Thursday, May 10, 2018

I forgot to take my meds for a few days. So that's always fun.

I feel compelled to write at this moment, yet I don't know what to write about. My Mother's Dead Day? Buying a new mattress? The neighbors peeing in the pool? 

There's this thing inside me that needs to come out, but how can I get it out if I can't even identify it? I don't even know if I can write.

Word by word she said. I'm trying, but it only comes out in fits and starts. 

It's squirreling through my body. I can feel it in the burning ache of my hips, the heavy pressure in my tailbone. I feel it in the pit of my stomach--an unbearable knot that twists me all up inside. The unnamable dread. The fog in my head. In the brightness of the light and the way I jump every single time someone slams a door. 

Okay, here we go.

Last night I couldn't sleep because I was afraid there would be an earthquake and we'd all be buried alive. If we lived there'd be no power. No water. Price gouging. Looting. I made sure my phone was by the bed. I checked for shoes within reach. I wondered if the door was locked. What if there was a home invasion? Would Panda even bark? She's so hard of hearing these days.

Then I was terrified of nuclear war. Of surviving a blast and being left to fend for myself with no water (because I keep forgetting to stock up on emergency supplies) and nothing to eat except for Belvita breakfast cookies. That made me angry with the government and the over-bloated military budget and man's lust for war. 

I was afraid of being crippled and left all alone.  

I took a valium and finally drifted off to sleep.

This incendiary depression. PTSD. Anxiety. A dreadful bomb in the center of my being threatening to destroy me.  

I shake from the pain and I rage against this cage my body has become. It has stolen my life. This cannot be where I'm headed; I will not be trapped in my mother's wheelchair. One way or another I will be free. 

My brain isn't what it used to be. I don't know if it's the medication or if I just smoke too much pot, but my memory is shot and my intellect is dead. I feel as if my head were a balloon. 

I feel like I'm stuck in limbo. I'm neither here nor there. I tell my therapist I'm afraid of where I'm headed. She tells me I need to be more present. I don't know where present is, I say. I don't know what I've become. I don't understand what's happening to me. 

She says I'm not myself. Well, no shit. I can't find the right words. Nothing flows properly. It's all wrong. Disjointed. Disconnected. I can't articulate that I don't know how to be there for myself. 

She says there's a split. I need to reintegrate myself. I have to pick up the pieces and put them all back together, I just don't know where they all are. This is my mission. To find myself. 

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

My Mother's Padlock

Lemme just come right out and say it: I have food issues. Hell, most people have food issues. We obsess over what we put in our mouths; sometimes it's all we can think about. But when I say I have food issues, I mean I have bingeing until I can't breathe, raiding the fridge at 2am and starving myself until I barf food issues. Deciding what to eat can lead to anxiety and sometimes I even have panic attacks while eating.

My mother was anorexic when I was a child. She starved herself and seemed to work out endlessly, doing her aerobics and lifting weights and riding the stationary bike for hours on end. On the outside she must have appeared to others as a fit woman who had her shit together (because we base personality on looks, right?) but on the inside she was very sick. 

Obsessing about her own looks wasn't enough, she had to turn her critical eye to me and my baby fat. For as long as I can remember I have been told I need to lose weight. At 8 years old my mother had me exercising with her; she counted every calorie I ate and put a padlock on the refrigerator because I had a habit of snacking late at night (perhaps because I was being sent to bed without dinner at least twice a week). 

All snack food was forbidden, except for when I was being rewarded for good behavior. So basically my mom taught me that good deeds = cake. Or cookies, or whatever. It was comforting to eat a Baby Ruth, because I knew I had deserved it. It also filled a growing hole inside me--what my therapist calls "the void." To this day I use food to comfort myself, to fill that empty sadness up with delicious sweetness.

In order to deal with the shame of not being super skinny, I disconnected from myself. Being grounded to my room all the time meant that I gradually learned to live inside my own head. I was never given the space to be a child, to be myself, to experience autonomy. Most of my time was spent imagining how my life could be different. A lot of that time was spent fantasizing about food. 

My mother's padlock represents this disconnection. It's as if I've been locked out of myself. I'm still in my own head, split apart from my body. I can't hear what it's saying because I'm too busy judging it, criticizing it, hating it. Instead of exploring my feelings--allowing myself to despair or get angry--I numb myself. I shove food into my mouth. I smoke up the weed. I pop a valium. It's all the same; a way to escape, to disconnect so I don't have to deal with the darkness. 

My therapist said The Void is like a black hole. Whatever gets too close gets sucked inside. She asked me what would happen if I just got a little close and sat beside it. What if I accepted that it's there and that it will probably never go away and realize that's okay?

I am terrified.

I'm afraid that if I face my feelings, they'll suck me right up and I'll be lost forever. If I give into the anger, I'll become bitter. If I give into the sadness, I'll despair. If I look into the black hole I'll get sucked in. But I have to be brave and get as close as I can, because that little girl I once was has been left on the event horizon and she needs to be saved.  

My hunger goes so much deeper than what's going on in my stomach. When I eat I think I'm filling that void, but then I hate myself and can't bear to expose my hunger to others, thus disengaging. That hate, that judgment of myself puts me right back at my mother's feet, begging her to let me eat the cake that everyone else is eating and seeing that padlock--that big, black, metal lock staring me in the face like spiteful shame.

I feel like I should conclude this post with something upbeat, so I'll leave you with this quote:
"The basic message of a diet is that if you let yourself go, you will devour the universe. But you cannot say anything to yourself that doesn't also affect you emotionally. When you diet, you tell yourself that you can't be trusted, that your hunger (for love, pleasure, friendship) will destroy people. You begin to believe you are hopeless, a bottomless pit. This is not a kind of thing to say to yourself. It is also not true. No one's hunger is bottomless." -Geneen Roth

Thursday, January 11, 2018

God Bless My Cold, Steel Heart

Waiting to find my place in the world;
Like the wrong puzzle piece I don’t fit.
I try to round my edges because 
Might just snap in, like I showed up wrong
and nobody knows who I am... 
I digress 
I feel the warmth and love of those around me, 
But I am a burning, anxious flame. 
Afraid to speak, 
for fear of being branded a miscreant or a misanthrope. 
Although depending on your perspective either one may be true. 
But I do it anyway.

I feel like I’m wearing a human suit that doesn’t quite fit, right? 
but I’m passable. 
Mediocre in my magnificence. 
I squirm in my suit, 
this suit of fat, 
this 41 year old human body that has carried my tired ass through hell and back. 
I squirm in my mind--
neurons in my brain like maggots flinging specs of dirt and muck about.  
Riding on the rapid fire train, 
stealthily sleeking out of sight. 
Disembodied snores surround me, 
like the death rattle of late night. 

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Failure To Thrive

About a week ago for 4 days I took twice as much Wellbutrin as I was supposed to. I was initially given 150 mg and told to double my dose after a few days. I did so, but when I picked up my new prescription (which was 300 mg), I kept taking two. 

We eventually noticed that I was unusually calm—I had a flat affect. Nothing anybody said or did bothered me, but my mind was also blank. I had no thoughts to speak of and I didn’t feel like joining in on anyone’s conversations. I was social, but off in my own world. Evan says I was "disengaged" and at times it felt as if I wasn't even in the room with him.

As soon as I realized what was going on, I went back to my regular dose and now I can’t stop feeling everything.

I miss not feeling anything. I want to go back to that. I want to go back to letting it all slide and roll off my back. I want to go back to feeling like Lisa Simpson did when she was on the antidepressant “ignorital.” 

I felt super disconnected from everything and with the power of hindsight, it was miraculous. My mind was clear. There was no turmoil in my solar plexus. I was calm and ready for anything. 

This anger and psychic pain in me goes beyond the world and it’s horrors. Beyond my own crazy bullshit. It goes as far as that feeling you get when you realize that it’s all chaos; that we’re all dimming lights in an eternity of darkness and everyone is scrambling for their tiny bit of warmth. We are insignificant and small. 

Then the existential nausea kicked in. And I literally made myself sick. I couldn't stop throwing up and I had a fever. I can't live like this. I can't live with the nagging voices in the back of my mind. The gnawing hunger for something joyful, something to fill this gaping hole in my soul.

I know why some people turn to god.

But I don’t believe in my heart anything but the fact that I’m here, I am trying to thrive and I am loved by some. In my mind that’s all anyone could ask for, and to expect anything more is pure arrogance. 


It's hard to avoid the shame spiral when you're depressed and you take a look at what's going on in the world and you think to yourself, I have so much opportunity, so many blessings and so much support, how could I still be stuck in my own head when I'm watching babies being pulled from rubble or reading about a woman who was killed and her children kidnapped? Depression doesn't give a fuck what else is going on in the world and I can't very well be condemned to shame when it's my neurons, not me that is causing me to feel this way.

I never had very strong boundaries, so I used to let people walk all over me. I've allowed people to leave me in dangerous situations, I've let so-called loved ones use me, abuse me and basically just treat me like I don't matter.

I've lived with four different alcoholics who probably have no memory of how awful they were to me. They sure never let me forget the things I did, which were usually in response to that which they have no drunken clue about because, well, drunk. One of them was my stepfather who beat the shit out of me, but he's dead now, so at least there's that.

Since I've been on medication, I've learned to set boundaries and those who used to think they could walk all over me have learned that I'm not taking the bullshit anymore. Mostly because I just don't speak to them.

No more using me as a scapegoat. No more pushing my buttons until I explode. No more gas lighting. No more manipulation. No more conflict.

Ah, and that's what this post is about. Conflict.

I've had my fair share of conflict. I've been in fist fights. I've had seething arguments that got the cops called. I've been stabbed by a gang. I've been held up by gunpoint. I've almost been arrested, I've been raped, attacked, robbed, you name it. So it's should come as a no-brainer to others that I want to now avoid conflict at all costs. With that comes avoiding others who thrive on conflict.

I recently had a meltdown with a person who will go unnamed. She pushed my buttons until I finally exploded and said some stupid shit that I had to take back later. It was my impulse to avoid conflict that caused me to blow up. It was her manipulation and button pushing--her need to create conflict with me that backed me into a corner and like a wild animal I lashed out.

I apologized for this outburst and she oh, so magnanimously forgave me, without first making sure I knew how much I can't handle conflict. She had previously accused me of having to walk on eggshells. I never asked her to do that. I never once told her she had to hold all of her feelings inside until finally one day over something stupid and trivial she lets it all out. In public. On social media.

I privately texted her about it... she continued the conversation. On social media. Not privately with me.

So when I received her forgiveness with a lecture it left more than a bad taste in my mouth. I had reacted as she "had anticipated," which really says to me she was simply pushing my buttons all along.

So now comes the point. I can't make her take accountability for her actions. All I have control over is how I feel about the situation. My therapist would ask me right now, "Well, how do you feel?"

I feel depressed. I feel out of sorts. I feel saddened that yet another person has misunderstood me because of fucking social media/text and another relationship is on the rocks because none of this was communicated in person.

I feel angry because yet another person is incapable of taking accountability for their actions. Especially when I allowed myself to be vulnerable enough to apologize first. Ouch.

I have control over how I handle this situation from here on out. I know where I stand. I know what to expect now and I know how to proceed to ensure I can avoid this person's (and anyone else's) conflict and drama in the future.


Sunday, November 26, 2017

The Shame Spiral: Vulnerability and Emotional Risk

In her TED Talk, Listening To Shame, Brené Brown describes vulnerability as "our most accurate measurement of courage." To be vulnerable means to be honest, to "let ourselves be seen." To be vulnerable is to be authentic. To be vulnerable, according to Brown, means that we have to talk about shame.

The other day one of my friends posted about fitness as she does every day, but I noticed some of the language she used was particularly triggering for me. What she said (in a nutshell) was that we have a choice on whether or not to change our lives.

What I heard from her is that we choose whether or not to be fat and lazy. What I heard, while she was trying to inspire others to live better lives, was that I choose to remain overweight. That I choose to let my pain dictate how much physical activity I can accomplish and that I choose to give into my cravings so that I can remain obese. Really all she meant was that you can make the choice to start changing things--no matter what they are, big or small.

Now I have extenuating circumstances that make these choices much harder for me. I literally cannot do the kinds of exercises that she can, because most of the vertebrae in my spine are bone-on-bone. I have PCOS, which makes my body hold on to fat like it's going to kill me if it lets it go. I am bipolar, which leaves me sometimes out of control of my own emotions and sometimes of my own will. Not to mention the pills that I have to take, which cause me to gain and make it harder to lose weight.

These things aren't excuses these are reasons. These are obstacles that cause me shame. Why? Because most of the world sees them as excuses. Most of the world believes that a real woman is a million amazing things rolled into a perfect package, two of them being THIN and PRETTY.

My friend didn't try to shame me or anyone else for that matter, I felt shame because what she said triggered something deep inside me. I'm ashamed of my weight, which makes me ashamed of myself, which makes me hate myself. Which leaves me with zero empathy towards myself and that leaves me spiraling out of control... all because of shame.

So, in the past I would have put her on blast. I would have commented on her post telling her all the things wrong with what she said (and her, if I could think of anything), leaving her bewildered and hurt. Instead, I knew there was a chance that it was all in my head, so I took my problem to her privately. I allowed myself to be emotionally vulnerable and even though the whole time my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding, I let her know what I was thinking.

She handled it like a champ. She didn't have to explain herself, but she did. She didn't have to acknowledge that maybe she could use different language in the future, but she did. She didn't have to accept my apology, but not only did she--she told me I didn't have to apologize. She was happy that I felt comfortable enough to come to her so honestly. She gave me the space to be open and because of that I have so much more respect for her.

That's what this is about. Honesty. Vulnerability. Authenticity.

Shame is a killer, but it doesn't have to be unproductive. Because of the shame I felt over my friend's post, I have taken a deep look at myself and my choices. I decided that even though it's expensive, I have to start going back to the gym, because clearly we're not getting a heater for our pool any time soon. I have realized that while I may be too stressed out to deal with what I'm eating right now, I can still make little steps to building muscle. Somewhere I can be watched and trained by someone who knows how to keep me from hurting myself.

If I hadn't gone to my friend and expressed my feelings in as constructive a manner as I could possibly muster, I wouldn't have put myself in a position wherein I could actually be inspired by her.

I've been so down on myself for being so heavy when it's not my fault. I'm not just some fucked up food monster who is trying to turn herself into Jabba The Hut. BUT, while there are circumstances which may be out of my control, how I choose to handle those circumstances are not. I cannot allow myself to fall into a shame spiral, where all I feel are guilt and anxiety over everything I put into my mouth.

My weight doesn't make me unworthy. My pain doesn't make me useless. My moods don't make me a burden. I don't have to be ashamed. I just have to allow myself to remain vulnerable and be willing to take these emotional risks when life calls for it.

I will leave you all now with 5 incredibly inspirational quotes by Brené Brown. (If you don't know who she is, check her out--her advice is life changing, and life-affirming!)

1. "Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light."

2. "As a shame researcher, I know that the very best thing to do in the midst of a shame attack is totally counterintuitive: Practice courage and reach out!"

3. If we can share our story with someone who responds with empathy and understanding, shame can’t survive. 

4. Vulnerability is not weakness. And that myth is profoundly dangerous.

5. The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows. 

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

Pledging Allegiance to Patriarchy: The American Flag and Toxic Masculinity

Last week I posted on Facebook for Veteran's day in solidarity with those who, because of their experiences in the military, aren't so patriotic. I posted in regret for the lack of mental health care--both in society and in the medical field. As many of us know, some 22 vets per day kill themselves.

My post was greeted with likes and hearts by some and a few people tried to talk me out of thinking the way I do. One was a seasoned vet, who I knew in high school and who when he first joined couldn't stand being there and felt that they had screwed him out of the education he deserved. Later, I guess things have changed, because he's 100% on board with them now.

Another person was young, maybe 19? He just joined the navy and is bright-eyed and bushy tailed about his future. I'm sure he's going to have a blast traveling, meeting new people and experiencing new cultures. I hope upon hopes he doesn't have to see the brutal side of the military--the war part. The having to kill an innocent person with complete faith in the government who made you do it.

I'm a firm believer that society as a whole, people who make up communities and activists who fight for civil rights--they are the protectors of freedoms, not American soldiers, who are forced to go into other countries and kill innocent people under the guise of spreading democracy--which is an imperialistic-esce action in itself. Who the hell are we to decide what other people should be doing when we have homeless children starving in our own country?

Ever since 9/11 I have been at odds with everything our government stands for. Not what the good citizens who join the military think it stands for, but what they really stand for: Greed and the spreading of a religious patriarchy.

Our country has absolutely no respect for women as a whole, sure it's getting better, but our own President thinks of women as objects and he's gone as far as saying so. America is about male dominance: big trucks, piss beer and boring sports. Testosterone gone national and the flag is a symbol of this country's toxic masculinity.

I brought up these issues I have with my therapist and she said that she feels the same. The American flag stands for violence and conquest. Of greed and capitalism--of corporatism. Of the military machine. It exists to conform everyone into one image, under the almighty dollar, for conservatism, and a skewed interpretation of an old book used to keep everyone in line. If you disagree, you've gone against the grain and society will expel you.

Every time I see an American flag I feel like some dude just slapped me in the face with his dick. It's like walking into man's room covered wall-to-wall with naked ladies. It creates a hostile environment for me. I feel unsafe. I feel violated.

Instead of considering I might be right, that it really is the people in the streets raging against the machine that fight for our freedoms and not soldiers over seas killing babies, most people rage against me, like I'm a monster who hates people who make sacrifices for their families. I'm a hateful person who hates widows and mothers who've lost boys--for what? Why don't those mothers hate the government who enticed their young kids into fighting for something that has nothing to do with them?

Every day I drive down the street and I see tent cities, mentally helpless human beings pushing shopping carts around, dirty children crying for their parents. This is where our money should be--helping those citizens who make up the country whose freedoms they're pretending to fight to protect.

I'm angry. Angry because I'm the bad guy who has to tell the truth and get spit on for it. I'm the bad guy because I want to spill that fucking Koolaid and shake everyone and scream in their faces to WAKE UP.

US has killed more than 20 million people since WWII

But, my therapist says I need to let it go. That I have to accept that some people are going to guzzle that juice right up and that even though it feels like every day I'm being peer pressured into drinking, too, I have to stay strong. I don't have to be accepted by everyone, but I have to be the bigger person and learn to accept them. I just want to love everyone, no matter what, and if I have to just see people as brainwashed in order to do it, I guess that's what I'll have to do.