Letting Go, but not really.

It started when friends found they needed to move to Pennsylvania. It's about 656 miles away, and we couldn't believe we'd have to find a way to manage the distance.

Next, another friend died of suicide, leaving us heartbroken and tear filled.

Then, our father/father in law/grandfather breathed his last. Peacefully, he smiled good-bye and in his eyes promised time on the other side. We were heartbroken in a new way.

Then we found ourselves moved to share our home with another family. A family in transition to the mission field of Africa. We knew the deal - they would stay with us for a while, then move on. We didn't realize the love that would grow between us. And when we said goodbye there weren't words to carry it all.

And next came another move. Our friends were able to take up a new part of their lives. 4058 or so miles away in the middle of the ocean - also known as Hawai'i. We helped them pack their boxes, gave sweaty hugs, and left them to catch a flight.

So many tears in the course of less than two years. The world is too big, I thought. The world is so hard.

Grief is a funny thing. Some days you're overwhelmed. More often, it's like a constant thread of energy draining out of you. I miss the ones we lost. I yearn for the ones far away. All the time they're in my heart, waiting.

When the Sleeping Place isn't a Place Of Sleeping

I can't sleep.

PTSD is like that, sometimes. Often I'm not even sure why my brain is in hyperdrive. Today, though, I know why I can't sleep (and haven't been sleeping well). It's frustrating, because knowing isn't helping.

Five days ago our second floor a/c unit malfunctioned. We were about two weeks away from a scheduled HVAC upgrade, so we weren't totally caught off guard. But two weeks feels like a lot longer in the HVAC universe, especially when the days are suddenly hitting high 90s and in a matter of hours the second floor is a stifling 89 degrees.

Let's change the description, shall we? Henceforth the "second floor" shall be known as "Bedroom Section."

Because all the bedrooms are on the second floor. And we do all like to sleep in those bedrooms. Other suitable phrase substitutes for Bedroom Section include "Sleeping Place," "Rooms for Resting," or possible "The Place I Send the Children When They Misbehave."

It's not as  miserable as you might think, though. When the Bedroom Section reached a toasty 82 degrees, I moved a twin and two futon mattresses to the floor of the Master Room of the Bedroom Section. The room I normally share with only one other human. Then I wrestled a room a/c unit down our precarious attic stairs into said room. Close the bedroom door, turn on the room a/c, and like magic cool air begins to circulate. Cool enough to comfortably sleep. Cool enough that the kids asked me to make it a little warmer tonight.

So, if the Bedroom Section has a cool sleeping place, which also happens to be my own bed, why can't I sleep?

PTSD.

For me, one of the most common and ready to act symptoms of my PTSD is an "elevated alert state/heightened situational awareness." No matter what I've tried over the years, I can't seem to bring those levels down in a practical every day way. My brain is hardwired to hear the world around me, process the information, and assume everything is a problem.

You can imagine the stress of moving into a different house full of different noises.

Also, I'm a terrible travel companion. I'm irritable and anxious. I also don't sleep in motels. We may stop there, and pay for a room - and then I stretch out onto the bed for a night of listening and watching and convincing my brain that EVERYTHING IS FINE ALREADY. [This is also why I can't be a primary driver of a road trip requiring an overnight stop. Exhaustion is killer.]

I've lived in my house for 17 years now. I know its creaks and moans. I love the way the wind shrieks around the back corner in end of Summer storms. I shake my fist at the 3am birds outside the window. I can hear the click of the furnace as it comes on in Winter. Like all houses, this grand dame has a sound palette all her own and I've grown accustomed to her tastes.

But her tastes changed the other day, and I'm on edge.

The room a/c unit that is effectively allowing my family a cool and comfortable sleeping place is loud. The fan is loud enough to mute the noise from the rest of the house. I cannot sleep this way - my brain is wondering what's going on past the interference, trying to stay more alert than usual. [I actually don't think that's possible, but my brain has a mind of it's own.] When I turn down the fan, the room a/c unit has a sound palette of its own, clicking and sighing, and my brain turns each foreign note into an alarm call to action.

So far, the experience has been much like sleeping in a hotel, only I get my own bed and pillow and I can pet my cat while not sleeping. So, an improved motel experience.

I'm worried. I'm not a well rested individual, as a general rule, and am prone to debilitating insomnia. I'm not currently well rested, thanks to weeks of ongoing knee pain and then a sick kid who needed 4am comfort. I'm already on the back foot, so to speak, of a rested body.

And once the new HVAC is installed, the sound palette will be new again. Sure, I'll grow to appreciate the new effectiveness and energy efficiency of a new HVAC system. I'll start sleeping through the cycles of each machine. We'll become friends. But friendship takes time. And until then, every night of DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! is a blow to me.

I'm more than my physical self, and my body suffers when I can't sleep. I'm more than my mental well being, and it suffers, too.

We dance again, my Crazies and I, trying to get through normal things. Because sometimes, PTSD is like this.

Rambling Thoughts on Medications and Life

The alarm on my phone just sounded. It’s 2pm, the officially randomly designated time I take my afternoon meds. I had to start using an alarm when I started this medication, because I proved unreliable when I just tried to remember. I’ve taken a variety of medication in my life but this is the first one to be taken “Between Meals” and adjusting is hard. 

On the one hand, using my phone as an alarm for this is a reasonable — dare we say intelligent? — use of modern technology. It’s taken me nearly 10 years but I finally (usually) know where my phone is, generally remember to charge it, and figure out many of the useful features. So when I kept forgetting to take my meds, the alarm was a good resource. Since I started using it, I haven’t missed a day. Even if I can’t stop what I’m doing at alarm time, it’s a sufficient enough reminder that I do get to the task. Every day. I’m 100% “med compliant” with my phone. 

On the other hand…(there’s a downside? What?!?!). Using my alarm is a very public event. If I don’t dismiss the alarm in advance, it actually makes a noise. Maybe I’m out in the store. Maybe I’m in the library. Maybe I’m just really busy and can’t get to the phone within the first 10 seconds of the alarm. 

Now, sometimes I do dismiss the alarm in advance. It happens occasionally that I take my meds a little early. Thankfully, I don’t need my meds at exactly the same time every day so I have some freedom. 

And no, the sound of the alarm isn’t even that bad at the store, or even in the library. It doesn’t start out really loud, and I can usually unearth the phone relatively quickly, freeing the public from my noise pollution. 

But… then there are those moments when I’m just really busy. And almost always, that “really busy” happens around my kids. That’s just reality. I’m with my kids a lot. We’re together while I teach and they learn. We’re together while I take them to and from their extra curricular activities. We’re near each other when I’m making dinner, or lunch, or a complicated snack. This is our lives, one of togetherness. And (perhaps because of all the time teaching and learning) all my kids now read fairly quickly. So if I can’t get to my phone, one of the kids will swipe the alarm off and let me know it’s time. Time to take my meds. And when they remind me, it hurts. 

It hurts because I don’t want them to know I take any medicine. I know that’s an impossible goal — with all that togetherness it is inevitable that they’re going to see me taking medications. Really, it hurts because I don’t want them to know what kind of medication I take, or why.

I’m on antidepressants. Again. It was a difficult choice to start taking antidepressants. A choice I worked through and talked about with my care team. A necessary step, at that time, because I was using so much of my energy on managing my depression, anxiety, PTSD, and assorted other crazies. This time on the med wheel I’m taking something radically different. I can say honestly that three months in on this med has been the best experience I’ve had with any “emotion altering” pharmaceutical. This radically different medication has made my life better. Making my life better makes the lives of the people who love me better. 

I want to say, humbly but with satisfaction: I take medication for my mental health. My mental health care is just as important and real as my physical health care. 

But I don’t say that. I don’t even really feel it. So when my kids innocently help me out with a reminder to take my meds, the feelings of shame, failure, embarrassment, and incompetence all rear up at once. If I had enough willpower, my kids wouldn’t be exposed to this sort of thing. 

And I know it's all part of the crazy in my head. The mixed up ideas of what I'm responsible for, and what I am not. And knowing and loving me will help my kids be compassionate with others. One day, my kids will fully realize that I live with The Crazies. They'll look back and understand that those weekly appointments I attended was therapy. They'll know that the meds I took were an effort to make myself better, for the benefit of everyone. They will have lived through all the times in their life that I cracked under the pressure, and they won't be surprised that I'm a "high functioning" person struggling with mental health. 

Hi, My Name Is...

I had a panic attack today because I had a hard time buttoning my jeans. My jeans are supposed to be comfortable. Instead, they're tight. So I handled it like a person with an eating disorder and I skipped breakfast.

The first time a mental health professional suggested I had an eating disorder I nearly walked out of her office in protest. We all know the story about eating disorders, and the "new" face of eating disorders. [From now on, ED for short.] I'm almost stereotypical. Refusing to admit or agree to an ED diagnosis because I'm fat. ED isn't fat, ED is skinny girls whose ribs are visible, thin women who eat whatever they want and then throw it back up again. Fat girls are just uncontrolled. Fat girls just don't have any willpower. Fat girls are too lazy to exercise. I am many things, I thought, but I am not living with an eating disorder.

But I didn't leave her office, because I knew how much time I spent thinking about my food. How I would plan around eating. How I felt trapped by it. How lost I was in the disease. A disease I wouldn't believe I was facing. So I stayed in her office, and I kept coming back. I went to the group sessions. I learned a new language. I learned coping mechanisms.

I never accepted the idea of an ED diagnosis. For awhile, I lived in a place where I just treasured being able to eat without obsessing. I didn't plan around food. It was liberating.

And I got fatter.

I tried to exercise more; I forgot to make time for it. I started using various methods to track exercise, so I had solid data on when/what/how.

It triggered disordered eating behavior.

I tried to cut back on my food intake; I began to obsess about food. I started counting calories and forcing myself to earn the right to eat those calories.

That is disordered eating behavior.

I tried to "go back" to a comfortable place, where eating was just about food, and I got fatter. Which is why my jeans didn't want to button today.

Sometimes I cancel plans so that my friends can't see how much I weigh. Sometimes I break down and research the "best" fast weight loss methods. I've been taking green coffee supplements, hoping for magical results, without telling anyone - especially not my current ED therapist.

This is disordered behavior.

Here is my reality: I am a fat girl with an eating disorder.

I wish I could tell so many people:
I can't talk to you because at least once in every conversation you talk about your current diet/exercise/plan for weight and I feel overwhelmed.
Or
I can't interact with you online because your fitness/nutrition/food regime makes me feel like a failure as a person.
Or
I can't bear to repeat myself anymore because all I can safely give you is the most basic/obvious/tertiary explanations for some of my choices.

And
None of this is your fault.
And
My therapist would like me to believe that none of this is my fault (though it's my responsibility to deal with it).
And
I don't want to be a fit fat woman. I want to be a healthy person.

I struggle with the reality of this all. Sometimes I wonder why anyone bothers adding a label. Other times I wish I could wear my label as a sign, a shorthand to explain things to the world. Once in awhile, I wonder why I live with "the crazies."*  Most of the time, I wonder why I'm so broken.

Today, my (ED specialist) therapist led me to admit I need to begin accepting some things. By refusing to accept them I am suffering needlessly. I have elevated pain to misery. And through acceptance, I can change that situation. Some of the power is mine, and it's time I took it back.

I live with an eating disorder.

I want to pretty it up, ignore it, move on, say I'm cured... but the truth is that I live with it every day.

Now we know.





*the crazies: my new term to encompass my depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorder, crippling perfectionism/self-doubt, and being an intensely empathetic person (which, according to my mental health professional, is not a 'crazy' diagnosis but rather her professional opinion and worth noting because it leaves me incredibly vulnerable to the world/people around me).

Honesty, transparency, and health.

I go back and forth fairly often, trying to decide what I want to say and what format I want to say it in. My life isn't secret, by any stretch, but I try to practice boundaries. Some things shouldn't be thrown out into the public world. Other things need to be thrown out. Most things are really in between.

Social media is a beast I wrestle with regularly. Using it, turning it off, hating it but participating, and so many things in between. And yet, blog posting seems much more indirect. Virtually no one "follows" a blog post anymore. Or, at least not mine. I'm not complaining. I'm trying to explain. Or understand myself, I suppose.

Tonight, I had a wonderful painful long talk with a friend. Mostly, I talked and she listened. Today has been a hard day, and she's a wonderful listener. She regularly interrupted me to encourage me to be nice to myself. [She has this strong stance that I need to be much kinder to my own self than I am in everyday practice.] I cried. I jumped from one tale to another. I tried to explain complicated things in simple ways. There were long moments of silence while I tried to keep it together rather than be taken over by sobs. There were moments I garbled, trying to talk through the heaviness in my chest and the thickness in my throat, and I don't know how she could understand - except that it wasn't the words in that moment, but rather the love. She was able to reach to me from 650 miles away and (figuratively) put her hand on my shoulder until I could bear up under my own life again.

And during one of the times I listened, she told me that I should write it all down and then ask myself

[Was that sad?
Was that hard?
Was that hurtful?
Was that wonderful?
Was that unique?
Was that an important part of my experience?]

"Are these things 'just' anything?"

I may be misquoting her. I'm sure of it, in fact. But these are the words I've carried forward, and I believe I  know her well enough that if she reads this she'll just nod in satisfaction that I got the message.

My response: I don't write anymore. It's one of the things that goes away when I'm 'well' medicated.

Part of today's experience is that I'm no longer well medicated. So, here we are. Writing. I'm not sure what about exactly.

Sadness, maybe. Or just the emptiness that goes along with pouring out all the words, but feeling unheard. I'm not sure.

I'm going to work on this for awhile. Boundaries. Outlets. Sharing. Not sharing.

The thing is, I have a lot I want to say. I a lot I want to tell. But I'm not sure where to tell it, or to whom I wish to speak.

QUIET. please.

Loud. Close. Hard. Intense.

Those are good words for life off the antidepressant. The antidepressant that insulates me a little from everything, makes everything feel just that much farther away. Life is RIGHT IN MY FACE right now and it's really uncomfortable.

Which is part of the reason - possibly even most of the reason - I'm sitting at the corner desk, hiding from the kids, ignoring the need to cook dinner (after all, I just ate a bunch of skittles), and writing a rambling blog post.

Except.

Lately, those words have been fairly accurate summations of life. Until today - really, until about 4 hours ago - when life went from loud, close, hard, and intense to

Seemingly

Unbearable.

But what's a responsible educated woman to do?

I am resisting the urge to simply implode my life. To undo the work of 16 years. To... make walking away justifiable.

But.

I'm resisting. Because even if I don't deserve this life we have, the people I have this life with deserve better than my destruction.

Definitions, Connotations, and Exposure Therapy

In the last month, I've been suffering from panic attacks again. I have been trying to cope with them in a crisis methodology: self care being my top priority. It's what I've done before, and it gets me through. But after  years of suffering, and then years of life-changing DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) I've realized that I don't need to be limited to suffering. I can change this situation. I can lessen the impact of my panic attacks. I can lessen my triggers. There's a catch, though. I have to face them, the things that make me panic.

Facing them. Exposure therapy.

Exposure Therapy:
a technique in behavior therapy used to treat anxiety disorders. It involves the exposure of the patient to the feared object or context without any danger in order to overcome their anxiety.


Exposure therapy looks like this, in my experience: repeatedly imagining the feared context while safely in the therapist's office. Using present tense to describe the situation. Remembering sights, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings. Rating my anxiety level before beginning. Rating my anxiety level after. Saying it, facing it, again and again, until the words don't choke me anymore and I'm not in danger of throwing up all over the office floor. Until I can note the anxiety levels and then breathe. Remembering how the situation is past now, and the anxiety I feel now can be let go. Breathe. Let go.

I spent quite a bit of time with my therapist using exposure therapy to work on a traumatic event. I can confidently say it worked, and I don't mean to avoid it now. But it's not the most relevant moment for me right now, and I don't want to distract with it.  The point is that I've done it, at least some of it. And I see the value in it. And I know it works. So, as scary as it is, exposure therapy is a valid step in dealing with my current panic attacks.

So, in a moment of near desperation to make things better, I dug in for a moment and thought to myself: "Where does this all come from?" And there it was: originating event.

Originating Event:
to cause to come into existence, a thing that happens, especially one of importance


In all the factors that have triggered my panic lately, much of it can be traced back to some specific events. I wrote it all down and took it into therapy last week. When I finally got myself steeled to say it all out loud, I managed to read a past tense third person version of an incident. An event, one of importance, in which I was victimized by my then boyfriend.

Victimize:
to treat someone cruelly or unfairly: to make a victim [victimized; to be treated cruelly or unfairly, to be made a victim]


I read my writing out loud, in story mode, because my anxiety was far too high for "true" exposure. My therapist and I agreed that this was a beginning. Read it out loud, in story mode, until my anxiety is consistently lower. Then read it again, as first person but past tense until my anxiety is consistently lower. Etc. Steps along the way. Dealing with the anxiety. Facing down my fear. I made a beginning last week. It will take some time. I understand that. I can be patient with it. I'm trying to be patient with myself.

After reading my "story" out loud, my therapist asked me to recognize that in my story, I presented "my" side of things in a very negative light. She suggested I had blamed the victim - blamed myself. Which is what led me to consider victim blaming.

Victim Blaming:
a devaluing act that occurs when the victim of a crime or any wrong doing is held entirely or partially responsible for the harm that befell them


Have I done this, and to myself? Have I blamed myself, and in doing so, have I done more harm? These are the questions that led me down the 'definition rabbit hole' tonight.

And here's my truth: I have done this to myself. I have held myself nearly entirely responsible for the harm that I encountered. I was ensconced in a cultural idea that failure to object equals consent. I accepted that because I considered myself damaged by previous trauma, additional damage didn't matter. I believed that I should have changed things, and my failure to do so was a sign of my own weakness.

In short, I deserved the things that happened to me.

Deserve:
to merit, be qualified for, or have claim to reward or punishment


My thought process was thus: I am damaged, I merit punishment.

Further, I railed against the idea of being a victim. I had a visceral reaction to the concept. The idea of being a victim was so distasteful, I knew that I needed to address it. Victim. It's a bad word. It seems all pervasive, this victimhood.

Victim Mentality:
an acquired personality trait in which a person tends to regard him or herself as a victim of negative actions of others and to behave as if it were the case, even in the absence of clear evidence


Victim mentality. That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that I'm playing at being powerless. That I'm hinting at needing pity. That I'm failing to take responsibility for myself.

... but what if there's clear evidence? ... what if, in fact, I have not acquired a personality trait but rather have actually experienced negative actions? ... what if I am actually a victim?

Victim:
a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action


Where lies my responsibility in all this? How do I reconcile the lack of control over the situation? I don't know where it all goes from here.

And I'm circling cultural ideas, ones I've known and am coming to know. Affirmative Consent versus No Means No. Silence equates Consent. Relationships give inherent Permission.

Affirmative Consent:
the knowing, voluntary, and mutual decision among all participants to engage in sexual activity


And in the midst of it, I wonder: How can we be upset over victim blaming while we still allow victims to be categorically maligned while discussing victim mentality?


Here is another truth I've found tonight:
I am a victim.
I do not possess a victim mentality.
I have blamed myself, and allowed other to blame me.
I will not blame myself any longer.