even living in an urban area with over two million residents and 3 major hospitals less than a half hour away, I still had to go to a hospital an hour and a half from my home. My family had to make the commute every single day, and it was just one more stressor to add to an already difficult situation.
So what is hidden behind the locked doors of a mental health unit? There are definitely a lot of misconceptions. Take a look at "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," "Girl, Interrupted," or a plethora of different horror movies. It's called the "Looney Bin," the "Funny Farm," the "Madhouse," the "Nuthouse," and countless other nicknames for these places. During my internship at a hospital a few years ago, an employee was poking fun of the mental health unit and calling it "funny" names. How could an employee in a hospital be so insensitive? I wish I had the guts at the time to stand up to her!
A mental health unit needs to be a safe place for patients to stay, which accounts for the many strict rules. Patients often have suicidal thoughts, and some people have already acted upon those thoughts. Others perform self harm on themselves by cutting, burning, or other methods. That is why you will never find plastic bags, shoelaces, sharp objects, dental floss, nail clippers, lighters, dinner knives, or anything else that could potentially cause harm to a patient. Patients are more often than not out to hurt themselves, not to harm other people. I know from experience, people (even myself!) can get creative when usual methods of self harm are not available. I won't tell you how, though, lest I give you bad ideas!
There are lots of things going on in a mental health unit; it's a very busy place! The idea is to get past the "crisis" mode so that the patient is safe enough to go home or to a different in-patient program or has other aftercare lined up. Many people are involved in this process- psychiatrists, social workers, medical doctors, nurses, occupational therapists, and possibly others. People don't get "cured" in the hospital; they get to a more stable place. That process may include medication experimentation, group meetings with other patients to talk about feelings or learn new skills, doing arts and crafts (my favorite!), and doing other activities or games that encourage sharing and interaction. Being in the hospital is probably the only time when this plethora of resources is available at the tip of a finger. Outside of the hospital, it could take 8 weeks of waiting for a patient to see a psychiatrist for the first time. Even though people might not feel up to it, it is so important to ask questions, be honest about your feelings, and generally stand up for yourself to get your needs met; it is not selfish! A patient's support system can help with this as well.
So, how do we change some of the issues involving mental health hospitalization? First of all, stop with the jokes and names. People struggling with mental health issues can feel ashamed, embarrassed, and keep their situation a secret because of the bad connotation hospitalization still has. These patients are already fighting their demons and don't need the added stigma of hospitalization added to their emotional plate. It's totally cool and acceptable to go to the hospital, and that is the message that we need to be spreading. We also need even more mental health resources at hospitals. Every hospital needs to be equipped with a mental health unit, and no one should have to wait several days to get care when they are in crisis mode. One way that you can help make a difference is (if you are brave enough!) to write or call your politicians. Those are the folks with the purse strings and say how much mulla is designated to mental health. You can also donate to or volunteer with NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness). They are hard at work trying to get more funds and better access to mental health treatment.
Another barrier in hospital care occurred to me when I was a teenager, about 15 years ago. Not only was there a shortage of mental health care in hospitals at the time, but being underage made it even more challenging to find a place to go. Even living in an urban area with over two million residents and 3 major hospitals less than a half hour away, I still had to go to a hospital an hour and a half from my home. My family had to make the commute every single day, and it was just one more stressor to add to an already difficult situation.
So what is hidden behind the locked doors of a mental health unit? There are definitely a lot of misconceptions. Take a look at "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," "Girl, Interrupted," or a plethora of different horror movies. It's called the "Looney Bin," the "Funny Farm," the "Madhouse," the "Nuthouse," and countless other nicknames for these places. During my internship at a hospital a few years ago, an employee was poking fun of the mental health unit and calling it "funny" names. How could an employee in a hospital be so insensitive? I wish I had the guts at the time to stand up to her!
A mental health unit needs to be a safe place for patients to stay, which accounts for the many strict rules. Patients often have suicidal thoughts, and some people have already acted upon those thoughts. Others perform self harm on themselves by cutting, burning, or other methods. That is why you will never find plastic bags, shoelaces, sharp objects, dental floss, nail clippers, lighters, dinner knives, or anything else that could potentially cause harm to a patient. Patients are more often than not out to hurt themselves, not to harm other people. I know from experience, people (even myself!) can get creative when usual methods of self harm are not available. I won't tell you how, though, lest I give you bad ideas!
There are lots of things going on in a mental health unit; it's a very busy place! The idea is to get past the "crisis" mode so that the patient is safe enough to go home or to a different in-patient program or has other aftercare lined up. Many people are involved in this process- psychiatrists, social workers, medical doctors, nurses, occupational therapists, and possibly others. People don't get "cured" in the hospital; they get to a more stable place. That process may include medication experimentation, group meetings with other patients to talk about feelings or learn new skills, doing arts and crafts (my favorite!), and doing other activities or games that encourage sharing and interaction. Being in the hospital is probably the only time when this plethora of resources is available at the tip of a finger. Outside of the hospital, it could take 8 weeks of waiting for a patient to see a psychiatrist for the first time. Even though people might not feel up to it, it is so important to ask questions, be honest about your feelings, and generally stand up for yourself to get your needs met; it is not selfish! A patient's support system can help with this as well.
So, how do we change some of the issues involving mental health hospitalization? First of all, stop with the jokes and names. People struggling with mental health issues can feel ashamed, embarrassed, and keep their situation a secret because of the bad connotation hospitalization still has. These patients are already fighting their demons and don't need the added stigma of hospitalization added to their emotional plate. It's totally cool and acceptable to go to the hospital, and that is the message that we need to be spreading. We also need even more mental health resources at hospitals. Every hospital needs to be equipped with a mental health unit, and no one should have to wait several days to get care when they are in crisis mode. One way that you can help make a difference is (if you are brave enough!) to write or call your politicians. Those are the folks with the purse strings and say how much mulla is designated to mental health. You can also donate to or volunteer with NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness). They are hard at work trying to get more funds and better access to mental health treatment.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
It Begins With Step One
I am mentally ill. No, I take that back. I am living with mental illness. What does that mean, you might ask? Well, I ugly cry a lot. I have panic attacks. I hyperventilate and choke on air. I'm afraid of social situations and people I don't know. I see the world in black and white; all or nothing. It's hard to make friends, and I feel like I don't fit in with "normal" people. I self soothe with triple chocolate chunk cookies, marshmallows, pop tarts, ice cream; basically anything classified as a carb or is doused in sugar. When my husband isn't looking, I sneak two bowls of cereal in the morning. If I walk to Dairy Queen, then there is no harm in getting a Blizzard; I practically worked it off dragging it home with me! My favorite part about going to church every Sunday morning is the three gooey cream cheesy oozing cherry filled donuts I will eat and hope no one notices. I might sneak another one on the way out as well. I sleep 12 hours a day and am convinced I can't survive a day without a nap. I am most afraid that having children would interrupt my very important sleeping time; not to mention the hours of getting lost in books every day. I have very little idea of who I am and what I want. Except chocolate. I will always want chocolate. I pick incessantly at the imperfections in my skin and desperately try to hide it with concealer multiple times a day. I yell and swear and insult the people closest to me. I've broken up with my husband so many times, he doesn't believe me anymore. He calmly picks up my wedding and engagement rings that I have undoubtedly thrown across the room at him, places them on the bookshelf, and replaces them on my finger the following day after I've calmed down. I confess we have not been able to find my engagement ring after the last "episode." I've broken a clock, a chair, and an address book. I've flipped a kitchen table over. I storm off into bedrooms and slam and lock the doors in juvenile defiance and frustration. Some days I feel so ashamed and sad and hopeless. Some days I want to die. I don't think of the people I would leave behind. I only think of the excruciating pain in my head and in my heart. It's a pain that radiates into my whole being. I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in my eyes, in my muscles. An emotional pain so great that I would do anything to escape it. Sometimes it lasts for days; sometimes it lasts for years. I know it will always come back, but I have to remind myself that it always subsides too.
Like in everyone, mental illness doesn't define me. It often feels like a huge road block in my life controlling everything, but I have to give myself credit for the things I've accomplished in spite of these challenges. I have family and friends and a church who love me and (God forbid) when I am hospitalized, I always get the award for the most visitors. I have a job that I love that has miraculously hung onto me since I started in 2004. I've managed to keep my pets alive (for the most part) over the years. I thought I would make a career out of being a college student, floating around not knowing what the heck I wanted to be, year after year. One day it's an entrepreneur, the next a veterinarian. Oh, how about an actress? No, definitely a stay-at-home mom barefoot and pregnant with a loaded husband. Somewhere in the midst of that chaos I managed to earn myself two college degrees, make straight A's, and give a graduation speech. I somehow failed a gym class, though, but I digress. I started playing the double bass again recently after quitting when I was a very depressed 16 year old. Let's not talk about how many years ago that was! I own a car and have a mortgage. I have a pretty awesome credit rating, thank you very much!. This is nuts! I'm really quite competent! It's like I'm a bona fide adult! Or so you might think. I would rather give an original speech or star in a play in front of hundreds of people than fold laundry. After all, why fold the laundry crumpled up on the bed when you can simply sleep in another room of the house for several weeks. I would rather skip a meal than face the anxiety of planning and preparing it. I would rather go back to sleep than decide what to do next with my time.
As you can see, I'm pretty messed up, but I'm pretty blessed as well. Today, I'm beginning a new journey to recovery involving intense individual and group therapy. Sure, I've done all this before on and off for years with small improvements, but this time I really want to fight this beast and claim my life back. Maybe by opening up and writing what it's like to live with mental illness and to heal from it, someone else out in this great world might also find solidarity and comfort. I hope it will be a cathartic experience for me as well.
Like in everyone, mental illness doesn't define me. It often feels like a huge road block in my life controlling everything, but I have to give myself credit for the things I've accomplished in spite of these challenges. I have family and friends and a church who love me and (God forbid) when I am hospitalized, I always get the award for the most visitors. I have a job that I love that has miraculously hung onto me since I started in 2004. I've managed to keep my pets alive (for the most part) over the years. I thought I would make a career out of being a college student, floating around not knowing what the heck I wanted to be, year after year. One day it's an entrepreneur, the next a veterinarian. Oh, how about an actress? No, definitely a stay-at-home mom barefoot and pregnant with a loaded husband. Somewhere in the midst of that chaos I managed to earn myself two college degrees, make straight A's, and give a graduation speech. I somehow failed a gym class, though, but I digress. I started playing the double bass again recently after quitting when I was a very depressed 16 year old. Let's not talk about how many years ago that was! I own a car and have a mortgage. I have a pretty awesome credit rating, thank you very much!. This is nuts! I'm really quite competent! It's like I'm a bona fide adult! Or so you might think. I would rather give an original speech or star in a play in front of hundreds of people than fold laundry. After all, why fold the laundry crumpled up on the bed when you can simply sleep in another room of the house for several weeks. I would rather skip a meal than face the anxiety of planning and preparing it. I would rather go back to sleep than decide what to do next with my time.
As you can see, I'm pretty messed up, but I'm pretty blessed as well. Today, I'm beginning a new journey to recovery involving intense individual and group therapy. Sure, I've done all this before on and off for years with small improvements, but this time I really want to fight this beast and claim my life back. Maybe by opening up and writing what it's like to live with mental illness and to heal from it, someone else out in this great world might also find solidarity and comfort. I hope it will be a cathartic experience for me as well.
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