Okay - didn't mean to scare anybody with that last post.
You know that dark space we all have in our hearts, in our heads, that we usually don't show to anybody? Well, in the midst of my dark space, I had a "you know what? fuck it" moment. I can't be the only person to have taken a trip to the dark side, and I know that most of us won't talk about it, because its too much, too heavy to tell your friends...you feel ashamed of having felt it at all... so you say nothing, you let it happen, and, if you're lucky, you never feel that way again. Or, if you're like me and prone to a bit of depression, you press on, build yourself up, hope you won't break with the next breakdown...
People don't talk about clinical depression the way they should. Like you should be locked away...
So here's some talking, a little explanation of the dark and light of me. Because when you are doing an honest closeup of yourself, you should be vulnerable, because there's no getting out of exposing both the bad and the good.
I used to have to be silent a lot. Because reactions - any kind of reactions - were met with punishment or ridicule. I learned to be so silent I was still. The only time I let my emotions out were when I was singing, or dreaming. I tried very, very hard to be a very, very good child...but when I was about 12, I realized that all of my silence was causing me to stress out. Act out. I was very unhappy and one day, after having been left at a school, I walked home in the rain measuring my life. At twelve, I was weighing the pros and cons of continuing on...or not.
That was the first time I realized that there was something wrong, something sad, in my head, in my heart, that would make me question my value, my worth.
I started paying better attention to my moods, my triggers. I didn't grow up in a family that believed in doctors, and there was too much other stuff going on so that they were scared of therapy. I needed an outlet, I needed to talk, or distract myself, and after so many years of being silent - that was hard. I found someone who I believed would listen - and he did. And slowly...very slowly...I stopped being silent. And the talking...having someone listen...it loosened me up. My heart stopped feeling so small, started filling up, started to consume everyone around me. I didn't feel sad all of the time, and I wanted everyone around me to not be sad either...
I didn't realize that kind of thinking was dangerous...because I started basing my happiness on just that, on whether the people around me were happy. Otherwise...I started to droop. And after the death of my son, I entered the darkest period I'd had in years.
I won't talk about what went on...what I put my partner through, how he fought with me - for me - when I was trying to shut out the world. I looked at him one day, saw his sadness, stepped back and said "whoa...ok..."
Walking into the student health center - where they had counselors and such...I was so scared I was shaking. I think I tried three separate times to go in the doors before I actually succeeded in making an appointment. At my second session my counselor diagnosed me. She put me on medication...and I alternated between hyper and hollow for two months. But I had trouble opening myself up, saying the words I was saying in my head to a perfect stranger...and by the end of the third month, I stopped going.
Not the best thing to do. It got too hard, I got too uncomfortable. It was literally my spilling my guts out one day, canceling my appointments the next. And that became one of my habits. Run. Quit. Activate Plan B. Do what you need to do to move forward...focus on your partner.
I focused so hard I didn't see. You've read the blogs before this, you know what happened. No need to rehash it. The stress affected me physically, became my proverbial boulder I rolled up the hill every day. And in the end - I imploded with all of it. Things happened very quickly after more years of silence...
I shut down. Like all the way down. I didn't leave my house. I didn't change my clothes. I got up to pee and feed my dog...and the days blurred together. I didn't open the windows or turn on the light... It got to the point that my ex called the leasing office to have someone go knock on my door.
I didn't answer it. But I did get out of bed. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at my dog. And I said "okay. This is a problem."
This time, I knew that I needed to get it out - all of it - no matter how much it was going to hurt, no matter how afraid I was. When I met my counselor, my friend, I knew she was going to help me get it out. We worked together, twice a week, for four months. She called me. Gave me all her numbers. And I used them. Together we worked on the three parts of me - the little unresolved girl, the abandoned wife, and the woman at odds with herself and the world. She didn't just listen - she gave me tools, assignments, let me cry it all out. She gave me a hug every time, let it be okay that I didn't have all or any of the answers, backed me up and didn't let me sink in my funk, called "bullshit" on me when I needed it, gave me the push when I needed to be spontaneous. She helped me let go, gave me the permission to hold on, and when she thought I was ready - she pushed me out into the world.
She reads my blog - anonymously, but every once in a while I get a text from her. On days like this - when I blog like this - I get the virtual hug. Which makes me smile. Doing this was one of her challenges...to shine the lights into every corner of myself, to learn that, even low, down in the dark, there is nothing to be ashamed of.
Even the parts of you that aren't picture-perfect, that aren't glamorous, that you'd rather hide from the world - they deserve to be outed, so that you aren't afraid, so that you aren't ashamed, so that you aren't sitting at home alone with it...scared that if people find out, they won't love you any longer.
My current road? Bumpy as hell...and I don't see an end for it anytime soon. My life is all twisted up and, honestly, I haven't been taking care of myself, feeding my soul, shoring up for when the rough becomes the impossible. That's my mistake. I'll work on correcting that tomorrow, maybe even Tuesday. This stress - it's like a physical ache, like having a boxing match with myself. I hurt all over and I don't want to fight anymore...
But I will. I feel broken but I'm not broken. And when I wake up in the morning I still won't want to fight...but then I fight not because I want to. I fight because I don't know how not to.
Still here.
-A.
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