tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38862586723474639832023-11-15T18:32:45.018+00:00Positive Lattitude
Wherein I attempt to make sense of myself, places near and far, and how we all navigate this world.Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-82425350536707078222018-01-01T20:16:00.000+00:002018-01-01T20:16:03.327+00:00I'm Choking<div class="p1">
I’m choking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I sit here choking while I write this.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I don’t want to be writing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I don’t want to be doing anything and I want to be doing everything.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know I’m in the middle of a mixed episode because this is what it does to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I choke while my demons scream at me and I can’t fight, I can’t flee, so I freeze.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can feel the now familiar strain in my throat that will not move.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s like trying to push a bus uphill, getting angrier and angrier that you aren’t moving upward and you’re not moving downward.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is my least favorite phase of this horrible disease.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Writing this now is forcing me to watch myself choke with no one around who can actually see me to help.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m impossible to understand.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There are three main phases to bipolar type II.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They can come in no particular order, each of them can be triggered by external circumstances or they can shift with no warning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Depression</div>
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Hypomania</div>
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A mixed episode (technically a form of hypomania)</div>
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<br /></div>
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It isn’t as simple as this, however, hypomanic episodes can turn into eating disorders and anxiety disorders quickly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The racing mind can turn into obsessive compulsive disorder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The instability of each phase will inevitably look drastically different than the simplified Diagnostic Manual definition and any experienced psychiatrist knows this.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Bipolar II is hard to diagnose for these reasons.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>People will only go into a doctor when something is wrong, but no one ever shows up, undiagnosed, and says, “I’m just so happy, doc.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I mean, everything is perfect in my life!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If you don’t know what you’re looking for, if you don’t do a screen for bipolar II (and many general practitioners don’t) you would be dismissed as a well adjusted individual with a healthy body and a positive outlook on life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So, people only see the doctor when they’re depressed, anxious, compulsive, etc. which concludes them to treat them for those disorders which will not actually treat bipolar II and, in some cases, the medication used for the wrong treatment can even cause hypomanic or mixed episodes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Good.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m having a mild mixed episode today.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I always choke during a mixed episode.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m always stuck with my demons during a mixed episode, up and down, angry, bored, lonely, and completely dysphoric.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As I walk my dog, Abby, past a Lutheran church a few people bounce out of the church, happily walking to their cars and call out to me in friendly greetings, telling me that they like my dog, that she is beautiful.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Abby is a mutt of some sort, perhaps a border collie/greyhound mix.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’s about 45 pounds, black and sleek with long slender legs, little white socks, and a blazing white chest.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A friend of mine has always said she looks like she’s wearing black spandex.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>At thirteen years old, her face is going quite grey, but she has the energy of most dogs half her age.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I smile a thank you to the church-goers even though I wish they weren’t speaking to me at all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Abby trots on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They all look so happy walking out of that church and I briefly think about coming back and going inside.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was raised Catholic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m no longer Catholic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m not even a Christian and haven’t been for a very long time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I suppose I’d consider myself agnostic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>And just look how happy and stable I am</i>, I chuckle lightly to myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I don’t believe that heaven or hell exist as some sort of places other than earth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I believe whoever, long ago, came up with the concept of heaven and hell was most definitely bipolar.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It can be absolute heaven and it can be the worst sort of hell.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All of it exists only in your mind, which sometimes becomes the scariest place imaginable and sometimes the most beautiful creation in all of the universe.</div>
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I would do almost anything to stay in a state of hypomania all of the time as I think anyone would if they could experience it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s the happiest you ever been.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You’re charming, attractive, energetic, smart, fit, and you see the universe as a giant connected web of beauty as though everything on the planet is in perfect order.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You can accept horror and death because you can see the magic, the science, and the beauty that is the entire universe.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For me, hypomania is beautiful.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I see signs from the universe everywhere that steer me into perfect, serendipitous, connected experiences.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I may even be psychic at times.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can work out twice a day, forming my body into whatever beautiful shape I want.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I dance for hours in my living room, feeling each muscle in my body work to move in exciting glory.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I sleep for four to five hours and wake up perfectly refreshed and deliriously happy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can learn anything, I can do anything, my life is exciting and I can make it more exciting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I plan trips, I meet new friends, I have a perfect social life, a perfect job.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Everything is exactly where it is supposed to me and I am completely, down to my very being, happy. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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For a very long time, until my diagnosis, I thought that this was how happy was supposed to look.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This was what happy people experienced when they were aligned with who they truly are.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I thought at times that maybe I was near enlightenment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My first episode of bipolar II that I can remember distinctly was depression, so when I finally reached a happy form of hypomania, I thought I had finally, for good, overcome depression.</div>
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The beginning of 2017, however, marked the year of <i>the</i> diagnoses as the worst sort of hell descended upon my brain, a great, rolling earthquake of fury, destruction, pain, and death.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had been prescribed a type of SSRI which would hopefully combat my ever growing depression which had deadened my soul to an unrecognizable smattering of grey.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I later discovered this drug that was prescribed was known for triggering mania in people with bipolar disorder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And it triggered it in me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>At first I was happy, a new wave of life came over me and I saw rainbows again!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then, I could not stop moving.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My body jittered beyond my control dancing and cackling.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My feet and hands were no longer mine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I got scared.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s when the earthquake roared with apocalyptic force, the aftershocks aimed right at Andy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There was rage, self-harm, and the thoughts of death were constant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I saw death everywhere.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Along the side of the road, in the news, on Facebook, in the hearts of family and friends- we were all going to die.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I looked into Abby’s eyes and I was obsessed that one day, when the spark of life was going to leave them, I would be incapable of continuing on because somehow her life was also mine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I could not keep death from happening and that caused me the most extraordinary amount of pain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The rage, the pain, the self-harm, the earthquake that was destroying the life in front of me was a mixed episode, a kind of hell about which I still have nightmares. </div>
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This is the story that led up to, “How My Dear Friend Saved My Life.” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-84451265759194112902017-06-12T16:06:00.003+01:002017-06-12T16:06:32.043+01:00The Life You Had Planned<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last week, when I crashed back down again, not only was I
dealing with an episode of incredibly dysphoric depression, but on top of that
I was really upset because I had been doing so well for about two weeks. I felt so stable. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way in my
entire adult life. I didn’t even know
that was possible or that’s what I’d been missing. I didn’t know that feeling existed let alone
that I could experience it. I had a
glimpse of stability heaven and it was suddenly taken away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was so incredibly disappointed not only in my treatment
but in myself. I couldn’t stop thinking,
“What had I done that triggered this?
What did *I* do wrong? Obviously,
I was being punished and if I could *just get it right* all of the pain would
stop,” or maybe if I was doing something different, something right, if I was living
my “right life”. In my head it was, “if
I lived closer to my friends… if I wasn’t with Andy… if I lived in a place I
liked… if I had a job that I liked… if I could go on a solo trip… if Abby wasn’t
getting old,” maybe I could lead the life I have always wanted. After all, I wanted friends, travel, adventure,
animals, laughter, sangria, stories, writing, culture, food, dancing, long
walks, confidence, strength, resilience, self-trust, love, independence, peace…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I explained all of this my dear friend J because she suffers
from a couple of autoimmune diseases and we often talk about coping with a
chronic and invisible illness, but one sentence she said really stuck with me:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>"You're losing the person you thought you were, the
person you've been your whole life. I kind
of think that's worth grieving over."</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is. It truly is.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s so hard to let go of the person I thought I was and
that I wanted to be. I’m not saying that
I’ll never have those things in my life, but I don’t have the control over
getting them that I thought I did. I am
not the person I thought I was, or thought I would be. It could be true that I will have an even
better life than I could possibly imagine.
I’d like to think that maybe one day all of this will teach me how to
savor the good moments. Maybe this
illness will teach me, will give my life greater depth than I would have had
otherwise. Or maybe it won’t. I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Joseph Campbell says, “You must give up the life you planned
in order to have the life that is waiting for you.” It’s different than resignation and healthier
than resistance. I can’t begin to know
where to start to build a new me and a new life, but I’m guessing it’s by
grieving over the loss of my old life and old expectations. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-27137647468725203332017-06-07T16:22:00.005+01:002017-06-07T16:22:54.177+01:00Vertigo<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hopeless isn’t a strong enough word to describe the hole one
sinks into during depression, whether unipolar or bipolar. For mentally healthy people, “hopeless” has a
more temporary feel to it, a situational circumstance that <i>seems </i>hopeless- it’s not the way they view the world, life, or
themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I looked up “hopeless” in the thesaurus and found words that
aren’t quite the same as hopeless but hopelessness does contain a part of each
of them for someone who is suffering from depression, bipolar disorder, and
various other forms of mental illness.
When we say “hopeless” what we mean is:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-Desperate</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
-Helpless<br />
-Pointless<br />
-Useless<br />
-Incurable<br />
-Impossible<br />
-Lost<br />
-Broken</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
I don’t think there are enough words in the English dictionary to capture hopeless
in these mindsets. We use phrases like, “depths
of despair” and truly know what that means.
We swim these depths, the middle of a murky ocean where there is no
sunlight, no bottom, no way to tell where we are in the world or who we are
anymore. We keep swimming but, as we’re
hit by complete vertigo, we don’t know where to swim, which way is up. All the while our oxygen is running out. We’re trapped in ourselves and engulfed by
nothingness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sound terrifying? It
is. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-33485521547451440942017-06-01T15:42:00.001+01:002017-06-01T15:42:04.978+01:00How To Deal With A High School Kitty<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I had a dream
last night about a girl from high school, let’s call her Kitty. She was one of those archetypal high school villains-
pretty, loud, cruel, difficult, dictatorial, and somehow popular but you don’t
know why. Anyone in my class from high
school will immediately recognize to whom I am referring. I don’t believe that Kitty could have possibly
had any true friends in high school, although she would jump around between a
few acquaintances every now and again. I
understand that in high school we all aren’t yet very good at relationships, and
for some that skill set never develops.
In high school we barely know ourselves, if at all, and we are at the
early stages of practicing how to actually be relationships, friendship or
otherwise. I’d give her a break for
that. I gave her a break many times in
high school, at least I tried to. Maybe
her low self-esteem led to cruelty. Maybe
her brash declarations were because she never felt heard at home. Maybe she was just a borderline sociopathic, mean-spirited,
manipulative, genuine bitch. I’ll never
know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">One day at
school, Kitty pushed one particular girl too far, and this time a brave, heroic
woman fought back. She doled out fists
in the face and took fistfuls of hair from Kitty. In my memory, the applause echoed in the
hallway and continued well after the girls were pushed down the hall toward the
vice principal’s office. I don’t
generally support violence, yet how does one admonish foul behavior when she takes
no notice in the boundaries people set with her over and over again? How does one respond when you’re in a setting
and are forced to be near and even work with people like this? I didn’t know then so I never crossed her
personally, I never fought back when she aimed her pointed spear of verbal brutality
at me, but I kind of wish I had rather than absorb her action at personal cost
of my self-esteem.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Returning to
my dream last night, Kitty was executing a flamboyant rant in my direction,
cruelly declaring all the reasons I should be shamed and excluded from society,
as high school villains do to nearly everyone at some point. In my dream I just hauled off and punched her
in her pretty, delicate, perfect little jaw.
It felt damn good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">When I awoke
this morning, I did feel a bit guilty.
Maybe it was my mother’s disappointed voice in my head, or that I genuinely
don’t think punching someone in the face is a decent tactical way to “set a
boundary”, or maybe it was the good old fashioned Catholic guilt that plagues
me upon waking every morning. All I know
is that this morning I realized I can’t expect myself to constantly be able to
show every human being empathy all of the time.
I’m not the Dalai Lama. I didn’t
have years of intense and consistent training since birth to guide my mind
toward peace in every situation. I was
guided by a religion of dogma where one was expected to behave in certain ways
and shamed for having normal human responses.
Instead of understanding our own minds and responding with self-compassion,
we were led toward repression, passive aggression, and even full on aggression
instead of peace. But that, my friends,
is a whole other post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The point of
this whole post, maybe the entire dream, is that I finally have my own
permission to grant myself compassion in this arena: if I can’t figure someone
out in a way that leads to empathy, that’s okay. What’s more, if I keep struggling to find
compassion for someone and instead lean toward repression, passive aggression, I’m
doing much more damage to myself and those around me. I need to be more aware of when this happens
and return to a state of self-compassion first before deciding on a solid
boundary setting plan or whether to walk away altogether. I’m not always going to think or behave like
a holy human being. Good grief, talk
about pressure! Instead, this time
anyway, I can refrain from feeling guilt when I think to myself, “Fuck that
girl.” I get to enjoy the relief that I’ll
never have to deal with her again <i>and</i>
I get to choose how I respond to anyone I come across that resembles her. How will I respond? I have no idea right now, but I intend to respond
with self-compassion first and then I get to choose.
I GET TO <i>CHOOSE</i>. And that feels
damn good too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-24887392732876828322017-05-30T20:50:00.000+01:002017-05-30T20:52:21.755+01:00There Can Be No Lotus<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t even know where to begin. I have so much to share, so many stories,
perceptions, and interpretations I need to convey and they’re just pin-balling
around in my brain so quickly I can’t hang on to one concept for long enough to
compose anything worth reading. I’m
stuck in the mud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And that right there is the problem. I’m
already judging it before it’s even formed into a remotely recognizable shape in
my brain; the stories can’t form themselves because I already assume they’re
not worthy of form in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We all know writing can be hard, but it’s the vulnerability
that is extremely hard. I’m friends with
some extremely intelligent people. Not
only am I afraid of judgment from others about the contents of the writing,
which is raw and exposing, but also about the actual quality of the writing itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nothing I’ve said so far is news to anyone who’s written
anything or thought about writing something.
However, no one really talks much about the process of finding a way to
do it anyway. I’m not talking the generic
sort of, “I was scared but I did it anyway” bullshit. Yeah, I get that. I do that all the time. I share stories that let people momentarily peek
into the horror of my mental illness. I VOLUNTARILY
share this, people. Do you think it’s
easy? The self-criticism I experience is
stifling (see first paragraph above). Do
you think I don’t feel terrified every time I click “post”? Generic encouragement now makes my eyes roll. What I’m interested in, what truly encourages
me, are the stories and detailed descriptions of the self-doubt sludge that
slides through you as you attempt to do anything important or anything that
makes you vulnerable. Rarely do I hear about
these inner most judgmental voices from others, rarely do I get to discuss the
exact form of terror they experience as they take a chance. I want people to describe the sticky goo of fear
and judgment that tries to squish them into the perceived safety of the status
quo. Sure, most people will admit to
having self-doubt and judgment, but what does that look like for each
individual? You’ve heard the saying, “if
it was easy, everyone would do it,” yet the things that make it so hard and so
interesting are the things we don’t discuss.
I want to hear people’s own unique experiences when it comes to actually
putting something out into the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m guessing that if you’re reading this now, you experience
times when you’re frozen because your rain boots are stuck in the thick mud of
self-judgment. I want to hear that
shit. I want to pull myself up so I’m
standing next to you, face and hands covered in that mud. I want to laugh at ourselves and at the
ridiculousness of our own judgments which we take so seriously. I know people don’t like to feel vulnerable,
but every time you are you’ll find a large group of people nearby thinking, “oh
thank you. I feel the same. I thought I was the only one.” Moreover, that’s the really good stuff! That’s the stuff that makes you interesting, that
gives others an incredible amount of insight into who you are, and also gives
you the opportunity to feel less alone in the world. Let’s encourage each other to be interesting,
productive, creative, kind, people by sharing this stuff with each other; whether
you share it teary-eyed over whiskey or through a self-deprecating humorous
anecdote, just share your story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As for my writing, maybe I need to accept that I’m stuck in
the mud for now and remind myself that I always find my way out
eventually. Besides, in the words of Thich
Nhat Hanh, “There can be no lotus flower without the mud.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-15801480222560278552017-05-18T15:01:00.000+01:002017-05-18T15:01:34.228+01:00A Tiny Paragraph of Hope<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday,
for the first time in over a year, I caught tiny glimpses of
my Self, like rays of sunlight that break though the shadows of trees as you
drive down the highway. They started
when I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at work. As I was fluffing my French-looking hair in
the mirror, I imagined myself in the bathroom of a Parisian restaurant. For just a tiny moment it was as if the veil of illness
caught the wind and I felt my Self peak through.
I tried not to overthink it or make a big deal out of it in case I
scared my Self away, but the glimpses kept happening throughout the day. Tiny rays of light.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t
misunderstand the meaning of "rays of light"; they aren’t the same as
happiness. I have had moments, even
hours, of happiness during this phase of illness but they aren’t the same as
feeling like my Self. Inversely, I am
not always happy when I feel like my Self, but there is something about the
consciousness that changes when the veil of illness lifts. I can see clearly again. For now, it comes in tiny glimpses but maybe, just
maybe, it will grow into minutes, hours, days… </span><span style="font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-14354454870847991252016-08-23T21:59:00.000+01:002017-01-24T18:47:35.373+00:00Pop! the cork<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mom has always been
able to show love without any expectation of anything in return. Not only
has she always been generous with her time, energy, money, and hugs, but she used
to pack my lunch and put notes and stickers in it, write me notes in lipstick
on the bathroom mirror, give me little presents that she knew I'd like, drive
me to dance classes, horseback riding, cheerleading, acting, gymnastics,
softball, soccer, summer camp or whatever else I wanted to try. She
served me food only for me to complain about it. She would wait with me
for the school bus so I didn't have to wait alone and then she'd run back
inside right before it came. I pulled her out of bed in the middle of the
night, more than once, to cry about how stupid boys were while she herself was
fighting melanoma and my dad lay sick in the hospital waiting for a heart
transplant. Even though I’m certain she
was exhausted, she hugged me and patiently let me cry into her chest as I’d
done as a small child and for that moment I was a normal teenager and she was a
normal mom and I forgot that death was always leering at my family, just around
the next corner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I could go on and on
listing the generosities of my mom and perhaps I should, but the point of this
post was supposed to be to say that I wish I were more like her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to love like
that. I want to write notes, to give
hugs, to unabashedly tell someone how absolutely gorgeous I truly think they
are without any sort of expectation of those things in return. I want to play, be silly, ceremonial, and
dramatic without expectations of others to join in, unless of course they want
to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, of course, I feel that
old choking sensation. Just at the base
of my throat below my voicebox, beyond that lump. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Emotions get stuck. I get stuck. I gulp all of that down into my chest, where it presses against my
ribcage for days and weeks and months.
And years. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wonder why my chest
hurts, why my tummy hurts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I used to write poetry. Looking back on one part of one poem in particular I think it is perhaps about the
release of this very thing I dream about being able to do. Here is that poem. I still think it is one of my favorites...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">in my naval, golden
and bubbling</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Sweet champagne</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">that sparkles up to my
throat where it rests, corked and quiet</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Every kiss, a sip</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Is it luscious on your
lips?</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Does it tingle on your
tongue?</span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Pop! the cork</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The world is thirsty</i></span></span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-44127231431090694582016-05-25T15:44:00.003+01:002016-05-25T19:30:38.341+01:00Anatomy of a Dream<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I have dreams a lot, several a night that I actually remember. Many of them are strange dreams, some of them are very psychedelic, beautiful, complex, and unclear in their message if there is a message or meaning at all. Some dreams are really funny and make great anecdotes. Some would make some really impressive novel or movie plots. However, some of them are fraught with emotion, the kind that are demanding my attention to something with which I need to address in my subconscious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last night’s dream is even difficult for me to write out- it wants to stay stuck in my throat and keeps my chest tight and protected. Therefore, it needs to come out, but I'll keep it short.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me start by explaining that I had been watching Grey’s Anatomy up until about two weeks ago when I realized that I was getting way to emotionally invested in these people that aren’t even real, and it was draining me. After all, I could be using all of that wasted empathy on real people. I was watching for so long because much of Grey’s feels very comforting to me. I love hospitals, I spent a significant amount of time in them growing up and the medical drama of it all feels so familiar. As comforting as it may seem at first, it is also not healthy for me. So I stopped seeking comfort in the medical drama drug two weeks ago. Hello, my name is Ashley and I'm addicted to medical drama. <i>Hi, Ashley.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The Dream</b></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I dreamed that I was pregnant (gasp!), even though I had an IUD. There was something very wrong that would kill me if I didn’t have surgery immediately. However, I needed to decide if I wanted to keep the fetus or have it terminated during surgery. I chose to terminate it. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My parents were there in the hospital with me for little bit, and I remember that I kept asking my mom to call Andy to tell him what was happening. She did, but she told me he was busy and couldn't come. I tried to text him, but the nurses kept taking my phone away and giving my IVs. This theme continued for what seemed like hours before the surgery.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was absolutely terrified and alone- I had never had surgery of any kind before. The doctors were very kind and one of them was particularly comforting and funny. Just before he put me under, I remember thinking, “I’m sorry potential human, but this is the right thing to do. I’m not your mom.”</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I woke from the surgery, I was both sad and relieved. (*Note: in real life, I’ve never had to make that choice, my heart goes out to all the women who have had or will have to make that choice.) The very handsome doctor was there, and Andy never showed up, so when the handsome doctor told me he’d fallen in love with me (that happens all the time, right?) I naturally decided I was in love with him too, but I needed to “take it slow.” (Oh brain, even in the most serious of circumstances, you make me laugh.) The next thing I know, the director yells, “CUT!” And we wrapped up filming. Apparently, this was all just acting. The entire cast walked through the parking lot near the filming location to what appeared to be an amusement park, where we then celebrated finishing up with filming. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“In real life,” the ladies on the cast told me, “the handsome doctor is an ass but he has a great British accent.” I said, “I lived in Britain and I’m pretty much immune to the accent. Also, I made out with him for two days filming and he’s a really good kisser. So, he's cool in my book.”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m a bit with Jung in that I think dreams can point to a greater evolution of the relationship between the ego and the unconscious and attempt to create a better balance within the brain, but I don’t think dreams are always necessarily this. Sometimes I think it’s just neurons firing. However, there are dreams that are so obvious once I describe them out loud or in writing, I don’t need a psychoanalyst to get the meaning behind them. This one was like that for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This dream has several levels to it that I want to go over and each theme has different levels of meaning behind them. How do I know what they mean? It’s an individual process and when you hit upon a meaning, you know because it resonates.</span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 21.4667px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Terminated Fetus:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>The death of a dream</i></b><i>. Yesterday, I spent some time talking with an old friend about her health and how it’s causing her to cease to be able to do what she loves, something she has spent her entire life creating. The life she’s created, as well as a future dream of what would have been, is being killed. I’ve had similar experiences (for example, moving back from Wales) although not to the same intensity as she is experiencing. It is a long, painful, confusing, and continuing grieving process. My heart is with her and this is fresh on my mind.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>The childfree choice</i></b><i>. At the same time, this is also about my choice not to have children (for which I have many reasons including simply… I don’t wanna.). This is a stance in which I sadly need to constantly defend. It has hit me, since turning 35, that it really is not going to happen for me. I really haven’t “changed my mind” nor am I even creeping towards a life where a child would fit. I’m almost actually relieved that I might just “get away” without having one, as though I actually hadn't let myself recognize how powerful it is to really have a choice.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>Tying these together. </b> What I have been recognizing is how powerful my body is, how powerful I am, and how much potential my life has. We do not have to use absolutely all of our potential and turn it into reality - good Dog that sounds exhausting anyway! I personally need to give myself permission to have the right to exist knowing that I will never, nor can anyone ever, live out his/her/their full potential in this one lifetime as an individual. So I hereby say to myself, "Dear one, stop feeling bad, guilty, defensive, and ashamed about the things you'll never do." If I need to grieve for it because it's something I've carried with me for so long, by all means, I'll grieve my little heart out, but I'm giving myself permission to NOT "have it all" - whatever the fuck that even means.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 21.4667px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Andy Didn’t Show Up:</span></b></span><br />
<b style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'helvetica neue', arial, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.4667px;"><i>Fear of abandonment.</i> </b><b style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'helvetica neue', arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 21.4667px;"> </b><i style="background-color: transparent; font-family: 'helvetica neue', arial, helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21.4667px;">Seriously just my standard, cliche, "oh it's you again" fear of abandonment - alive and kicking since 1981.</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 21.4667px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 21.4667px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
<b><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;">The Handsome Doctor</span></span><span style="line-height: 21.4667px;">:</span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>The hero</i></b><i>. Again, I think this has to do with unused, forgotten potential. If I’m sticking with Jung, the handsome doctor is really an aspect of myself- a recognition of my own hero/savior/healer inside of me. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>A bit of grieving</i></b><i>. It is also potential love that will never be fully realized. By choosing Andy as a partner, I am actively NOT choosing all the other potential loves that could be in my future.</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Or it could be that sometimes a handsome doctor is just a handsome doctor.</span></i><br />
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<b style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 21.4667px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Film</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>An illusion</i></b><i>. Maybe I think all of life is just an illusion anyway? Maybe we’re all just sort of souls wearing meat sacks? I don’t know, but there are many times in my life, whether right or wrong, I feel like a performer. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dissecting the really vivid dreams can be extremely helpful for me. Sometimes, I cannot figure them out either because I’m not really ready to see the meaning, or they just plain don’t have one. Other times, like in this dream, I feel like I know myself on a deeper level. I get in touch with some inner wisdom that I need to hear or it reveals deeper wants, needs, healing or balance that I having been paying attention to. The moment where I recognized that "I can't do everything in this one life and that's okay" was, and is still, extremely liberating. I didn't even know that this was bobbing around in my subconscious, subtly contributing to feelings of guilt every single day. Whew, glad that's been brought into the light!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And sometimes, my dreams just pure creative, entertaining energy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I mean, really, the only handsome doctor I want to make out with in real life is Dr. Andy, PhD. :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do you dissect your dreams? Do you find any clarity or meaning in them? </span></div>
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Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-75557944062051013392016-05-20T17:57:00.000+01:002017-01-24T18:50:12.838+00:00PMS: Pretty Much Sucks<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I had a bit of a mental Shit Storm. There were some really good things to come out of it, but as it was happening, I felt like I was in a warzone in my own head, cowering from the rapid shrapnel of stinging thoughts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It so happens that every month around this time in my cycle I struggle with PMS. (Yes, it’s real and anyone who says we’re making it up (and I know some that do) is automatically setting himself up to receive its wrath and rightly deserves it.) This change in hormones, just like any drastic change in body chemistry, is Your Body On Drugs. Mostly for me, this means my depression (and sometimes anxiety) flares up. Sometimes, it presents itself as anger. No not anger: RAGE. I mean the kind of rage that actually scares me, that could do real damage, where I feel a thunderstorm of destructive energy take control of my mind and body. I can usually keep it at bay, conscious that the anger is a result of hormonal cold front creating an energy surge. The anger is sometimes directed outwardly. For example, I have been the closest to breaking up with Andy during this time of the month, nearly convinced of our absolute wrongness for each other, only to come back into the light after a few days and realize just how off my perception had been. I have definitely lashed out at friends, most of whom thought I was incapable of lashing out, but usually the rage is directed at myself. This month the roulette wheel of destruction landed on me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not exactly sure what the trigger was, but I think it was the moment JT (I only wish he were Justin Timberlake) came into my office, interrupted me in the middle of something requiring great concentration, and asked me to do a huge list of things. Seeing things through the PMS filter, I took that to mean he thought I didn’t have enough work to do, that he thought I was just sitting around wasting tax dollars because he also clearly doesn’t know all that my job entails (that last bit is actually true). I’ve gotten angry at JT in the past but it never results in anything productive, so I think my brain automatically directed that anger inward. That’s when my inner Abuser got really loud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This Abusive Voice turned on me, viciously declaring my worthlessness, my laziness, my stupidity, my absolute Brokenness Beyond Any Repair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OUCH. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was LOUD. And I believed it for a few hours and I struggled to hold myself together. Until I pealed myself away from it far enough to recognize it as not who I am, it is not speaking the truth, but merely one voice. I cried walking back from lunch, feeling the pain as though someone I love deeply and desperately just betrayed me, punching me in the gut.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I felt wounded all afternoon, but I knew I could hold it together until 5:30 when I would be at the barn and find comfort and quiet in the horses. And I did. As I walked out to get the horse I was riding, a huge mare with a giant head and kind eyes, I could feel my chest expand to take in full, easy breaths again. Her massive shod feet clomping on the driveway slowed my heart rate and calmed my mind. I had a workout of a lesson that was more like a meditation because I was concentrating so much on my present tasks that the rest of the world, and that Abusive Voice, fell away. The little things stood out more to me then. I gave the mare peppermint treats and I focused all of my attention on the softness of the mare's velvet nose, her sweet peppermint horse breath, and giant stomping hooves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I drove home, walked up the stairs to my apartment, and opened the door to let Abby out when Andy came bounding up the stairs, his long legs skipping steps, excited in the most Andy-ish way. When he hugged me, I let his hug smother what remained of the Abusive Voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we sat on my couch later last night, each of us reading our books, I sank into a deep relaxed state of calm that earlier yesterday I would never have believed I could feel again. Andy’s presence calms me, it has from the first time we ever cuddled on his giant green chair. His presence feels like respite, peace, and safety. All that intense pain I had experienced earlier in the day transformed into gratitude for the horses, for the people in my life who make the horses possible (especially Jenn), and for Andy for loving me so thoroughly in the ways that truly matter. He reminds me, when I forget on my own, that I am loveable. He reminds me what love looks like, love for another and love for oneself. Through this I remember how to release myself from my own pain. No, having a person doesn’t prove that I am loveable nor does it make me any less responsible for my pain (I could argue it makes me more responsible for dealing with it), but Andy is my person and as such is the co-creator of my life and my future. Andy’s presence matters; his thoughts, his feelings, and his life philosophy get intertwined with my own in ways that have made me more balanced and more solid within myself. I am so proud of myself for shaking off the Abuser yesterday and I will remind myself, the next time it begins to shout, that I pulled myself out of a potential trench of depression and that it’s okay to need guidance in the form of horses, dogs, friends, great loves, whatever I need to climb out of it.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-15898976750185431632016-05-03T16:53:00.001+01:002017-01-24T18:48:03.716+00:00Please, Please Me<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've had a rollercoaster of a six months. I quit my well-paying job, I travelled in Europe for a month and enjoyed the presence of Bettina, I moved to Indiana to be with Andy, I started a part time job just to quit and take a better one, and I've been at that new job for just over three months now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Throughout that time, I tried really hard (and usually failed) not to feel bad about doing what’s best for me. Quitting my safe job to travel and nourish my relationship with my partner was wracking me with guilt for a very long time. How dare I be happy and choose fulfillment over safety. Oh that voice is such a drag.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s not just that I feel bad about doing what’s best for me necessarily, but a lot of it is that I think a lot about the other people this affects. For example, after quitting that part time job, I thought about the new people I'd met and what they do, how they’d ordered my business cards, introduced me to groups of people, and the work I’d already taken over from others. I think about how their days were going to be inconvenienced because of me. I am grateful that I’m considerate of others, but there must be a balance. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Do you just walk around all day thinking about other people’s feelings? How do you get anything done?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is still a big part of me that is also concerned about what the others will think of me, although that part of me is shrinking almost daily. Bettina and I have talked a lot about this because we both tend to go about our days people-pleasing, usually subconsciously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now HOLD ON. Please don’t take this as some sort of “I’m a martyr, poor me” talk. I’m not a victim and neither is anyone else who is a people-pleaser. It is a CHOICE, however, sometimes we’re not aware that it is which is why it’s really important to talk about these things and point them out in yourselves and in your close friends who also struggle. Here is a quick rundown about the habit of people pleasing:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">about you caring truly about the well-being of others.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">making you a martyr.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People-pleasing is…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">about yourself, your need to be loved and accepted, your codependence (if that’s what you want to call it), or whatever else you discuss with your therapist or dog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">People-pleasing results in resentment and pain. Even though I know this, it’s difficult to stop in the moment. In the past, I have changed many habits that no longer served me with awareness and intention and I know this is no different, however, that does not mean it is easy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Awareness helps. If I’m in the middle of icky resentment, pain, or beating myself up, I try to remember to ask myself, “Hey tired little lovely bunny, are you doing this to please others, or out of respect and consideration for others?” I really do talk to myself like this. The more rotten I’m feeling, the more sweetly (sometimes ridiculously so) I try to consciously speak to myself, although it’s not always easy. And I’ve noticed that when I’m involved in a romantic relationship, I often replace this voice with a very mean one, but that's another post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also have really supportive friends, like Bettina, Ashlee, and Katherine who all experience this, talk about it, and most importantly LAUGH about it. Making fun of ourselves in a lovingly teasing manner is the best way for me to lighten it all up and put it into perspective. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feel free to share your people-pleasing addiction tendencies below and share any ways you help yourself through it.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-4610429867611109262016-04-26T19:22:00.000+01:002017-01-24T18:48:15.232+00:00Like a Record, Baby<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every day, for years now, I’ve been waking up feeling lost, a wide painful chasm in my chest that I continue to fill and refill with the huge lead task of trying to figure out why I am here. At the same time, I believe that there is no reason why we are here, I believe if there is to be any reason, we bring it. This is a bit like trying to comprehend the vastness of the universe or the void of nonexistence altogether, but much less inclined to inspire wonder and awe. Since my human mind has no capacity to comprehend the dissonance, it spins in an infinite feedback loop. My brain works like a skipping record and if I could only pick up the needle the insanity would stop, then I could enjoy the moments of existence. I could sigh, dream, and hold the hands of those I love. I do get some sweet moments, when I’m riding horses, doing yoga, laughing with friends, writing, or kissing my dog that the skipping stops. These brief interludes of bliss comfort me during the times that the skipping record is turned up so loudly I sometimes fear relief will never return.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although this is neither the first nor last time I've experienced cognitive dissonance in my belief system, I think there is currently one major reason my mind record keeps skipping. I’ve been resisting, in my own way, something about myself for a very long time. I suppose, like many people with depression, anxiety, and other mental illness, resisting aspects of myself goes along with the general belief that something is “wrong” with me. That, however, is a post for another day. This post is for a specific aspect of myself, one that when nurtured makes me fulfilled and healthy in mind and body, but one which I continue to resist or ignore as unimportant or “wrong”. Why do I do this, even though this exact quality has been shown by research to make people live longer, happier lives? Yes, there are data from Harvard, who has the longest running study on happiness and health to date (you can read about the study <a href="http://robertwaldinger.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.). The data have shown time and time again that the key to long, healthy, happy lives is in our relationships- specifically our closest relationships and our sense of community and belonging. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite knowing that I value more than anything my relationships and my sense of belonging and community, I continue to resist it, blast it as unimportant, claim that this can’t be IT, that is just too easy for me. In my low moments I ask myself, “Why can’t I do anything MORE. Why am I not DOING anything meaningful? What about my career? Seriously Ashley, what the hell are you doing with your life? All these other people are…” blah, blah, blah… skip, skip, skip…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I continue to waste so much energy and time looking for that “thing” or those “things” that I’m “supposed” to be doing when I could be investing that energy into the people I love. Don’t get me wrong, I DO dedicate a lot of energy to my relationships, in fact I think more than most people, but why can’t I let who I am be enough? The people in my life, creating a sense of belonging are and have always been the key to my happiness and health. Yet despite my efforts to tell myself that I am enough the way I am, I still wish, that I had a different mind; a mind more organized, more innovative, more intelligent, more business savvy, more driven, more gifted, more of society's definition of success.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We are bombed with information everywhere in our society telling us that success means we need to be rich, famous, powerful, innovative, pretty, glamorous, thin, and driven. I’ve known for years that deep down I do not want that to be my definition of success, but since I have not yet come up with a specific alternative definition, I don't have another record to play, my brain continues to abide by the old definition, spinning and skipping away. I need a new defintion of success. Sure, I want to "have close relationships" be a “good person” and I want to be “happy” but what does THAT even mean? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It makes me sick, causes my depression and anxiety to skyrocket, when I try to follow society's definition of success. I am happiest when I prioritize my relationships, my sense of belonging, but AT THE SAME TIME I don't see that as a valuable trait for one to have in this world. Therefore, my record is continues to skip. I’m ready to set myself up to feel good, to play a better goddamn record.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So please tell me, how do you define, or WANT to define, success? What are the things that bring you bliss, and are you truly valuing them? Do you think those qualities are important in society, and why? Where are you placing most of your physical, mental, and emotional energy? Where is your record skipping and when does it play smoothly? In short, what the hell does your record sound like?</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-52918336654845882502015-12-08T20:22:00.000+00:002017-01-24T18:48:40.315+00:00Every Badass Needs a Crossbow<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m so tired of being afraid. Or rather, letting my fear control my brain the way it has been.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Indulge me for a moment so I can review. Most of my childhood and early adulthood was not ruled by fear at all. I wasn’t a particularly fearful child, if I wanted to do something, for the most part, I did it. When I felt fear I always thought, “Will I regret not doing this?” and made a decision based on that. Of course, I didn’t know enough to be afraid of many things I probably should have been afraid of, but that’s part of the beauty of being young. I rode horses- did pretty dangerous things on horses, mind you- with my best friend. I played rugby against women twice my size. I travelled alone, I tried new things, I went cliff diving, I went white water rafting, and I moved to new places. I made choices that made me happy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In 2011, when I moved to Wales, of course I was scared. Again however, it didn’t rule my thoughts or my decisions. When I returned from Wales however, the way my brain had been working seemed to change. If you’ve ever seen that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, when her friends bring her back from heaven after she dies, that’s how I felt. I had changed, and everyone and everything seemed to be the same. It wasn’t a bad thing that they were the same, it was just that I didn’t know how everything fit into my life anymore. I didn’t know what I wanted and I felt like I lost who I was and I was terrified. I was lost. This feeling has continued and is still continuing today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Andy and I started seeing each other at the very end of 2013, I began a life-long process of “dealing with my shit”. There was no more analyzing from a safe distance why I picked the relationships I picked. I wasn’t going to make excuses for myself any longer or pretend that my fear of intimacy and commitment were out of my control. I began to do the scariest thing I have ever done. I’ve EVER done. Ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I let someone in to see everything about me. When you do this, life offers you a marvelous chance to grow… and it is fucking hard. Every. Single. Day. I had so many fears triggered in such intensity that I almost couldn’t manage anything but going to work and dealing with my fear. In the past, that would have in the past sent me running for life, but instead I let them bubble up. These things are the fears that I’d never really looked at before. The fear of being truly seen, the fear of abandonment, of not being good enough, fear of verbal abuse, fear of manipulation, fear of pain and hurt, fear of death, shame, etc. These things came up time after time, and they still do. All of the fears that I never allowed myself to recognize were finally able to scream at me, and I was forced to listen because I wasn’t willing to walk away from this amazing man. I also knew very deep down that I deserved to get to the other side, I deserved love and intimacy even if I didn’t see a way through the fear and the pain. I sat through hours of ugly crying on my bed, clinging to my dog, and saying over and over “I’m so scared.” I looked at it and I sat with it. I still look at it and I still sit with it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But lately something has changed. The fear has sort of taken over a bit. I’ve let it bubble up for the past two years because it needed to come out, I needed to look at these things so that I could be in a healthy relationship with someone. But now, it seems like it’s been running rampant in my brain for awhile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m so not okay with that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, as I was driving in my car, the thought popped up, “I’m really fucking tired of being scared. I’m DONE.” I felt my inner Lara Croft taking over again. She is a badass and she is a part of me that I need right now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m DONE letting fear tell me that I can’t start my own business. I’m DONE letting fear tell me that Andy’s going to leave me. I’m DONE thinking that I’m not good enough. If I want to do something, I will figure out how to do it. I want to write and bounce business ideas off my friends. If I don’t know something that I need to know, I will learn, I will take classes, I will ask questions. I want to kickbox again, so that I can physically feel like I’m strong and brave on the outside again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I want a goddamn crossbow. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was young and I was afraid, I just didn’t look at it and instead protected myself from dealing with fear by avoiding intimacy and love. Recently, I’ve looked at all that fear I was ignoring and built a solid foundation with Andy, but I have also been letting the fear rule me. Those approaches, although they served me well at the time, are not serving me anymore. So, I’m doing what I always do: adapt. I’m going to look at my fear and I’m going to hear it out for a moment because fear is just trying to protect me. I’m righting this down to remind myself of this feeling, this mindset. Not everything fear says is true, but maybe the fear has a point. I can hear it out in order to help minimize risk, but I’m NOT letting it be the sole decision-maker. It will get a voice, but it won’t be the voice. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going crossbow shopping. Every badass needs a crossbow.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-66900320144795931432015-12-02T17:56:00.001+00:002017-01-24T18:48:55.318+00:00There Be Dragons<div style="color: #454545; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know what's really hard about both getting what you want or not getting what you want? The results are basically the same. There is disappointment if you thought that’s what would make you happy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you did get what you want, it makes you no happier than you were before getting it. If you didn’t, you’re heartbroken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh but then, dear friends, you get to go through the grueling process of figuring out what to do with that, now that you know this life truth. The process happens slowly for some and quickly for others, and others still will never know this process even exists. If you’re lucky, you’ll get disappointed and heartbroken enough in your life to begin the process of discovering real joy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First, you feel the quakes of heartbreak and the emotional vertigo of disappointment. You begin to analyze the moments of the past that lead you here, and wonder how on earth you’re going to navigate your way back to solid ground because between where you are now and where you want to be, there be dragons.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Slowly, you realize that your ruby slippers took you to happiness time after time, but you were so busy thinking about how you don't yet have what you thought you wanted, that you didn't notice all of the beautiful, perfect, tiny moments of laughter and love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When your heart was broken, you didn’t acknowledge that the hole in your heart made room for the friendships that pour in. Those moments when your dear friend was holding your hand, catching your tears, and calling you beautiful, something incredible and gentle was happening that couldn't happen if you instead chose to cry alone. You let your friend see you, really see you, and she didn’t recoil, she didn’t run, she didn’t let that hole in your heart scare her away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the time, you weren’t looking at the incredible beauty in those moments. You were trudging down the path of a mediocre present so focused on an imagined future glory and fulfillment that you walked right past, without noticing, the generosity of the human heart, the bravery of friendship, the ways in which love can keep expanding infinitely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But you can do that now. You can recognize that joy happens in these terrible and terrifying moments. You can see that, whilst going after goals is important, the happiness you think is at the end of the road is actually with you step after step, if you’re willing to open yourself up and look. You can be both brave and gentle in friendship, knowing that the other is uncovering her many layers along with you. You share your shame and she can hold it gently between her fingers like a dandelion and together you can let the seeds of shame float away in the breeze. You can also witness the strength and resilience that you inspire as you in return help set her shame free. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's true, heartbreak and disappointment bring pain, but they also can bring incredible joy. If you chose this path to solid ground you will traverse unfamiliar and dragon-ridden lands to experience this kind of joy, but that’s where the really good wine is anyway.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-13486341552673791992015-11-27T16:41:00.003+00:002017-01-24T18:49:05.132+00:00Hug Your Fear (It Wants You To Live)<div style="color: #222222; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This week I have been grateful to feel my depression lifting. As I type this, it’s becoming easier to breathe with each passing minute. When I listen to the birds singing, I actually <i>hear</i> them singing again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had therapy last Friday, my second session with the adorable and very bright woman, and I wasn’t nervous, I was hopeful. I still felt the prickles of shame bounce throughout my body as I walked into the entrance, but I was also proud of myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am proud of myself not only for showing up today to therapy but also for preventing a downward spiral that could have occurred for a number of reasons. I received news this week of another person I know committing suicide, another very well-loved man. (I have another post in the works about this, but that’s for another day.) When I saw on Facebook of this man’s passing, I instinctively knew he committed suicide. I scoured the Facebook page, sifting through family and friends expressions of love and prayer looking for proof. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what happened, how everyone was feeling, what his kids were doing, etc. I felt the fear creep in that this is what my brain could do to <span class="il">me</span> too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I explained this to my therapist who said, “I am not worried about you. Do you know why? You wouldn’t be afraid of this, if you didn’t want to live. Your fear means that you want to live.” She said this in a light, cheery voice that indicated her full confidence. I felt a gust of comprehension that made <span class="il">me</span> shake my head and I felt my eyes pop open in revelation. I suddenly wanted to hug my fear, grateful for its presence and its proof that my body ultimately wants to live in the most primal of ways. I have never wanted to hug my fear before today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This goes for fear about anything. I am terrified to post on this blog, but I’m doing it anyway. I’m terrified that you’ll all judge <span class="il">me</span>, shame <span class="il">me</span>, completely ignore <span class="il">me</span>, or think, “who does she think she is!” But I’ve figured out what I fear the most about this blog. It’s not judgement for my depression or my vulnerability, it’s not fear that you won’t accept <span class="il">me</span> (although these fears are present too), what frightens <span class="il">me</span> the most is that you’ll judge my writing. I’m afraid that you hate it and I’m afraid that you will love it. I am still exploring this, but in the meantime I need to write this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are some days that the writing just flows and I can create some of the most beautiful pieces of writing that I’m proud to call mine. Other days, it’s difficult getting a sentence out, let alone a decent one. This is part of the creative process. Not every post is going to be as beautiful as Temporary Stop or Reflections and Rice Cakes. If I’m going to continue to post, I need to be okay with this. But I’m also very vulnerable. I’m writing this here, now, to remind myself that it’s okay. It’s all okay! I’m writing and I’m creating and I’m putting it out there. My fear is just trying to protect me, but that doesn't mean that it needs to control what I do. I'm familiar with this. I mean, I didn't quit my job, go to graduate school at 30, or move to another country without fear. I've never gone out solo-traveling completely without fear, I just don't let the fear make decisions for me. I'm not letting it make decisions for me now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you, like <span class="il">me</span>, want to create something, anything, and you’re looking for permission. This is it! Some of what you create will be beautiful, other times it will not be as great. This is how creativity works… really, it's how life works. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, go play!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">xx</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-55178045160996712552015-11-19T19:40:00.005+00:002017-01-24T18:49:17.039+00:00Interview with a Phone Vampire.<div style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had a phone interview this morning for a job I’d be very good at and a situation that seems ideal for this time in my life. The phone interview did not go very well, I’m rubbish on the phone and always feel much better in person. In addition, one of the interviewers was, well, a bit of an ass. He started sucking the confidence out of me throughout the phone call like a weird phone vampire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I’m fighting a downward spiral into depression that has been slowly lifting. I've been asking myself today why. How did this guy, and this interview, have such an effect on my confidence? Logically, I know that I am really adaptable and can just get a job somewhere else, so what’s with this spiral? Yes, it’s normal to be sad, disappointed, even to grieve a little, but there’s a difference between those emotions and spiraling down into depression. So, when I start to spiral downward, like I started to today, I’ve started asking myself, “What am I making this mean?” In this case:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m dumb.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m worthless.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don’t deserve good things.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I always fuck it up.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Etc…</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There is a big difference between worrying about things happening that are out of your control, and worrying about things happening that are out of your control and THEN making them MEAN that you’re worthless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, if I start making a bad interview mean that I’m worthless, then I start making up scenarios of my worthlessness. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t ever get a job anywhere.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Andy will think I’m dumb and leave me.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friends think I’m lazy and useless.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I end up homeless and crazy. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And on... </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pain doesn’t come from the fear of the unknown nor from the failure itself, it comes from what I make those things mean about myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I now recognize that I don’t get nervous for things I really want. I get passionate and animated for things I really want. I get nervous for things my ego needs in order to feel good. My ego wants this job because it looks good, because it works well for me, because I think Andy would be proud of me, etc, but truthfully, my heart doesn’t really care! My heart would rather not be bothered by nerves at all, because my heart wants to play. My heart wants to write, connect with friends, connect with strangers, travel, walk my dog, dance, sing, cuddle, play play play! I can play with data. I can play with computers and projects and basically anything. If it’s all play, and I don’t make anything that happens MEAN anything about who I am, there is absolutely no reason to be nervous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s understandable to get nervous, after all, things change so quickly in this world. Our sense of security, much like our happiness, cannot be dependent on anything external. But trust me on this: if you have the ability to imagine, usually on the fly, of hundreds of ways in which things could go wrong, you also have the creative ability to pull up a plan of action if and when things do go wrong. This is where your sense of security lies, in your ability to adapt, to formulate a new plan of action, to creatively step into life unfolding. If you have the ability to worry about it, you also have brains to handle whatever is thrown at you. Believe this about yourself and you will find your sense of security within you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All this to say, I’m really proud of how I turned my thinking around today. I stabbed that confidence vampire with a wooden stake. Well, not literally.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-73409954081408282402015-11-16T21:25:00.001+00:002017-01-24T18:49:30.925+00:00Temporary stop<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This morning, like almost every morning these days, I hear Katherine’s voice in my head. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can do it, baby. Put your feet on the floor. Yes! I’m so proud of you! </span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Katherine messaged me these words a few months ago when I had another bout of really bad depression. I had called in sick, again, because I couldn’t face the world, couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t feed myself, and because I was thinking about that bottle of muscle relaxers. I threw them into the garbage as Katherine messaged me. We message each other on Viber every day. It was easier for me to admit to her how bad it had gotten because she doesn’t judge, she is safe. It also helps to reveal these things over message when a face-to-face conversation with anyone seems daunting and exhausting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I told her I hadn’t showered in four, or was it five, days. I couldn’t imagine mustering up the energy and motivation to shower. I knew I had to go to work the next day or I would sink so far down this dark hole, I would need serious help or…I don’t know.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Katherine’s messages, her voice, saves me. When I think about harming myself, I always think, <i>I couldn’t do that to Katherine, or my dog, or my mom, or… breathe… Andy.</i> But I also can’t go another day like this. I swallow hard to conjure courage and determination. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Katherine messages me to stand up and walk to the bathroom, to message her when I get undressed. I do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You’re doing so gooooood! She messages me. I feel a tiny bubble of pride. I start thinking of myself as a small, sick child. She tells me to get in the shower, just get in it, and to message her as soon as I’m out. I start taking everything one tiny task at a time. <i>Turn on the water. Breathe. Stand under the water. You’re doing good. </i>I get out and dry my hands and immediately text her. She is so proud of me. She knows how hard that was and thinks I’m so brave. She encourages me without being patronizing somehow, gently, lovingly, and firmly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She is the voice I need in my own head because the only voice I can hear right now is trying to kill me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She tells me to text her as soon as I wake up in the morning, to give her updates on everything I am doing, and to imagine her cheering me on. She is two hours behind me in time, so I don’t expect her to be awake when I text her shortly after six the next morning. However, she responds shortly after with more words of encouragement, more hand holding. Tears of gratitude and relief that I am not alone fill my eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still haven’t fed myself. When I think about feeding myself, I realize that nothing sounds appealing, and the actual act of finding food in the kitchen and feeding myself is so overwhelming, I give up. It sounds insane. It feels insane.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But soon, Katherine’s voice helps me do that. Slowly, Katherine’s voice is turning into a part of my own. I am able to get myself up the next day and make it into work, one small task at time. <i>I am doing so goooooood! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I still echo Katherine’s voice every single day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I went to the community health clinic for those of us with low or no income because I know I need more help, yet I’m jobless and insurance-less after moving to Indiana to be close to Andy. I know I need a medication adjustment, and I need to find a therapist here. I don’t want to go. I am scared, isolated. I feel like I will be walking into a building with people like me, yet I also want to scream that I am nothing like them. This is a temporary stop for me. I close my eyes to try to separate myself from the trickling thoughts of panic and flight. I open my eyes and realize that safety precautions are taken everywhere: all doors are locked, employees are kept safe behind inaccessible desks, “absolutely no weapons” is posted everywhere. This only encourages the feeling of panic. I remind myself that I feel crazier than I am. I know I am privileged. I’m currently living off of my savings account, I have a masters degree, a friendly personality, I’m quick and adaptable, and I have various skills that will certainly provide me with job opportunities. <i>This is a temporary stop for me.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I turn my head to see various sorts of people in the waiting room and wonder why they’re here too. I suddenly actually feel crazy. I look down at my hands resting on top of the clipboard and think how absurdly small they look. I’m wiggling my fingers nervously when a blonde woman calls my name and leads me to a locked door. She unlocks it with a quick twist of her wrist and tells me to sit. She uses the same voice I use to tell my dog to sit when she’s on the verge of getting in trouble. I feel my eyebrows raise and then scowl as I tuck my chin slightly. She walks around to the side through another locked door and hurries to sit behind the desk that keeps the patient blocked between door and desk. It’s claustrophobic and I begin to sweat as I feel the lump in my throat grow. My chest hurts and breathing becomes painful and shallow. The woman is cute and looks painfully naive. She looks about seventeen years old. I glance at her left hand. She is married. I wonder how she got this job. I wonder what it takes to receive mental health patients with little or no income every single day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She asks me smile-less questions about my income, my past, if I’m homeless, what’s my address, if I’m here for mental health or substance abuse, if I’m looking for work, my level of education, questions about my health and my mental history. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She asks me if I would like to give permission to release any of my information to anyone else. I give her Andy’s information and say, “yeah, in case anything happens.” I suddenly choke back a sob and swallow it. I’m certainly not planning on harming myself, but I’m at the point where my own brain scares me so much sometimes, I almost feel as though it could harm me without me agreeing to any of it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I answer the questions but my voice sounds small and hoarse. I make a joke in my head about sounding like a pony. I make jokes in awkward and uncomfortable situations, usually out loud. It helps me. This time, I can’t joke out loud because I’m afraid the young girl will think I’m even more insane than I already feel. I feel weak. My knees are numb and I’m already afraid of the end of the interview when I have to stand, I envision my legs giving out and me dropping me to the floor, only to be carried off in an ambulance, my arms and legs strapped to a gurney. I feel a little dizzy, <i>maybe because I haven’t eaten since…? </i>I continue to answer her questions automatically. The answers come from a part of my brain that I’m so grateful seems to be able to communicate with the rest of the world, to function without much of my conscious effort. It’s as though someone is stepping in and carrying me through the interview. I’m so grateful. <i>Good job.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I sign papers, and then it all ends abruptly with the child saying, “you can go.” I feel foolish. I feel crazy and small and alone. I choke back another sob as I leave the room. Swallow it. Get out. I think as I shuffle, dazed, through the waiting area. Not a single person looks up in the room of ten or so people. I think I might be invisible, which makes me feel both extremely alone and also safe again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I open the door to the outside world slowly, the handle feels cold and the door is heavy as I lean back to open it, tugging on it with my weight. I step outside, and the sun is resting somewhere behind the clouds, <i>like my happiness</i>, I think. I glance up and down the sidewalk and feel the lump in my throat sink all the way to my navel. I have a hard time holding my head up and I want to hide my face. I pull my hood up over my head and stare down at the sidewalk as I pick up the pace toward home. My entire body is filled with a numbing sort of tingle, like when novocaine starts to wear off. My cheeks are hot. I know this feeling. The lead in my navel, the need to hide, the numbness, the heat in my face, and the distinct awareness of the space my entire body takes up in this world. It is shame. My body feels as though it’s not my body anymore but a foggy, fuzzy, tangled grey mass of shame.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m sharing this now because I am tired of feeling this shame around my depression. I’m tired of feeling like I need to hide my face and avoid eye contact when I talk about how I really feel. I don’t want anyone else suffering anywhere to feel ashamed either. I’m not sharing this for advice. It’s not intended as a neatly wrapped package of “this is what I learned” nor is it meant for a conclusion. It’s just the raw story of today I needed to share. And to remind myself, this is a temporary stop for me.</span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-15999071022319692352015-11-16T21:17:00.001+00:002017-01-24T18:49:45.121+00:00The Wicked Witch<div style="color: #141823;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I called in sick today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I dread when I go back into work. Not because of the emails waiting for me, or the pile of work, or even the daily drama of the place, but because of the question, “what was wrong?” What am I supposed to say?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I have Depression. Some days, I can’t get out of bed. It was one my dark days.” No. I can’t say that. Mental illness is either taken not seriously enough by minimizing one’s experience, or way too seriously in the form of whispers and rumors behind the ill one’s back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Oh, some days I don’t want to get out of bed either! Mondays, right?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I heard she is <em>depressed</em>. She doesn’t seem depressed. She missed work for it? Eesh.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You just need to change the way you think. You just need to think positively. You just need to take better care of yourself. You just need to find something you love.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Depression is like a mold that latches on to the soft spots in my self-esteem and begins eating away at all my healthy parts until it feels like there isn’t much left of myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s physical. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It sinks onto my chest, pressing down on my lungs until the moment swells enough to slide its way into my belly, making food unappetizing at best. It makes my arms and legs feel heavy and watery. It makes the line between me and the rest of the world stark and harsh. In the throes of Depression, I feel like I’m in the world, but not part of it. It seems like I am travelling the world encased in a glass box. I can see everything, but nothing really gets through to me. My own thoughts echo in the glass chamber and drown out any attempt to connect to the outside world. And the words of other people become my own thoughts and I find it harder and harder to find my own voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You just need… You just need… You just need…”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s isolating, it’s painful, and it feels permanent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The loving people close to me try to help by asking things like, “What triggered it this time?” Hormones, overwhelm, not enough rest, too much thinking, alcohol, bad memories, sickness, death, the change of season, summer’s oppressive heat, Big Life Changes… the list could go on. The truth is, I’m not really sure how much I buy into the whole “trigger” thing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The human brain is inundated with information from the external world and internal world. The brain filters through this information, looking for patterns. In a “healthy” brain, the brain can take unpleasant, obsessive, socially inappropriate, and useless information and basically ignore it so that one can consciously pay attention to important patterns of information. This happens mostly unconsciously. In an “unhealthy” brain, unpleasant, obsessive, socially inappropriate information doesn’t get filtered the same way, if at all in severe illnesses. Sometimes, especially when I get tired, overwhelmed, exercise too little, have a change in hormones, or basically do anything that results in that filter getting “tired”, I get Depressed and/or Obsessive. Some days I need to rest so my brain filter can sort through the crap and catch up. It’s as though my brain’s immune system is run down. So, when I call in sick for Depression, yes I’m really sick. The mold has latched on and I need time and rest to be able to save the good bits of myself, to pick off the mold growing on my self-esteem and to heal the raw and newly exposed pieces of myself. Yes, I have simplified this by breaking it down, but make no mistake, episodes of Depression (and Obsession) are complicated and engrained.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not sharing this because I want sympathy. This is not a cry for help. If I’m being honest, most attempt at sympathy from someone who doesn’t experience any form of mental illness tends to feel patronizing (though probably through no fault of one’s own).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not weak.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don’t “just need to” do anything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t minimize my experience and please don’t ignore it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a lot of shame around this. I have shame around my dark days, around my medication, around me calling in sick because, even though now as an adult I know how to best take care of myself, there is the part of me speaking VERY LOUDLY that tells me that I don’t deserve to be taking care of myself. I’m shining a light on that shame right now by writing this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I see you, shame. And now so does everyone else who reads this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Glinda says to the Wicked Witch of the West, “You have no power here, be gone… before somebody drops a house on you, too.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It doesn’t get rid of the Depression. Actually, over the years I have begun to regard my Depression as a misguided but well-meaning mold creature who is trying to point my attention toward something. What is really more painful is the shame around it. That shame keeps me from being fully authentic, and that gives the Depression mold a little more food. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope that by writing this, the shame surrounding it has a little less power over me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m sharing this because I feel like maybe the only way I can make my own situation better is to share it. Maybe I’ll go to work tomorrow and maybe I’ll say, “I have Depression. I had my first diagnosis when I was sixteen years old. Some days are really dark.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There it is. Some days are really dark. </span></div>
Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3886258672347463983.post-7373721970037950142015-11-16T21:15:00.001+00:002017-01-24T18:49:55.832+00:00Reflections and Rice Cakes<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night, while thinking about my upcoming birthday, I was reflecting on a Wednesday evening in Cardiff in 2012 that, in retrospect, was a turning point in my life.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">The week I moved to Cardiff, I found a place to live in Llandaff North, outside of Cardiff city centre (with a housemate who would later become one of my dearest friends and a soul sister who shows me what owning your power with kindness looks like). My father had come with me initially in the hopes that we could get some quality father-daughter-adventure-travel time in the week before I started my University activities. First, we explored Cardiff, walking the city centre, the University, and the Bay by eating, drinking, and merry-ing our way through the city. Then, we took a train to bluebell hill-nestled Caerphilly where we ate delicious soft cheese and drank even more beer in a stuffy, crowded pub full of old men with thick accents and dancing eyes. We shuffled through the rain to Caerphilly castle, first constructed in the 13th century with its own (now) leaning tower and a real mote. The castle had very recently been the site of a Doctor Who episode. I excitedly, and a bit mournfully, stood on the patch of dead grass that the Tardis had just left behind. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">Our next venture took us west on a train to Swansea, birthplace of Dylan Thomas, home of Wales’ first football team to enter the Premier League, and location of Wine Street (where I would months later stumble through a drunken crowd with four friends, get pushed to the ground, vomit on the street, and then put back up on my feet by the largest man I’ve ever seen in real life). On that rainy day, my dad and I ducked into a pub on Wine Street to stop and eat lunch. The pub was warm and welcoming with its old, worn pine floors, small rooms, low ceilings, and had a lit fireplace in every room. As we were ordering our beer, a shorter man wearing a fedora walked in and waved hello to the bartender. He looked a bit younger than my dad but he was dressed as though he were much younger. He had the flair of an artist of some sort. I had just ordered cockles and laverbread from the server, when the man in the fedora directed the question at my dad and me, “are you American?” The man introduced himself as Ady. This began a whirlwind of an afternoon that lasted until after midnight. Ady was a lifelong musician, resident of nearby Port Talbot, and apparently knew everyone, everywhere. He took us to pub after pub, introducing us to Welsh men and women full of character, colorful stories, Welsh phrases, and drinking tips. Before we knew it, we had new friends buying us rounds of Welsh whiskey and inviting us to Sunday roast. Next, we grabbed a taxi with Ady, our entertainment tour guide, to Port Talbot. I remember thinking that Port Talbot reminds me of most rundown, small towns in Michigan if the buildings were older and closer together and everyone were driving on the other side of the road. We sang robustly with our new friends into the night before they generously offered us their couches and spare bedrooms. However, my dad and I left Ady to take the very last train back into Cardiff exchanging looks that said, “what the hell just happened?!” I'm inclined to have adventures like these.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">Around two months later, as I made my way to class down the tree-lined Taff trail, I received a text from an unfamiliar number. It was Ady. He was coming to Cardiff for the day and was wondering if he could buy me a nice dinner. Although the guy had to be in his late fifties, he was very interesting and was good company. Plus, I was a starving grad student who would really appreciate a nice, real grown-up dinner out. So, I agreed and met him later that night at the city centre. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">The dinner was at a nice restaurant on Mill Lane and we were seated at a cozy window table lit by candles and fairy lights. The dinner started lightly and happily enough with a bottle of wine and appetizers. Ady told funny stories about gigs he’s played, places he’s travelled, beaches he's slept on, girlfriends he’s had, girlfriends he wished he had, girlfriends he wish he didn’t have, and “helpful tips” for me about men. After the start of the second bottle of wine, the conversation got deeper. I noticed that Ady told stories as though he were performing them. He was charming and entertaining and although he had many stories, he was still intriguingly mysterious.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">Finally, at the bottom of the second bottle, Ady confessed to me, “Today is my sixtieth birthday.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">This interesting, funny, talented Welsh musician spent his sixtieth birthday dinner with an American woman he’d met only once…two months prior.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">That. That was the turning point. Sure, I had a fine evening, Ady went back home and I took a taxi back to my house with a wine buzz and a full belly, but I felt unsettled, as though something inside me had finally woken up after a long nap and began stirring restlessly. I wasn't sure what it was at first.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">Although he made it clear that he didn’t feel sorry for himself as he went home alone, I recognized the hint of loneliness in Ady that creeped out of his eyes, threatening to give him away. Ady had all the freedom in the world, a feeling I had been chasing my entire adult life. I knew that I was walking straight down the same path he, and so many others I had met, had already cleared. It actually turns out that Ady didn’t have the freedom he thought he did. He didn’t realize he was trapped by fear, pride, habits, and beliefs that kept people just close enough yet still at arm’s length. Ady knew everyone, but no one knew Ady. Not really. And I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to be Ady. Finally I saw that I wanted a different way. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">I realized just how good I had gotten at keeping people just close enough so that I could get a bit of relief from loneliness yet I kept them far enough away to stay "free" and "safe". I didn't want anyone to see my weaknesses, my failures, my inadequacies, or my heart. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">I was living the emotional equivalent of eating rice cakes: it was leaving me hungry and unsatisfied. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">For people like Ady and me, it’s not difficult or risky to make new friends or to get people to like us and enjoy our company. It’s not frightening to travel anywhere alone, to have wild stories about strangers with accents, to try food from a different culture and not be exactly sure what's in it. That's actually very easy. For people like us, the real adventure is in baring ourselves fully, authentically. The real wild story for me is when I let someone see me give it my all, only to fail; to let he or she see that I might not be as clever as I wish; to let someone know that walking away would indeed break my heart. For me, true adventure is when I disappoint someone in order to finally understand that it doesn’t mean he or she stops loving me, and then practicing the same when he or she disappoints me. I plan to continue to wander and collect new adventurous stories and memories, of course, but to step in front of someone and have them see my faults, my mistakes, my fears, my weaknesses, my vulnerabilities, my ignorance, and my dark side is my biggest adventure yet. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">I never saw Ady again, sadly. I think about him sometimes, grateful that I had him to show me who I didn’t want to become. I think I’m traipsing down my own path now, machete in hand, clearing my way forward. I’ve got an amazing partner who is sticking around as I slowly and bravely bare my many layers. It's frightening and uncomfortable but instead of feeling confined, I actually feel even more free. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #141823;">Best of all, instead of settling for rice cakes, I’m enjoying full course dinners.</span></span>Ashley Ludmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05415215539837470001noreply@blogger.com0