Category Archives: mental health

March 28, 2017 · 4:28 PM

Living In The Moment

One of the things I love doing on my Facebook page is asking a basic question of the group, one that I know will elicit a lot of responses, and hopefully starting a (often important, and needed) conversation. Even before I read through all the responses – and please know that I do, very carefully, read through all of the responses – your enthusiasm in joining the conversation tells me two things: 1) That we all want to be heard… that we all have questions, and struggles, and things to share, and that platforms like blogs and Facebook groups still serve a real purpose, and 2) That we’re all in this together. I think that one of the most helpful things to know (not just with parenting, but with life) is that we are not alone. That someone, somewhere, is out there who gets it. Who understands how we feel. Who knows what it’s like to be facing what we face. It’s a powerful thing, and one I don’t take for granted.

Most recently, I asked,

What is one thing that you struggle with as a parent? Something that you know you want to do differently (such as less yelling, more patience, etc) but that you are having trouble implementing?

I got an overwhelming response, both in numbers and in sheer honesty and vulnerability. So thank you. I very quickly realized that what was meant to be a one-off blog post really needed to become a regular series. Because I don’t care how good of a mom you are: We all struggle with something.

The thing that stood out to me the most in my first read-through of the comments was the one that’s been my own personal struggle since… well, forever: Being present. Being in the moment. It’s something that I’ve thought about, and learned about, and written about, many many times in the 20 years that I’ve been a parent. Tegan (who’s 9 at the time of this writing, and is teaching me a whole new set of parenting truths after her three brothers) has been instrumental in showing me of the importance of living in the moment.

But still, I have to remind myself. Still, I have to practice.

And I’m not alone.

Just a few of my fellow like-minded parents:

Stopping, breathing, and taking in the moment. Appreciating their age, abilities and achievements without being frustrated by lesser things. ~ Bea L

Really struggling with patience these days. ~ Jess F

Being more present with my kids and not giving in to frustration. ~ Rebecca P

Slowing down and enjoying the moments. I always seem to be going and trying to clean, get dishes or laundry done and I tend to e short with my kids and not fully engage in play or conversation. ~ Stefanie S

Being impatient and not being able to just be present with them. Working on it. Getting better, but it is hard. ~ Karen E

I have spent the entire last year working on my mental health, and a huge, huge part of that work was learning to live in the moment. Our brains (or at least my brain) always want to be solving problems, and thinking about the next thing, or the last thing, or the thing that’s coming up next week, or the thing that happened 6 months ago. When you’re not truly living in the moment, you’re either living in the past, or in the future. And in the past and in the future, there’s always a problem to solve. It’s exhausting.

So all the typical “live in the moment” advice – Breathe; Count to ten.; Look around and ground yourself by appreciating the sights and sounds and smells; Don’t sweat the small stuff – While it’s all well and good, it wasn’t until I learned the problem-solving piece that I felt like I really understood what I needed to do, and what I needed to remember.

In the moment, in this moment, there is no problem to solve.

And it sounds simplistic, and easy to argue: Of course there are problems. We don’t have enough money. The car’s in the shop. The kids are always fighting. The 2 year old’s sick. The 4 year old’s having a tantrum. I have to make dinner and make lunches for tomorrow and get my son to football and my daughter to karate and there’s the thing at church and it’s all just SO MUCH.

Yes. Sure. I get it. I get it.

But right now, right now as you read these words, there are no problems to solve. It’s okay to give yourself (and your brain! Your poor, overworked brain) a break. It’s okay to breathe and NOT WORRY about how you handled that last problem, or how you’re going to handle the next one. It’s okay to truly and deeply and fully live right now, and give yourself permission to rest…. to rest in the moment, to rest in the presence of your child, to rest in the presence of yourself.

Right now, in the moment, there is no problem to solve.

That one piece of truth, heard in the right place and the right time, was probably one of the single best bits of wisdom I’ve ever received… not just for life in general, but for my parenting as well. And I still have to remind myself – often – but I’m getting better.

Right now, there is no problem to solve.

And my shoulders relax, and I’m able to exhale, and my weary soul feels a welcome sense of relief. I don’t have to figure it all out right now. And then, in that moment, I can be the mom I know I can be. The mom I know I should be. And when I miss the mark (and I do sometimes miss the mark, because I’m human)? Then I have the next moment. And then the one after that.

One day, one moment, at a time.

And it sounds kinda hokey, and a little woo-woo (and I hate woo-woo) … but it helps. So much.

You have permission to rest.

Hug your kid, smell the flowers, jump in the mud puddle. Right now, there is no problem to solve.

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Filed under mental health, mindful parenting, not sweating the small stuff, parenting, perspective, self care

March 9, 2017 · 5:11 PM

Someone Told Me

Someone told me that I wasn’t good enough

Not smart enough

Not strong enough

Not pretty enough

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough and I listened

Someone told me that I was less than

That even my very very best would never be worthy of praise

That just my mere existence was a disappointment

That I’d never measure up

That I’d never reach my full potential

A potential decided not by me, but by someone else

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough and I took it as gospel

Indelible words written on a young impressionable soul

Letters burnt into deep deep grooves, like the scars left behind on a wood-working project from shop class

A class I could never pay attention to because I was too distracted

Too distracted thinking of other things

Of daydreams

Of the future

Of all the things I’d never do because I wasn’t good enough

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough and I started to believe it

Tiny pieces of my being breaking off and drifting away

Until there was so very little left

Nothing but a broken shell

A broken shell that felt worthless

But less than worthless because you have to care to feel worthless

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough and what was left inside of me died

Safe from the hurt

Safe from the anger

Safe from disappointing just one more person ONE MORE TIME

It had consumed me

Swallowed me whole

My whole existence enveloped in the empty abyss of self-hatred

But someone was born in that abyss

She was timid at first

She’s still timid

Nothing more than a whisper

Tentative, testing words of someone changing the voices

Changing the narrative

Slowly, painfully… so very very painfully

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough, but who are they to decide?

Who are they to write my story?

Who are they to say what is and is not worthy?

Or strong?

Or beautiful?

Or smart?

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough, and I heard it, but I no longer listened

Empty, hollow words, echoing off the chambers of my healing heart

Bruised but not broken

Scarred but not bleeding

And the wind from the unkind words carry life

Life to the timid and fragile new voice

A voice that isn’t quite there yet, but that gets stronger every day

Stronger

Bolder

More confident

Someone told me that I wasn’t enough, and she stood up

The girl with the new voice

The one who no longer lived for anyone’s expectations but her own

And she shook

Oh dear Lord did she shake

And even as she shook she knew

She need only say the words and the feelings would come

She need only say the words and they’d smooth a multitude of hurts

Of scars

Of pain

I. AM. ENOUGH.

And I’ve been enough all along

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Filed under mental health, Uncategorized

February 9, 2017 · 9:12 AM

Real Ways To Help When Your Loved One Has Depression Or Anxiety – 46 People Weigh In

When I’m in the midst of a deep depression, or grappling with a bout of anxiety – both of which often come together – very few external things help me. I never want someone to try to help me fix it (I have a therapist for that), and it’s extremely rare that I want to talk about it, if I even can talk about it (I have a therapist for that, too). More often than not, even the best of intentions and attempts to make me feel better only serve to make me feel worse. I feel like it’s important to clarify that I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and I don’t mean to lay blame. I blame nothing other than ignorance, inexperience, and a stigma surrounding mental health that means it’s not talked about nearly as often, or as openly, as it should be. How could anyone possibly know what to do – and what not to do – if no one’s ever told them? The irony of course is that the times I need support the most are the times when I’m least able to articulate, or even identify for myself, what may or may not be helpful. When I’m depressed, I’m not rational. I’m never “with it.” I’m not always nice.

Still, there *are* a few things that help, none more than simply being there. Not trying to fix, not judging. Just seeing me, and loving me, right where I’m at. When I asked my readers to share their own experience on my Facebook page, the response was overwhelming in its solidarity. People with depression and anxiety just want to know they are loved. While that might look slightly different for everyone, the sentiment remains the same. Far and away the most common response was some version of, “Just be there. Just love me.”

A selection of those responses, plus several others, are what follow. A few times the responses directly contradicted one another, which I loved (we’re humans, not robots). I tried to group those together. I added a bit of commentary a couple of times, but mostly let them stand on their own.

Listen – and really hear – what helps these brave individuals when they are struggling:

“Just listening and not trying to fix things. I usually just need a sounding board, not answers.” ~ Kelsey S

“Validation helps, not necessarily trying to find you a solution.” ~ Ladasha M

“When they reach out and just offer support or when they let me just “be” until I’m ready to talk. It’s super helpful when they don’t try to “fix” things. I think that helps me more than anything. Just to know that they are there for me and don’t see me as broken and unuseful.” ~ Laura L

“Letting me talk about it without offering an “answer.”” ~ Valerie S

“The most helpful thing is when a friend/loved one just sits next to me (literally or metaphorically) and says “I’m here”. No false promises that things will get better soon, no attempts to cheer me up, just sitting with me and letting me feel what I need to feel” ~ Chelsea S

“The most helpful for me is for my friends/family to just be there.” ~ Katie C

“”I’m here if you need me”. You have to truly mean it, because you might get a call in the middle of the night.” ~ Alisha T

“Nothing they really say helps because when I am in deep, I can turn anything into a negative. Just being there, never giving up on me, and loving me helps.” ~ Ashley A

“Just being listened to. Having someone just witness my experience. Believing my experience is real and not just “in my head.” ~ Patty M

“”I’m here if you need to talk.”” ~ Jay T

“Giving me some space to just be with how I’m feeling, and letting me know they’re there when I’m ready to talk.” ~ Jessica M

“Just simply saying they are here for me but also reminding me that I’m strong and brave.” ~ Kellie M

“Empathy: ‘That sounds really hard. Do you want to talk about it?'” ~ Catherine D

“It’s not anything said; it’s simply being near me. Even if the company is silent, having somebody sit with me and be willing to listen, watch a movie, or just exist for a moment makes me feel supported, more supported than any words.” ~ Reggie R

“I have anxiety and panic attacks so it’s very helpful if my family can remind me when I have a panic attack that I’m okay and that I only have to get through the next few minutes. Asking why or what I’m upset about or trying to “fix” it does not help. Also, being understanding when I need to leave the room to have a few minutes to breathe and let the anxiety wash over me.” ~ Ursula D

“Mostly just NOT saying, “What’s wrong?” There doesn’t have to be anything wrong, and there usually isn’t. Expecting me to be able to give some reason makes me feel guilty, like I have no business feeling awful when everything is going well in my life.” ~ Elizabeth S

“Being a compassionate, non-judgemental ear helps me a lot. Being able to talk it out or cry it out works for me.” ~ Michelle J

“Believing me. No second guessing, no hedging.” ~ Julia J

“The best thing ever was when I was having a bad day and I felt like I was causing so many problems for my husband. I was crying and promising him I would try harder to change. It was such a relief when he told me that I didn’t need to change, that I was fine just the way I was, and we just needed to find ways to cope. I had never felt so accepted and loved and it helped give me a solid base from which to blossom.” ~ Alicia R

A lot of people pointed to physical affection, along with physical presence:

“For me what is most helpful is when a friend is there for me letting me know they are there to listen. When they make time to just come over and be present. When they try to get me out of the house and out of my own head. Another big one for me is a hug. Hugs really help me.” ~ Tamarah C

“Holding me tightly until the storm passes- that feeling of someone seeing you at your ugliest and not running away, not trying to make it better either.” ~ Crystal M

“It’s not so much what my loved ones say, it’s what they do (and don’t do). My partner gives me massages. He does my head, neck, back, shoulders, arms, and hands. Tension melts away. My family all knows the special treats I like, so they’ll bring me truffles or a bottle of sparkling cider or spicy hot V8 or chile rellenos from my favorite restaurant. Then they leave me alone. They don’t try to talk to me unless it’s essential. They know I’ll eventually be okay, and time alone to sleep or read or snuggle my cats helps immensely.” ~ Jenny R

“”Are you having a hard day? Do you need a hug?”” ~ Naomi R

“Hugs. And not all hugs are created equal. Also, encouraging me to take a break, because I get stuck in the “I need to finish this,” mindset and have trouble seeing the solution.” ~ Rob T

“It depends on how close I am to the person. With my house humans, I definitely like hugs, back rubs, and someone just sitting quietly with me. Hugs from acquaintances… nope. A sincere compliment from anyone goes a long way, though.” ~ Joan C

For some of us, tangible, practical help with the necessities of life goes a long way:

“Cleaning or cooking. Taking over administrative household things would be a tremendous help.” ~ Renee M

“When someone notices I’m down or very anxious and instead of asking me what’s wrong they simply do something kind. Another question to ask instead of “what’s wrong” is “What can I do for you?” Or “What do you need right now?” I don’t really get asked these but wish I do more often as they are the most helpful words at the time.” ~ Rebecca B

“Taking something off my plate or doing something kind for me helps a lot.” ~ V Sue H

“What can I do to help out? What can I take off your plate for you? What would make you feel better that I could do for you. Feeling overburdened (by my own rules and expectations, mostly) was a huge part of my depression and anxiety.” ~ Sue S

“When they ask me what they can do to help. That’s the best help. Instead of assuming what I need, it’s nice for them to ask.” ~ Stephanie J

“Dear Lord, not the open ended, “How can I help?” That question is so overwhelming to me when I’m depressed. “Can I do X for you?” is much more helpful. Trust me, if an alternative is better, I’ll let you know.” Mariellen M. I could really relate to this, and it took me a long time to realize it. I’d often just wonder what the heck is wrong with me. (That’s something I wonder a lot, especially when I’m depressed.) Here I have this well-meaning, loving friend who wants to help me, and the offer only makes me more frustrated. It’s not because I don’t appreciate it, and it’s (usually) not that I don’t want help. It’s that I DON’T KNOW what kind of help I need. The question feels overwhelming and impossible to answer. A specific offer would be much easier to respond to. I still might decline it!, but it’s far more likely to help.

“I would say whatever they think would help me out, just do it. When I’m overwhelmed by depression and anxiety, someone asking me a question is incredibly stressful. But if they just go ahead and hug me, call me, clean something, etc, it’s definitely appreciated.” ~ Issa W

“Can I bring you a cup of soup or a Coke? Or can I watch the kids for you for an hour or two? Just these simple things remind me that I can get through the darkness and I am not alone.” ~ Jennifer E

“Would you like to have a cup of tea with me?” It just helps to fill the empty hours more pleasantly.” ~ Margaret B

“Basically treat me like I have stomach flu! I’m sick at the moment, let me act like it, and treat me like it. Tuck me in and bring me tea. The show of understanding and love will give me the strength to rise up.” ~ Seana R

“Not trying to whisk me away to my bedroom for alone time, and then taking over all the household things with the family. That would be helpful. I like knowing I can be present and included even if I am depressed. I don’t need to be quarantined.” ~ Shelly C

And sometimes, what we need is a little bit of gentle pressure from the right person:

“Want to take a walk? No? I’d like to take you for a walk. I know it helps.” ~ Heather Y

“”Have you taken a shower today? Text me after you get out of the shower.”” ~ Roya D. Self care, even something as seemingly simple as a shower, can be incredibly hard when you’re depressed. Gentle encouragement from a trusted friend can go a long way.

“Make me food. Offer to get me out of the house. Gently ask if I’ve showered/eaten something/taken my medication/stepped outside.” ~ Idzie D

“My husband helps me by giving me alone time or encouraging me to go to yoga. I often give up yoga when I’m overwhelmed, and it’s one of the things that helps me the most. He also gently helps me get to bed, as sleep always helps. He just kind of takes over and says, “Why don’t you get in bed and I”ll put the kids to bed.” No judgement.” ~ Audrey B

One of the biggest reasons that I continue to write about this is that it has helped me SO MUCH to hear from others who get it. Commiseration from someone who’s been there is a powerful thing, and I’m not alone in that belief:

“When I went through a four-year struggle with depression and anxiety, what helped me the most was 1) knowing other people had been there. I loved it when people were willing to share their experiences. 2) Learning to seize the day. That is, I had to learn to live life to the fullest. I had to learn to do things I enjoy.” ~ Kandy C

“Personally, hearing someone say, “I’ve struggled with that too” has helped me the most. That hardly EVER comes from my spouse or family. It has to come from someone outside my current situation like a close friend.” ~ Mandi P

Depression is an incredibly isolating illness. It’s about us, and no one else, so it’s important not to take it personally. Here are just a couple of examples:

“Not take it personally and keep getting angry because I won’t say what exactly is wrong. Most of the time I don’t even know what’s wrong, but everyone is so quick to think I’m upset with them” ~ Kelly J

“Don’t take it personally when I cancel plans to go out at the last minute”. ~ Jenica M

One of the things that helped me a lot when I first started talking about this was simple honesty.

“”I don’t even know what to say right now, I’m just glad you told me.”” ~ Jessika B

And finally, when all else fails, there is this:

“Saying that no matter what, you love me.” ~ Rebecca R

46 different people in different places, with different struggles, and different stories. But one common plea that unites us all:

Just be there.

Hear us.

See us.

Love us.

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Filed under anxiety, depression, mental health, Uncategorized

December 21, 2016 · 9:36 PM

The Human Condition

suicidalthoughts

*Fair warning: The end of the year always makes me crazy introspective, even under the best of circumstances.*

I went to an open mic night a couple weeks ago. We’ve been checking them out for Paxton (16 at the time of this writing), because he’s looking for local places to play his music. This one place we went, at an old church-turned-theater downtown, was really interesting. And I don’t mean “interesting” as a polite yet sarcastic way of saying it blew. I mean it really was interesting. All ages. All walks of life. All kinds of talents. There were poems and music, originals and covers. There was a little boy who sang a Bruno Mars song. There was a young woman who performed a rap that she’d written for a friend who’d died by suicide. There was a 75 year old comedian who I didn’t find particularly funny but respected like crazy for getting up there and doing his thing. There was a young girl who forgot the lyrics to her song, got swept up in her nerves, and stood there frozen and crying until two of her friends jumped onstage to help her finish. There was a room full of people giving nothing but massive amounts of love and support and encouragement for their fellow artists.

And the whole thing made my fragile little creative heart break and swell at the same exact time.

It was just like …. life. This being-a-human thing is so complex. The heartbreaking and the beautiful. The deepest of sorrow and the sweetest of elation. All captured and bottled and either tentatively eked out bit by bit, or forced out through a cataclysmic explosion. While friends stand by offering hugs, and encouragement, and “If you’re having trouble finishing your song, then dammit, I’m coming onto that stage and holding you up and singing for you until you’ve regained your own voice.”

Too. Many. Feelings.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who regularly reads my blog, but I’ve had a hard year. I’ve actually had one of the hardest years of my life. And it was one of those years where just when I thought I had some forward momentum going, something or someone else would completely kick out my footing, and I’d be once again scrambling for air. Hope. Despair. Serenity. Anguish. I don’t think I’ve left a single emotion untouched in 2016.

And now there are 10 days left in the year, and I’m reviewing, and I’m reflecting, and… I wanna say breathing, but really I’m gulping… and remembering. My heart wants to make a list of the big lessons I’ve learned this year (and I still just might) but my brain tells me there may be bandwidth issues if I even try. I’ve learned a lifetime’s worth of painful, messy truths about myself and my life and why I work the way I work. But no one wants to hear that. Besides, while personal growth sounds all nice and everything, my final takeaway from 2016 is much more simple yet more profound:

I’m still here.

Still running. Still trying. Still fighting. Still loving.

I was here to see the 12 year old score his first touchdown. I was here to see the 8 year old play Alice in Alice in Wonderland. I was here to see the 16 year old sing his first solo song on stage. I was here. And more than that, I am glad I was here.

I’m glad I’m here… right here, right now. (And if you are reading this, wherever and whoever you are, I’m glad you’re here too.)

2016 didn’t take us down. We’re still here. And given the alternative, that’s a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for as we round out the year.

suicide_hotline

Relinquishing The Fear of Self Care

A cake pop I brought home to surprise Tegan. It’s so easy to care for someone else.

Did you ever notice how you have to learn the same damn lessons over and over before they stick? (Unless that’s just me?) You know in your heart that something is true, and right, and sensible… but there’s a disconnect somewhere in between your heart and your brain, and you can’t seem to make yourself do or practice or even believe that which you know is true. Then, when things start to go haywire – and they will go haywire, when you’re ignoring a vital piece of your well-being – you remember. And you go, “Oh yeah, I learned this once before. Maybe this time it’ll last.” But no. You’re stubborn. And busy. And stubborn some more. And before you know it you’re once again off the rails and the lesson comes screeching back to remind you.

Repeat 12,000 times. It’s exhausting.

For me, the area in which this most applies, BY FAR, is the idea of self-care. In fact I get a little cringey at the thought of self-care, particularly the idea of self-love. It just sounds so touchy feely and woo-woo and kind of makes me think of naked people hugging around some sort of goddess-worshiping sun circle. (*Disclaimer: I am not judging. More power to you if that’s your sort of thing. It just doesn’t happen to be mine*) It makes me feel uncomfortable and icky. Plus, as a mom, there’s the whole issue of balance. And guilt. And “Do I really want/deserve/have time for self-care, when I could be doing something for my kids? Or my house… Or my husband…” Really paying attention to self-care, and self-compassion (seriously, I even have trouble using the word, “love” in there) means prioritizing. It means deliberately choosing to take time away from something or someone else, in order to invest it in yourself. It’s hard. And it’s conflicting.

And it is so. freaking. important.

I hear moms all the time saying that they’d love to take up this hobby, or read this book, or pursue this craft, but that they don’t have time. That their KIDS are their hobby. Their kids are their passion. Their kids are their life. They don’t have time for anything else. I know because it’s what I’ve done. It’s what I do, even when I swear that I’m going to be better about it.

But you know what? I really am a better person – a healthier person, a stronger person, a more contented person – when I take time for myself. By extension, I’m a better mother too. A better wife. A better friend. I know this. I know this.

So why do I keep having to learn the same lesson over and over?

I’ve been depressed lately, and the approaching holidays (and all the trappings they bring) don’t help with that. Self-care – or any kind of care, if I’m being honest – has once again slid by the wayside. And I’m beating myself up because the laundry is piled up, the house needs cleaning, there are presents to wrap, there are cookies to make. So much to do and so little time, and I’m going to add more to my plate by doing something for myself?? I find myself constantly conflicted between giving myself the rest I so desperately need, and tackling the next Very Important Thing on my to-do list. The dissonance makes me immobilized, and the immobilization makes me sit there, hovering, right in the middle…. not doing anything to take care of myself, and not getting anything productive done either. I’m stuck. And guilty. And burnt out.

And again, I find myself having to confront the icky love stuff. The thing I can dole out in spades to my children … but not so much to myself.

imgoodenough

I’m working on it. I have to work on it. It’s not optional. I’ve seen firsthand what it does – not just to me, but to everything around me – when I make it an afterthought. It isn’t pretty; it’s really not. My mental health suffers. My physical health suffers. My relationships suffer.

So I’ll deal with the discomfort of whatever it is that makes me balk so much at the very words, “self-love”. I’ll face all the yuck of my past that makes me think I’m not worthy. I’ll work through my issues of perfectionism and guilt and black-and-white thinking that make me think things have to be done to a certain standard or the whole world order will collapse. I’ll give myself the care that I deserve – and good grief, that I NEED – and not feel guilty about what I have to say no to in order to make it happen.

(Well, maybe just a little guilty. I’m a messy work in progress.)

My too-often ignored reminders on my dusty mirror with my unmade bed in the background.

It is now four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been home for about an hour. There’s unfolded laundry beside me. There are stains to be scrubbed out of the carpet. I need to vacuum. There are emails to answer, and bills to be paid. I need to make a list of cookie ingredients so I can go to the store. I still have to plan a menu for Christmas day. I need to finish shopping for stocking stuffers. There are packages to go in the mail. The bathrooms haven’t been cleaned in…. too long. And have I mentioned the laundry?? Holy hell, the laundry.

But it’s okay. IT’S OKAY. It really is. And I’ll sit. And I’ll write, and I’ll drink my tea and eat my candy cane, and I’ll breathe, and I’ll know that I’m not doing nothing, but rather doing something… for me. And once I’ve done something for me, and filled up my own cup (another phrase that gives me the absolute heebie-jeebies but I’m going to use anyway), I’ll know that it’ll be easier to commit myself fully to whatever task I decide to tackle next. Full attention on me. Full attention on the next thing. And so on. Non-negotiable from here on out. And I’ll resist and I’ll whine and I’ll grumble… and I’ll lean into it all and trust that eventually I’ll get it. Eventually it won’t be so hard.

Because I really am worth it. I really do kick ass.

And sooner or later I want to be able to say the words, “Yes, I DO practice self-love”, and no longer wince when I say it.

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Filed under about me, acceptance, mental health, self care

December 5, 2016 · 9:07 AM

10 Things I Wish People Knew About Bipolar

sittingonbuilding

It’s been nearly seven months since I first walked into the behavioral health clinic and basically said, “I need help.” I wasn’t surprised to hear the words, bipolar disorder, that day (I knew. You can read my story from the beginning here), but I was surprised by much of what followed. Treatment has been both harder – so, so much harder – and more rewarding than I thought. I’ve found unexpected encouragement from some people in my life, and unexpected absence from others. I’ve found a lot of support and information… and even more misunderstanding and judgment.

Ever since that day, I’ve been devouring every related article, website, and social media account that I could get my hands on. The relief of knowing that someone else gets it, and the feeling of validation and comfort that comes with, “Oh my gosh, this is describing ME!” is immeasurable. At the same time, there is so much information out there, much of it repetitive and/or of dubious quality, that it’s hard to know where to begin if you’re a loved one wanting to understand.

Here then are ten of the top things I want people to know, and misconceptions I’d like to dispel. It’s by no means an exhaustive list, but merely a place to start.

1. It doesn’t look the way it looks in the movies.

A quick Google search will yield you a nice little list of a handful of movies with characters with bipolar (or characters with unnamed mental health issues that present a lot like bipolar.) I think I’ve watched them all. And while some are of course better and more accurate than others, in general they’re full of stereotypes, and/or appear as if someone was just going down a checklist of symptoms, trying to hit them all. Also, what movies tend to portray the most is unmanaged bipolar, not the day-in, day-out, un-sexy business of taking meds, going to therapy, and making a concerted effort to get enough sleep. Movies are meant to entertain and shock and awe, so it only stands that they’re going to emphasize the wildest and the craziest extremes. It’s important to remember though that the face of bipolar may also be the guy minding his own business next to you on the train. Your doctor. Your neighbor. Your mild-mannered mail man. It won’t sell movie tickets, but it’s also me… cross-legged on my couch in my furry pajama pants, drinking tea, and watching the Cardinals lose (again.)

2. It is different for every person.

Like any illness, mental or otherwise, bipolar is not one-size-fits-all, and can manifest itself in many different ways. Just because your brother is prone to violent and angry outbursts when manic, it doesn’t mean that that same symptom applies to every other person with bipolar. Yes, there are common symptoms used for diagnosis (more on that in later points), but the intricacies and variations are infinite. It is both unfair and inaccurate to presume to know exactly how bipolar presents for any one individual, unless you are intimately involved in the day-to-day life of said individual. Even then, so much of bipolar is intrinsically wrapped up in a person’s inner psyche, and not something you can see anyway. Don’t assume.

3. Depression doesn’t necessarily mean not leaving your bed all day.

Depression, the first half of a bipolar diagnosis, is often portrayed (again, think of the movies) as a person who is nearly catatonic. Unable to leave bed, unable to eat, unable to really do anything but exist in a haze of sleep and crying jags. And yes, absolutely, this version of depression is very real. But equally concerning, and equally real, is something called “functional depression.” I am intimately familiar with this form of depression, as it’s the type of depression in which I most often find myself. With functional depression, the person is able to go through the motions, albeit in a fashion that is greatly hindered. Depending on how brave of a face this person can muster, you may not even know anything is wrong. People who are functionally depressed may still go to work, take their kids to dance class, and show up at church every Sunday. Outwardly, they may be doing everything they need to do, while inwardly they are completely withdrawn, immobilized, disconnected, despondent. They might have lost all pleasure, and all interest, in life. Last spring, just before I’d bottomed out and finally decided to seek help, I was in the middle of taking my daughter to lengthy dress rehearsals several times a week for a theater production she was a part of. I was contemplating suicide, and no one had any idea. Even now, seven months later, seeing that sentence terrifies me.

4. Mania doesn’t necessarily mean wild flights of out-of-control fancy.

mrjones

There’s a scene in the movie Mr Jones where Richard Gere’s character dances on a 2×4 (sans harness), high above the ground, in the midst of an manic episode. I think this is the sort of thing that people think of most often when they think of mania (the second major piece of a bipolar diagnosis): extreme, dangerous, and devil-may care. And it happens, to be sure. People experience euphoria. They may have hallucinations. They may become sexually promiscuous. They may engage in any number of risky behaviors. A lot of times someone’s manic episode will be the thing that lands them in the ER for the first time, leading to a proper diagnosis. But mania doesn’t always equal danger. It doesn’t have to mean amazing and exciting. It doesn’t have to mean wild and out of control. For me (and for a lot of people) it’s somewhere in between all of the above. It’s staying up all night to write, or create, or plan, because sleep suddenly isn’t really needed. It’s feeling like you can be anything, or do anything, or experience anything. It’s feeling that the world is at your fingertips. It’s bursting with great ideas and big plans, and spending lots – and lots – of money to make them happen. It’s talking too fast, because you’re just too excited, and your mouth won’t keep up. It’s motivation; motivation to do more projects than most people do in a decade. It’s a whirling and swirling and unending rush of adrenaline. It’s crying every time you go for a walk because the trees and the sky and the cracks in the sidewalk are just so. damn. beautiful. So is it a good feeling then, some might ask? I’ll be honest: it does sometimes feel like a positive in that it does bring euphoria. It does bring such a rush of ideas. It does bring so much creative energy. The problem is that along with that creative energy comes restlessness, and racing thoughts, and a feeling of wanting to crawl out of your own skin. And through it all, no matter how good it may feel in the moment, it’s all happening with the knowledge that the crash is coming. Like a tidal wave it’s coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

5. It’s not just about depression and mania.

Depression and mania of course get the most air time, but the symptoms don’t end there. There are actually a lot of different symptoms, many often occurring at the same time. There is something called a “mixed episode”, which as the name implies means that elation and depression are present at the same time. There’s the propensity for addiction. All or nothing thinking. Irritability. Impulsiveness. Sleep disturbances. Memory issues. Racing thoughts. Agitation. Sexual symptoms. Anxiety (this is currently the most debilitating piece for me, particularly in the “bridge” phase between depression and mania). There is lack of – or too much – energy. There’s fatigue, both mental and physical. There’s physical pain. Symptoms can last for weeks or months at a time, or they can be rapid cycling, meaning that you’re never quite sure what may be coming when.

6. It is more than just “ups and downs.”

“We all have ups and downs. Why would you feel the need to label it as bipolar?” Well first, I didn’t label it bipolar, medical professionals labeled it bipolar. Second, yes, absolutely… we all have ups and downs. When I’m doing really really well, I have ups and downs. Bipolar is a very different thing than “ups and downs” though. It is completely, 100% normal to have ups and downs. It is NOT normal to have “downs” so low that you no longer see the point in living, and to have “ups” so high that you no longer feel the need to sleep, or to make prudent decisions. When I first heard this comment, several months ago, I felt frustrated and insulted. Today I recognize that it just comes from genuine ignorance, and I feel happy (really) for this woman who does not have to experience the actual and extreme “ups and downs” that bipolar brings.

7. In order to be managed, it first requires treatment.

Bipolar treatment may include any combination of: medication, natural therapies, lifestyle changes, psychotherapy, etc. I carry no shame in saying that my treatment currently includes medication (a cocktail of three different meds at the time of this writing), though many people certainly try to shame me. Some comments are overt, and others are more subtle about it, but the judgment is still there. I won’t defend or excuse my own choices, but I will simply say that for me, I have absolutely zero doubts about the path that I’m on. I tried all the supplements, the herbs, the oils, changing my diet, getting enough exercise… and for me, it wasn’t enough. Taking the right medications at the right time quite literally saved my life. As did therapy – which I fought tooth and freaking nail at the beginning, but that ended up becoming one of the most important things I’ve ever done. Without appropriate treatment – no matter what that treatment ends up looking like – people tend to either self-medicate (with things like alcohol, drugs, compulsive behaviors) OR they continue to cycle through the elation and the depression, going through lengthy periods of dysfunction. I have done both, and I recommend neither. Bipolar doesn’t go away on its own. It doesn’t go away by force of sheer will power. It doesn’t go away by talking about it with a friend, no matter how understanding that friend might be. One of the most insensitive things someone said to me in the early days of diagnosis came in response to my confiding in her that I’d had to admit to the psych doctor that I’d been suicidal. “But didn’t the feeling go away once you said it out loud?”, she asked me. It doesn’t really work like that. Saying things out loud was what served as my impetus for getting help, but it for sure didn’t help in and of itself. Admitting you need help is hard. Doing the actual work needed to help yourself is even harder. If your friend/family member/loved one is seeking professional help, support them. Support them like crazy.

8. Managing bipolar is a full-time job.

There’s no “cure” for bipolar. It can be managed, but it doesn’t go away. Dealing with bipolar is a lifelong, 24 hours-a-day job. There are good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. At the time of this writing, I’ve been in a dip for the past couple of weeks, and am trying to give myself lots of gentleness and grace as I work my way through it. Medication helps. Therapy helps. But they’re just the beginning. The day-to-day management, the will-I or won’t-I make the commitment to stay as well as possible is all on me. And it’s hard. And it’s tiring. And it would be SO EASY to let myself slide back into the safety of the darkness of depression, or into the numbness of a strong Captain and Coke (or five). I know I can’t skimp on sleep. I know I need to regularly take my meds and my supplements. I know I can’t skip appointments. I know I need to keep up with exercise and eating right and doing all the effing hard inner work that I complain to my therapist about every week. And ~~sometimes~~ a lot of the time, it pisses me off that it’s all so much work right now, but I do it. Because I owe it to my kids. I owe it to my husband. I owe it to MYSELF.

9. You don’t understand it… unless you do.

I think a lot of the time we so badly want to be supportive that we say things with the best of intentions that just aren’t truthful. Or helpful. Or kind. At the top of this list is “I understand.” Please, please don’t say this if you don’t in fact have personal experience. Having a bad fight with your husband or going through a funk because you can’t lose those last 10 pounds sucks, and I’m really sorry you’re experiencing that. Truly. But it’s not the same thing as living with a mental illness. It’s just not. Like so many other things, you can’t understand it unless you live it. I’m living it myself, and I’m still figuring it all out. Being supportive doesn’t need to (and shouldn’t) include words like, “I know how you feel.” To this day, the best thing anyone’s said to me about it all was this: “That sounds really hard. I’ll be thinking of you and sending you love while you work through this.”

10. It doesn’t define who a person is.

It always makes me cringe a little every time I hear the word bipolar used as a major descriptor. Especially since it’s so often used in a negative way. Ie: “My bipolar brother just went to jail again.” “My stepfather is such a jerk. He’s bipolar.” People with bipolar can go to jail, sure. And yup, they can also be jerks. But so can anyone else. Having bipolar doesn’t need to be a negative, nor does it excuse negative behavior. It is one piece of a very big, very complicated, very intricate whole. I’m not a “bipolar person.” I’m still ME. I’m creative and dorky and love my pets more than I love most people. I like coffee and movies and office supplies. I love the smell of the desert when it rains, and laughing till I cry around the dinner table, and getting new tattoos. I get excited when there’s a new episode of my favorite TV show. I’m me. I’m you. I’m all of us. A unique, imperfect, multi-faceted human. Not a diagnosis.

____________________________________________________

Bipolar (and mental illness in general) still very much comes with a stigma, largely due to misunderstanding and/or fear. It’s why I continue to talk about it, and write about it, despite the people who tell me not to, or are uncomfortable with hearing about it. I’m here to ask you to get comfortable with your discomfort. It’s not just that I think it’s okay to talk about it… I think that we need to talk about it. So many people are afraid to mention it, afraid to ask questions. But I’ll tell you what: when I know that you know, and the topic is deliberately avoided? It is so much more awkward than even the most awkward of questions. It’s an illness, not an elephant.

I have learned so much in the past seven months. So, so much. Bipolar has forced me to learn, and to grow, and to do all those hard and adult things that productive people are supposed to do. Calling it a blessing doesn’t seem quite right, but there is a greater good to be found, and I think that’s okay.

But some days? Some days it just really, really sucks. And I think that’s okay too.

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November 23, 2016 · 9:20 AM

Feeling Their Joy And Their Pain

I was recently talking to a fellow mom friend about how, once you become a parent, everything you feel is heightened. Seen and felt through your children’s eyes and hearts, excitement is greater, joy is more palpable, and pain is more acute. When my kids are happy, the happiness I share with and for them is far greater than any happiness I can ever feel for myself. When my kids are hurt, the hurt that I share with and for them is far greater than any affliction I could ever experience for myself. It’s all deeper. More primal.

As someone who’s already hard wired to feel the outer extreme of every emotion that passes through my heart, this isn’t necessarily a good thing. I mean, is manic elation or total despair – even when it comes from a place of pure love – ever really a positive thing? I’m working on it. But for better or worse, it’s there. Whatever my kids feel, I feel it too. And I feel it hard.

These past several weeks have seen some ridiculously high highs and painfully low lows when it comes to the kids, and my capacity to feel both (just as acutely) at the same exact time always amazes me.

Tegan – who’s 8 at the time of this writing – has had a series of events over the past couple of months that have in her own words “made her life complete.”

I am so, so thankful and ecstatic that we’ve been able to make it all happen for her.

First, we took her to Fan Fest to meet her favorite actress of all time, Millie Bobby Brown. (If you don’t know who this is, grab a cup of your favorite beverage, silence your cell phone, and go watch Stranger Things in its entirety. Stat.)

teganandmillie

Then, the night before last, we took her to see Adele in concert, making good on a hypothetical promise I made her when she was probably three years old. (“If she ever does a North American tour again, and comes to Phoenix, we’ll go.”) We bought the tickets almost a year ago, her first concert was postponed due to illness, and as we finally sat in that stadium on Monday night I couldn’t believe that 1) we’d actually gotten tickets, and 2) we were really there. Most surreal concert ever.

adele

And in between meeting celebrities and watching concerts, she was hard at work rehearsing the part of Alice in a local homeschool production of Alice and Wonderland (which wrapped this weekend, and went very well)

alicebyposter

It was an embarrassment of riches in a very short amount of time, and to see her face, and to feel her joy… it made my life feel complete as a parent too. Pure and total happiness.

And at the same time all of this happiness was going on, one of my boys was experiencing one of the most painful transitions (if not the most painful transition) of his life. My heart has hurt for him… the kind of hurt that keeps you up at night. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. Nothing I can do to make it better. All I can do is be there, and be a sounding board, and be a cheerleader, and be a mom who tries to absorb some of the hurt so that he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

Two diametrically opposed feelings, intersecting at that most tender and sensitive part of the heart… the part that I fear may break at the mere exposure of its existence.

I’ve written a lot about thinking too much (and indeed, I do that too), but it’s the overwrought feeling that’s going to be the death of me. Feeling so deeply hurts. But the opposite? Not feeling at all? The mere thought of a life devoid of emotion pains me even more. I kind of feel like unbridled empathy is what I’m here for. I need to learn to harness it, to be sure. To learn to protect myself, even as I absorb the feelings of everyone else.

But in the meantime, I’ll be over here in my little ball of emotions, swimming in the primal joy and deep ache that threaten to swallow me whole. Knowing that there’s a balance somewhere, just beyond my grasp, and that eventually, somehow, someday, I’ll learn to embrace it… without taking myself down in the process.

empatheticbadass

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On Being My Own Best Friend

girlinfield

I’ve never cried in therapy.

In fact, I sort of pride myself on not crying… which in itself shows how far I have to go. Why on earth would a person attach any positive significance to not showing an emotion?? Right or wrong, it makes me feel as though I’m winning somehow, because I think my early stereotype of therapy included someone cross-legged on a couch, weeping into a bottomless box of Kleenex.

But I’ve never cried. And I don’t even have a couch as an option. (I feel a little cheated. I’m not gonna lie.)

The problem with my self-imposed no-crying policy is that I spend an inordinate amount of time actively focusing my attention on trying not to cry… ranging in intensity from “You’re cool, just take a breath. You’ll be fine” to “Good God, big emotions. Don’t make eye contact. Concentrate on fiddling with your ring. Or examining your fingernails. Or inspecting the seam in the arm of the chair. Emotions! Big, big emotions. Whatever you do, keep looking at the seam.” None of this goes unnoticed of course. Once when I was directing all my I-refuse-to-cry angst into wrapping my ear buds into a tight little ball, he asked me, “You’re waiting to cry until you leave here, aren’t you?” It was both embarrassing and for some reason oddly touching. And yes, yes I was waiting to leave before I cried. My poor Land Cruiser has seen more tears than a confessional. (Disclaimer: I’m not Catholic, and I’ve never actually been in a confessional. But I imagine it lends itself to crying.)

So why the big bias against witnessed tears? I guess I find it embarrassing, and I have …. issues. But I also fear that once I start crying that the floodgates will open and I’ll never stop. You know that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams’s character keeps telling Will, over and over and over, “it’s not your fault,” until he finally breaks down and starts uncontrollably bawling onto his shoulder? That would be me. Except I’m pretty sure that in real life therapists aren’t actually supposed to hug their clients. Nor put them in a throat hold like he did during their first session.

But I digress.

This past week, we were near the end of the hour when my therapist said, “Be your own best friend.” I laughed, because it sounded like a bumper sticker, and he tends to say a lot of bumper-sticker-esque things. But I was glad there were only a few minutes left in the session, because even as I laughed it was there, in the back of my throat. “Dammit, I’m about to cry again.”

By the time I got to Starbucks – It’s part of my weekly therapy routine. I circle the city until I can quell my tears enough so that I don’t look like I just witnessed my dog being shot, then I treat myself to a Trenta iced coffee for the rest of my ride home – By the time I got to Starbucks, I’d connected a dot I’d never connected before. I realized that the times that I get so choked up in therapy, the only times, are those times we talk about me. Not peripheral things related to me… not relationships or goals or past experiences, but ME. My darkness. My light. My self worth. And I finally realized why that is.

Why, like Will Hunting, I find it so difficult to believe that it isn’t my fault (What is “it”? It’s everything. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter; it’s still my fault)
Why even the thought of asserting myself is met with such abject terror.
Why a silly little cliche like “Be your own best friend” would make me want to cry.

It’s because my whole life, I’ve been told the opposite… by the people around me, by my church, by myself. Be compliant, Jennifer. Be nice. Be quiet. Be small.

I was conditioned with a phrase that I heard so many times, in so many ways: “What would God have to say about that?”

The inference being that it’s the *world* that wants you to think about yourself, and care for yourself, and make yourself a priority. It’s the *world* that wants you to be best friends with yourself. God wants your sole focus, and your sole friendship, to be with Him.

I’ve decided I think that’s bullshit.

And I mean that with no disrespect and no levity. I have a relationship with God that spans forty two years. It’s important. But it’s not the end of the story.

Because day to day, in the middle of the fray, you – we, I – need to take some ownership. It’s ME who has to decide to put two feet on the floor every morning. To get up when I fall. To make decisions for self-care. To get in my car and drive to therapy even when that voice that says, “Screw you, this is unpleasant and hard and I’m not going to do it anymore” threatens to take over. To hold on, for just one more day.

To learn to finally, finally stand up for myself, and accept wherever the chips may fall.

To own my warts, and shortcomings, and mistakes, of course. And my TEARS! For heaven’s sake, a person shouldn’t be afraid to cry!! But also the good stuff. And the beautiful parts. And the things I’m proud of.

To be my own best friend.

To simply be me. Every time. Every single time. With no disclaimers and no apologies.

And so, I think I finally have an answer to the question I asked up above. What would God say to the “wordly” admonition to love myself? I think God would say:

ryangoslinggoon

And then He’d ask me what the hell took me so long.

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September 21, 2016 · 9:44 AM

Quiet

Partying it up on New Years Eve.

My life is noisy.

Inside my own head is noisy. With four kids and one husband and two dogs, my house is noisy. A brief note to my neighbors: Yes, sorry. I have a barker. Django is a barker. I feel it’s important to note however that I do call him in when he barks, and that he is most definitely NOT the dog that is allowed to bark for hours in the middle of the night. That’s the house behind us, and I am just as highly frustrated by it as you are.

Even when people are happily doing their own thing, there’s one person talking to a friend on Skype. Another talking to himself. Another watching TV. Another playing a video game. There’s the click click click of computer keys. There’s singing. There’s music. There’s laughing. There’s general merriment.

There are people across the street whose car alarm is constantly going off.

And have I mentioned we have a barker?

This past month has been insanely busy for us with these final conference preparations, and the 12 year old’s football starting, and the 8 year old’s theater starting, and dentist appointments, and car appointments, and my own personal… stuff… and all of the comings and goings from all of the above.

I have not been sleeping much – because that’s how my body tends to deal with stress – and when you’re not sleeping, noises are so very magnified. You know how people talk about the horrifying sound of nails on a chalkboard? When I’m not sleeping, everything sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Except, if I’m being honest, I can think of much more objectionable sounds than nails on a chalkboard. Like someone flossing their teeth. Or eating a banana.

This is my life right now. A million people flossing all their teeth and eating all the bananas. Right in front of me.

And please don’t misunderstand. A lot of the above are happy noises, and I’m grateful for them. It’s just… I’m tired. And when I’m tired, the noises make me more tired.

But right now, in this very moment, it is quiet. I am alone in the living room. Three of the four kids are sleeping, and the other is quietly watching something with headphones on his computer. The dogs are sleeping. There is no barking. No car alarms. No TVs. No music. There’s just… silence. Silence so acute that I can hear my own breathing.

And I’m sitting here and I’m thinking, Has it really been this long since I’ve had a silent moment? or Have I just been too busy and stressed out to take notice of them? My heart tells me that it’s the latter, and I struggle against the feeling that I’ve somehow failed, again.

But I know I didn’t fail. I’m just learning. And for whatever reason, this lesson of being still in the moment is one I need to learn over and over. And over and over and over until I really get it.

My brain wants to go to the next thing, to get ready to deal with the next noise. The dog will start barking. My phone will chirp at me. UPS will show up at the door. One of the kids will need me. I fight with myself to stop anticipating everything that will come next, and instead appreciate the here and now… as I simultaneously realize that fighting is exactly the wrong thing to do, and that it’s a matter of leaning in, and surrendering, and allowing myself if even for a moment to just BE.

Right now, it’s quiet.

And I will breathe.

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August 25, 2016 · 9:32 AM

Broken: How Therapy’s Destroying Me

art-broken-explosion-glass

I recently whined to a good friend about having to go to therapy. It was the morning of my appointment, and I wanted – with every little fiber of my being – to stay home. “I know it’s hard,” she said. “But don’t you feel better afterwards?”

“No,” I told her. “Most of the time, I feel worse.”

Having no basis for comparison, I have no idea if it’s it normal or not, but I dread it. I do. I sort of leave one appointment, and immediately start stressing out about the following one.

And I mean, there are positives. I like my therapist… he is warm and good at what he does. There are those rare times I leave feeling good, having made some big breakthrough or something. Sometimes I gain a deeper appreciation of the absurdity of it all. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes I leave with a helpful new tool for dealing with worry or anxiety or any of the other perks that come with being me. Sometimes I go home having learned something really huge about myself, or about life, or about how the mind works.

But… yeah, it’s still pretty much breaking me. And even on the good days, it’s all just so MUCH. So exhausting. So emotionally and mentally draining.

The other day, I realized something (In the shower, because that’s where I do my best thinking. I also tend to do a lot of thinking in my car, but there are so many things to distract me when I’m driving. There’s not much to distract me in the shower, unless I’m running out of conditioner, and have to keep reminding myself for the rest of my shower – conditioner, conditioner, conditioner – so I won’t forget to write it on the shopping list when I get out.) I realized that my brokenness, my feeling raw and ripped open and vulnerable, no matter how unpleasant it is, serves a real purpose. It’s a precursor – a necessary precursor – to healing. Sort of like how doctors sometimes have to re-break a bone in order to set it so that it can heal correctly. I’m the broken bone.

And I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate uncovering more broken bits that need attention. I hate talking about myself. I hate worrying that I’m being too ______ (fill in the blank). Too annoying, too crazy, too whiny, too narcissistic. I console myself with the fact that maybe to a therapist it’s like I was when I was teaching yoga. All the new people worry that they’re not flexible enough, or that they’re doing the poses wrong, or that they’re being judged. And I – and every other teacher I’ve ever known – think they’re rock stars just for showing up. Every single one. Every single time. It would make me feel a lot better if I could think of myself as a rock star, just for showing up.

But I’m not a rock star. I’m a human. A human who’s working and fighting but raw and bruised and bloody from the battle. A human who’s broken. And sweet baby Jesus, I didn’t think I could get more broken than I was when I first walked into his office three months ago. I was wrong.

It’s a weird thing, therapy. Did you ever think about it? It’s just an odd, odd thing. Baring the most shameful, embarrassing, painful parts of your psyche to … a stranger? And there’s a professional rapport there I guess, and a certain amount of trust, but … you know NOTHING about this person. And for all the sharing you do, for all the emotional gut-wrenching stripping, you might as well be completely naked. Now that I think about it, because I’ve really never looked at it in that way before, I’m pretty sure that I’d find being physically naked preferable. I’m not even kidding.

So this is me, naked. Barenaked (anyone remember that song by Jennifer Love Hewitt in the early 2000’s??). I’ll be okay. I will. I WILL. But right now, I’m not too okay. I’m naked and afraid and vulnerable and would legitimately be contemplating drinking right now – at nine in the morning – if I hadn’t given up drinking, one of my favorite things, in my quest to face my issues and finally be well.

This is hard you guys.

A dear friend recently, and aptly, described it like this:

It’s like cleaning my damn house

Every time I think “surely I’m almost there”

Some new closet of junk appears

The closets are killing me. So very many closets.

I know my online presence has been a little scarce lately, but I’m still here. Still plugging. Still learning. Still broken. And naked and…. in a closet, apparently? (Sorry, way too many metaphors for one blog post.) But I’m here. And after all the hard work and time and tears I’ve invested in myself over the last three months, I feel confident in saying that I’ve no plans to go anywhere.

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