I'm Choking

I’m choking.  I sit here choking while I write this.  I don’t want to be writing.  I don’t want to be doing anything and I want to be doing everything.  I know I’m in the middle of a mixed episode because this is what it does to me.  I choke while my demons scream at me and I can’t fight, I can’t flee, so I freeze.  I can feel the now familiar strain in my throat that will not move.  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.  This is my least favorite phase of this horrible disease.  Writing this now is forcing me to watch myself choke with no one around who can actually see me to help.  I’m impossible to understand.

There are three main phases to bipolar type II.  They can come in no particular order, each of them can be triggered by external circumstances or they can shift with no warning.  Depression

Hypomania

A mixed episode (technically a form of hypomania)

It isn’t as simple as this, however, hypomanic episodes can turn into eating disorders and anxiety disorders quickly.  The racing mind can turn into obsessive compulsive disorder.  The instability of each phase will inevitably look drastically different than the simplified Diagnostic Manual definition and any experienced psychiatrist knows this.  Bipolar II is hard to diagnose for these reasons.  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.  I mean, everything is perfect in my life!”  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.  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.  Not.  Good. 

I’m having a mild mixed episode today.  I always choke during a mixed episode.  I’m always stuck with my demons during a mixed episode, up and down, angry, bored, lonely, and completely dysphoric.

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.  Abby is a mutt of some sort, perhaps a border collie/greyhound mix.  She’s about 45 pounds, black and sleek with long slender legs, little white socks, and a blazing white chest.  A friend of mine has always said she looks like she’s wearing black spandex.  At thirteen years old, her face is going quite grey, but she has the energy of most dogs half her age.  I smile a thank you to the church-goers even though I wish they weren’t speaking to me at all.  Abby trots on.  They all look so happy walking out of that church and I briefly think about coming back and going inside.  I was raised Catholic.  I’m no longer Catholic.  I’m not even a Christian and haven’t been for a very long time.  I suppose I’d consider myself agnostic.  And just look how happy and stable I am, I chuckle lightly to myself.  I don’t believe that heaven or hell exist as some sort of places other than earth.  I believe whoever, long ago, came up with the concept of heaven and hell was most definitely bipolar.  It can be absolute heaven and it can be the worst sort of hell.  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.

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.  It’s the happiest you ever been.  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.  You can accept horror and death because you can see the magic, the science, and the beauty that is the entire universe.

For me, hypomania is beautiful.  I see signs from the universe everywhere that steer me into perfect, serendipitous, connected experiences.  I may even be psychic at times.  I can work out twice a day, forming my body into whatever beautiful shape I want.  I dance for hours in my living room, feeling each muscle in my body work to move in exciting glory.  I sleep for four to five hours and wake up perfectly refreshed and deliriously happy.  I can learn anything, I can do anything, my life is exciting and I can make it more exciting.  I plan trips, I meet new friends, I have a perfect social life, a perfect job.  Everything is exactly where it is supposed to me and I am completely, down to my very being, happy.  

For a very long time, until my diagnosis, I thought that this was how happy was supposed to look.  This was what happy people experienced when they were aligned with who they truly are.  I thought at times that maybe I was near enlightenment.  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.

The beginning of 2017, however, marked the year of the diagnoses as the worst sort of hell descended upon my brain, a great, rolling earthquake of fury, destruction, pain, and death.  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.  I later discovered this drug that was prescribed was known for triggering mania in people with bipolar disorder.  And it triggered it in me.  At first I was happy, a new wave of life came over me and I saw rainbows again!  Then, I could not stop moving.  My body jittered beyond my control dancing and cackling.  My feet and hands were no longer mine.  I got scared.  That’s when the earthquake roared with apocalyptic force, the aftershocks aimed right at Andy.  There was rage, self-harm, and the thoughts of death were constant.  I saw death everywhere.  Along the side of the road, in the news, on Facebook, in the hearts of family and friends- we were all going to die.  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.  I could not keep death from happening and that caused me the most extraordinary amount of pain.  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. 

This is the story that led up to, “How My Dear Friend Saved My Life.”  

The Life You Had Planned

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.

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…

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:

"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."

It is.  It truly is.

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.

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. 

Vertigo

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 seems hopeless- it’s not the way they view the world, life, or themselves. 

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:

-Desperate

-Helpless
-Pointless
-Useless
-Incurable
-Impossible
-Lost
-Broken

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.

Sound terrifying?  It is.  

How To Deal With A High School Kitty

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 and 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 CHOOSE.  And that feels damn good too.

There Can Be No Lotus

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.”

A Tiny Paragraph of Hope

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.

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… 

Pop! the cork

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.

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.

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.

Then, of course, I feel that old choking sensation.  Just at the base of my throat below my voicebox, beyond that lump.  

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.  

I wonder why my chest hurts, why my tummy hurts.

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...

in my naval, golden and bubbling

Sweet champagne

that sparkles up to my throat where it rests, corked and quiet

Every kiss, a sip

Is it luscious on your lips?

Does it tingle on your tongue?

Pop! the cork

The world is thirsty

Anatomy of a Dream

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.

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.

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.  Hi, Ashley.

The Dream

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. 

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.

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.”

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.  

“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.”

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.

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.

The Terminated Fetus:

The death of a dream.  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.

The childfree choice.  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.
Tying these together.  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.

Andy Didn’t Show Up:
Fear of abandonment.  Seriously just my standard, cliche, "oh it's you again" fear of abandonment - alive and kicking since 1981.

The Handsome Doctor:

The hero.  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. 

A bit of grieving.  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.

Or it could be that sometimes a handsome doctor is just a handsome doctor.

The Film

An illusion.  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. 

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!

And sometimes, my dreams just pure creative, entertaining energy.

I mean, really, the only handsome doctor I want to make out with in real life is Dr. Andy, PhD.  :)

Do you dissect your dreams?  Do you find any clarity or meaning in them?  

PMS: Pretty Much Sucks

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.

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.

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.

This Abusive Voice turned on me, viciously declaring my worthlessness, my laziness, my stupidity, my absolute Brokenness Beyond Any Repair. 

OUCH. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Please, Please Me

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.  

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.

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.  

“Do you just walk around all day thinking about other people’s feelings? How do you get anything done?” 

- Schmidt

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.

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:

People-pleasing isn’t…

about you caring truly about the well-being of others.

making you a martyr.

other people’s fault.

People-pleasing is…

poor boundary setting.

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.

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.  

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. 

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.  

Feel free to share your people-pleasing addiction tendencies below and share any ways you help yourself through it.

Like a Record, Baby

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.

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 here.).  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. 

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…

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.

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?  

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.

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?

Every Badass Needs a Crossbow

I’m so tired of being afraid.  Or rather, letting my fear control my brain the way it has been.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.  

I’m so not okay with that.

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.

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.

And I want a goddamn crossbow.  

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. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going crossbow shopping.  Every badass needs a crossbow.

There Be Dragons

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. 

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.

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.  

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.

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.  

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.  

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.

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.  

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.

Hug Your Fear (It Wants You To Live)

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 hear them singing again.  

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.  

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 me too.

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 me 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.

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 me, shame me, completely ignore me, 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 me (although these fears are present too), what frightens me 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:

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.

If you, like me, 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.  

Now, go play!

xx

Interview with a Phone Vampire.

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.

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:

I’m dumb.

I’m worthless.

I’m awkward.

I don’t deserve good things.

I always fuck it up.

Etc…

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.

So, if I start making a bad interview mean that I’m worthless, then I start making up scenarios of my worthlessness.  

I can’t ever get a job anywhere.

Andy will think I’m dumb and leave me.

My friends think I’m lazy and useless.

I end up homeless and crazy. 

And on... 

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.  

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.  

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.

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.