Happy

As most of you know, I don't remember a lot of my childhood because of child abuse, but I'm sure this has been a common theme throughout my life. I don't see why it wouldn't be.

When I would pray to God, back when I still believed, I would cry as I prayed for him to make me happy. I just wanted to be happy. "Please, God," I'd pray and sob, "I'll do anything. I'll do anything. Please just make me happy."

The first time I can remember being depressed I was 12 or 13 years old. I stayed in bed a lot in those days, and no one seemed to notice. When it was safe and my mom wasn't home, I'd cry and beg some unseen force to bring me happiness. "I just want to be happy. Please. Please let me be happy. Please."

I'd hold my breath through tunnels and make myself dizzy, wishing the whole time, "I just want to be happy, I just want to be happy, I just want to be happy..."

Every shooting star, every wishing well, every dandelion seed blown into the wind, my one and only wish throughout my life was to obtain happiness.

Don't get me wrong, I've been happy. You've all seen me beaming and laughing, dancing and singing, declaring how much I love my life - but true happiness? I don't think my brain will let me have that or keep it. I keep wishing for a thing I can't have. I guess that's the nature of wishing.

I can settle for contentment, I guess. I have that, for sure, most days. I feel true peace at times. My favorite time is when I have my head on my husband's chest and I can hear his heart beating and nothing else matters for a few precious minutes. That's total contentment for me.

Still, I don't know if I will ever stop wishing for happiness. I'll rub every wish-fulfilling statue and pray to any god that will listen and keep wishing to be happy.

Learned

I've talked before about learned helplessness. A lot of mental health and trauma is about what you've learned. I have a lot of knowledge and insight on mental health in general and my mental health in particular, but I still need a therapist to help me put some pieces together and force me to do the work I've been avoiding, so today Dr. Mooney put a positive spin on the things I view negatively about my mental health. I've already worked hard at understanding that my depression developed, in part, to rescue me from the intense feelings I had as a child going through horrific child abuse, but I didn't go so far as to extend that understanding and compassion towards the rebound effect I have: mainly numbing and suicidal thoughts.

Dr. Mooney's take on this is that these are learned behaviors. I don't remember my mom threatening to kill herself before I was about 15 years old, but she very well could have, given that my memory is not reliable about my traumatic past. I very quickly learned back then that this was my mom's way of shutting down the conversation. She didn't want to have difficult conversations or face what she'd done, except the very few times I can remember her calling me to her room and looking me over for the damage she'd done. She would cry those few times and hug me and promise she wasn't going to do it any more. She broke those promises.

Anyway, same goes for the numbing. My mom very clearly taught me that I wasn't allowed to feel completely rational things about my abuse, so it's what I do now. Furthermore, both of these reactions are only trying to protect me, as bizarre as it might sound to say thoughts about killing yourself are actually trying to protect. The truth is, I've never actually went as far as trying to kill myself. I've always stopped, because, in part, that was not part of my learning. To my knowledge, my mother never tried to kill herself either, only threatened whenever things got hard and she wanted to stop talking about those hard things.

My therapist also pointed out that these can't be bad things because I survived and thrived in part because of these protective factors. God, it's hard to love these parts of myself that I have only seen as incredibly ugly and upsetting, but maybe I'm building towards greater understanding of myself as a beautiful, strong survivor who learned what she had to along the way.

Next assignment: a letter to my little brother. I won't post that publicly. It's not for the public. It's for him.

Survivor

Every morning I catch a good look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It's positioned in such a way that I can see from the top of my head to my hips. I tend to stretch and my fingers reach the ceiling. Sometimes I notice how my body looks stretched out like that, but today I noticed something different. It was a flash of a moment, but I noticed my face. It didn't last long, but the thought I had was that I could see what others saw in me, my strength and beauty. I thought, for an instant, that was what a survivor looked like. After the moment was gone I couldn't get it back, but it was there.

How did I survive? How did I thrive? It all seems highly unlikely. At any point, I could have been killed by my mother because she lost control. I could have been taken in by the wrong people and ended up in dangerous, stuck situations. I could have decided the pain was too much and taken my own life before I had the chance to find true happiness. At times my thoughts will turn to bitterness that I'm still alive, but most of the time I'm grateful. I love my life now.

Still, how? How did I survive? I think about the individuals who came into my life and changed it in big ways and small: all of the teachers who paid special attention to me, the church members who helped me grow, Ahjashi and Emo, friends who came into and then out of my life at various times, internet friends, co-workers, my college roommates and friends, my husband, and the nerd friends I made in the last seven years. I don't know how much any of them truly knew about what I was going through or what I had survived. Hell, I'm seeing that I don't have a full picture of it either, and I lived it.

The more I think about the narrative of my life and story, the more I realize how flawed it likely is. For instance, I used to think that my mom never let me do much of anything typical kids would including sleep-overs, going to the mall or movies, or attend birthday parties. I've always thought this had to do with her being overprotective, that it was all about her conservative, Korean values and maybe there's some of that there but now I'm realizing that she only let loose the reins in this regard after she stopped physically abusing me. Seems likely that the real reason she kept me locked down so tight is because she didn't want to run the risk that I'd get close enough to someone and tell them what was going on, or they'd look too closely and figure it out on their own. God, that makes me so mad. So much of my childhood was stolen and I've lived these happy little lies about what was really going on. Now I'm left to glue the pieces of myself back together, simultaneously likely to flinch or tense at an intimate touch and starving for all of the love and affection and positive feedback I can get like an endless pit of need.

Anyway, all of that pain and anger aside, I've survived. I've thrived. I'm here, and God willing I'll stay. This is what a survivor looks like. It was unlikely I'd live to be almost 30 and as healthy as I am, but here I am.

Inside a Suicidal Brain

"I want to die." | No, you don't.

"Please just let me die." | No, I can't.

"Nothing matters." | The people I love matter. I don't want to hurt them.

"They'll get over it." | No, they won't.

"You've seen people get over it." | It's not that simple.

"They don't really love you." | Stop it. That's not true.

"You don't deserve them." | I'm going to let them decide if I deserve them.

"They'll be relieved you're dead." | They really won't.

"You're so awful for needing them." | People need people. I am a people.

"I want to die." | I'm sorry.

"Please just let me die." | I can't.

"I just want the pain to stop." | I know.

The Real Story?

The thing about being the child of an abusive alcoholic is that so many things about your life and memories don't make sense until later, when you think about it in a different context as an adult. There are strange memories I have that I look back on now and go, "Oh, she was drunk. That makes sense."

This is different. I don't know how I feel about this. I was re-reading over what I wrote yesterday, particularly the horrific incident at church, and I realize that my mom most likely lied about something very important. See, we left the Korean Baptist church I grew up in around the time my mom stopped physically abusing me. We had been in that church pretty much my entire life. That church meant a lot to me. That church was the reason we weren't homeless, that I learned what little of the Korean language I could, that I got music lessons, that I didn't fucking kill myself or become teenage pregnant or abuse alcohol or drugs at a young age. Leaving that church was a big deal. Of course, I had questions. My mom told me at the time that we were leaving because the adults were talking about our family behind our backs because my mom was a divorced woman.

God, I hate that I didn't question that. I mean, sure, the Korean culture is very judgmental about divorced women. That's true. It was a clever lie, but that's just it. It was a lie. I'm 99% sure that it was a lie. Here's what I think the real story is: I can't place that abuse incident at church on a timeline. I don't know how old I was when it happened, but I know it probably happened toward the end of our time at that church because we were in the new church building and the bathrooms had been renovated. Remember I said an adult walked in? I don't remember who that adult was. Remember before how I said the pastor was made aware of what was happening and said that God forgave her and we weren't going to talk about it any more? What if my mom wasn't the one who sought forgiveness? What if the adults who found out about this really did do something, and I never knew? What if that's why my mom left the church that meant so much to me in my young life?

This is a big deal. This is a major reason I fell away from the church, because I felt the judgmental nature of the church was a major betrayal and that led me to question my faith. Don't get me wrong, this doesn't change the fact that I still believe that the Christian faith doesn't fit my worldview any more, but this changes the narrative of my memories. Is this the real story? I don't know how I'd know. I certainly can't ask my mom. I won't. I have half a mind to track down my former pastor and ask him.

I don't know. I just made this realization and I'm still reeling. I had to write it.

Worse

More child abuse memories are coming back very clearly. Just writing them down to get them out of my brainspace.

My mom always hated that I bit my nails. From what I know, I started when I was four years old after an incident where my mom accidentally cut my nails too short and it hurt. Anyway, looking back I realized this incident had nothing to do with me biting my nails. I had not a clue and still don't know what my mom was actually upset about that day, but she decided she was going to make her anger about the fact that I was biting my nails. We were at church a lot, often after hours. I remember this was at the new building we had built for the church. I don't remember who I was with, but we were in the sanctuary and the lights were off. The only source of light came from the setting sun through the windows way up overhead. We were messing around on the piano. It seemed like she burst in out of nowhere. I think she screamed at me. I think the other kids scattered. I was paralyzed. She took my hand and bit my fingers, hard. I was bleeding from my fingers. I screamed and cried and begged her to stop. She snapped and told me to shut up. I don't know what made her stop. I remember she dragged me to the bathroom and made me wash my bloody fingers in the sink. She threatened me to stop crying or things were going to get worse.

Sorry, this is really upsetting, I know. It doesn't seem real, but I know this happened. I know I didn't make this up.

The most upsetting part is I distinctly remember someone saw. There was at least one adult who walked in on this. They did nothing. They didn't stop it. They didn't speak up for me. They did nothing. Maybe that's why my mom stopped and made me get cleaned up, though. I'll never know why that adult didn't help me. Maybe this is why I always play the protector now that I'm an adult. Someone should stand up for the helpless.

Here's another thing I remember. I was in Kindergarten. I was practicing my letters with Mrs. Pesce (I think that's how you spelled her name). She came by and marked my paper with a "C" for correct. When I got home and my mom saw this, she thought I had gotten a "C" letter grade. God, that's so absurd. First of all, who even gives Kindergartners letter grades? Second of all, who in their right mind would think a teacher would give a Kindergartner a "C" for their letters? Yet again I have to assume this had nothing to do with my "C" and I don't know what my mom was really upset about. Anyway, she beat me for this. The next day, we were practicing our letters again, and yet again Mrs. Pesce casually marked my paper with a "C." I burst into tears. Mrs. Pesce was a legendary Kindergarten teacher. I will fight anyone with my fists who tries to argue with me on this point. Anyway, she took me aside in the middle of class and asked me what was wrong. I didn't tell her my mom was hitting me. I never told other adults that. I think I knew it was wrong and my mom would get in trouble for it. I told her I'd be in trouble and I was sobbing in the hallway. Mrs. Pesce knew what was up. She informed the school counselor right away. I don't know how soon after that the meeting was called. I felt so small in that big, yellow-lit room surrounded by adults around the table who grilled me, with my mom present, about what had happened. I knew how to play this. I lied. I told them I was lying and nothing was going on. Sometimes I feel angry that adults didn't protect me when they had the chance, and then I look at this situation and realize that sometimes they really didn't have a chance. They had nothing to go off of. This is what abused children do. This is part of how the cycle continues.

On the ride home my mom screamed at me and threatened me. She asked me if I wanted to get taken away and put in a foster home and taken away from my little brother. Of course, I didn't. I learned my lesson at 5 years old. You never, ever tell other people your mom is beating you because if you do then worse things will happen.

Revelations: Mysterious Disappearing Childhood Media Memories

It never occurred to me until I put the pieces together yesterday.

Alex will often ask me if I watched a certain thing that came out when I was a child. The thing is, I have an impression of these movies or shows or whatever. I get the strong sense I saw the thing. The problem is, I can barely remember anything about it. Why is that? Why can my husband, a mere 3 years older than me, remember very distinct details of something I have no real developmental reason to completely not remember outside of a feeling?

I've finally linked this phenomena I previously wrote off as another trauma reaction - probably. It makes sense. I buried so much that happened to me as a child, and the media went with it. This is why I can't remember nor really like the original Star Wars movies. This is why I can't recall classic action movies of my childhood. This is why it's so hard for me to remember iconic television shows I was probably watching at the time. My traumatized brain just deleted those memories wholesale to protect me, but most likely I've got a backup drive. It'll be interesting to see what, if anything, comes roaring back as I do my trauma work in therapy.

Interesting probably isn't the right word.

Anyway

My mom and I talk about the past sometimes. This wasn't always true. We had literally agreed never to talk about it when I was still a kid. A pastor enabled this, claiming that God was going to forgive my mother for all she'd done and we were never going to discuss this again, and that's what we did for nearly a decade. It was hard to break this treaty, because the abuse really did stop, but eventually I did and it wasn't pretty. Eventually this led to my mom admitting to her mistakes and insisting she'd do everything differently if given the chance.

This is problematic for me. It's hard to validate my own horrific experiences when, for one, my memory fails me sometimes but also because... I turned out okay anyway. Sure, I have depression and anxiety but there's no way to know for sure I wouldn't have ended up this way despite the abuse. Perhaps that's incredibly naive of me. It's hard to imagine what I'd be like had I had a warm, supportive, loving upbringing instead of the abuse that I got. I try to tell myself I might have ended up a horrible person. I don't know.

But look at me. I have more jobs than I can handle. I kicked ass at school. I got married to a good man. I live in my own home, pay my bills, and I'm even - god, this is so hard to swallow - popular. Sure, my mom made some huge mistakes but I turned out okay anyway. That's what I tell her when we talk about this. I tell her that she really did change and it led to me having faith that people can change, though many never do.

People will say, "I'm so sorry" for what I've been through. My response is typically, "I'm sorry for kiddo Amanda. I'm okay now." I now realize that's not true. Kiddo Amanda still lives inside me and sometimes rules me through anxiety and other emotional outbursts. Depression is like a warm blanket that comes in and scoops her up and protects her, not realizing that it's too heavy, it's too much.

I struggle. I struggle every day, but I'm successful anyway. There are a lot of reasons for that: my belief in God, teachers who believed in me, Ajashi and Emo, my aunt, probably my little brother, the love of a good man, and amazing friends to name a few.

I don't know what the point of this entry is. I'm clearly still confused about how I feel or should feel about all of this, but yesterday's entry was a bit... intense. I just want people to know that despite what happened to me, I'm doing okay anyway. I mean, I think I am. Aren't I?

Everything Looks Yellow: Homework from my Therapist

Well, Dr. Mooney, where do I start? Just remember you asked for this.

So, okay, I'm back in your office and I'm thinking about a million things I'm not saying. What am I not saying?

You know, sometimes I wonder if I'm misremembering what happened to me. Like, I'm exaggerating it or maybe even undercutting it. Maybe both. I don't trust my memory. It hides things on me. I think what's most likely is that I have pushed it way down and made it seem better than it actually was, because that's what brains do naturally. I can remember some things very well. I can feel them very deeply. I can remember terror, just sheer, unadulterated terror. I was going to die this time. I was sure of it. I can remember feeling utterly alone, although my little brother was often suffering with me. I have this image of me being very little. The room is very poorly lit. It looks almost yellow. I'm curled up on the floor near a corner but not in it. I'm crying, and I'm trying to stop because she's threatening me. If I don't stop crying, it's going to get worse.

How am I supposed to trust people when that's what I come from? Sorry, that's today not the past.

I don't remember what my aunt said to me the one day we were over her house. I remember my mom was very angry about something and hit me right in front of her - not just once. I want to say she beat me right in front of her little sister, and my aunt couldn't do anything. She waited until my mom stepped away. I don't know why she did - to cool down, because she felt ashamed? I really don't know. I remember my aunt putting her arm around me and though I don't remember exactly what she said, I know she was trying to get me to understand that I was a good person. I wish she were still alive.

The day we found out my aunt died is burned into my memory with the smell of burnt pizza. My mom had thrown a frozen pizza into the oven. The apartment wasn't lit well. Why does everything in my past have a slight yellow cast to it? Anyway, my mom was sewing like she usually did every hour she was at home. She blasted her Korean Christian music like she always did. The phone rang. My mom screamed, "WHAT?!" over and over again. She pounded her chest. Something was wrong. She was crying. My mom never cries. Oh, god, what was it? I asked her. She screamed that my aunt was dead, killed by a drunk driver. My brother came into the room and asked what was wrong. I screamed at him that my aunt was dead. He sat there, completely blank while my mom and I cried hysterically. I yelled at him for not having what I felt was an appropriate emotional reaction. I always took everything out on my little brother.

I have a lot, a shit ton, of guilt about my brother. I was just a child. I was an abused child. I don't feel like that excuses my behavior. It seems like, from my flawed memory, everything I got he got double because I'd turn it on him. Sure, how was I supposed to know better? But how does this not make me a horrible person? I know, I know. It's just what I feel. Ah, god, I can't do this. This is so fucking painful.

I miss my Ajashi so much. I miss his big hands, and how tiny my hands looked in his. I miss his warmth and love. I wonder if he would have loved Alex, because Alex is atheist and Ajashi was very Christian. I don't know how much he knew about how much I was being hurt. It's not like it happened every day. I wonder if he told me so much about a God who loved me for exactly who I was as a way of helping me with what I was going through. I remember him throwing me around in the above-ground pool in his backyard. I'd scream and laugh right before I hit the water. His house had an undefinable smell. It was comforting. It smelled like home away from home, mixed with moth balls and cocoa butter and books. I was never not happy in his house. Even when he was disciplining me, it was with a warmth I didn't feel with my mother. He never meant to be my dad, but he was.

I'm running out of steam. I don't want to do this. I don't. I hate this.

I ran away once. Well, kind of. My mom very clearly told me to get out. I think this was the last time she beat me. I think this was the time with the metal broomstick handle. God, those bruises were awful. I thought she was going to kill me. I thought, this is how I die. I thought, I deserved this. I stole from her. I crossed the highway. She was right to want to murder me. She told me to get out and I did. I wonder if part of her was trying to save me because she realized she'd taken it too far and she was going to kill me.

I had nowhere to go. My aunt was dead. I didn't have a cell phone back then, so I couldn't call Ajashi. Would he and Emo even take me after what I'd done? I didn't even leave the block. I hid in the laundry room. I don't know how long I was in there. Everything has a yellow light. I sat in a corner on the floor or maybe in a chair. It was basement level. Every sound of footsteps I heard terrified me. I thought she'd come to finish the job. I saw her peek through the railing down at me. She demanded I come home. What choice did I have? I don't think it even occurred to me to run. I don't think she beat me any more. I think she screamed and I cried and she threatened that if I didn't stop crying it was going to get worse for me.

You say that I should still be mad at my mom even though she's changed. I don't think you fully understand how much I cannot do that. If my mom kills herself because of this, I won't survive. I can't handle the guilt of her feeling guilt. I know it's absurd. I know.

Maybe that's part of why I feel so miserable at work. The shitty overhead lighting makes everything in my office look yellow. All of my worst memories look yellow.

Hard to Love

Yesterday was a hard day. It was midnight or close to it when my husband and I had a hard discussion about weight loss while lying in bed in the dark and getting ready to sleep. I got defensive and angry about it, and I was transparent about what I was feeling and why even though I didn't want to. I wanted to ignore the conversation and go to sleep, but I forced myself to express myself. At some point toward the end of the conversation he said something like, "You know I love you, right?" I didn't answer right away. I let silence linger there for a few moments while a whole bunch of thoughts flashed through my brain. You know, the same old tapes, "He's just saying that because he feels bad", "He'll change his mind one day", "He doesn't really love you", etc. I finally answered, "Yes" and that's the truth because I do know. I am not my thoughts.

Here's the thing, though. I feel like I'm incredibly hard to love. I can be distant and spaced out, and then intense and all-consuming. I give everything I have to people in need and then I don't have anything left for the people I love. I don't have mastery over my feelings. Let's not forget that I have depression, which just adds a whole bunch of fun stuff to the mix. Man, I could really compile a pretty extensive list of reasons I'm hard to love.

I wrote an entry about how I struggled with the concept that I was worthy of love at all here.

Anyway, yesterday was hard. I got majorly triggered by an incident of child abuse I had to deal with and... that's my shit right there. I can't. I just can't deal with it. I'm sure I'm better at it now than I've ever been but I'm still embarrassed and ashamed that I can't always control myself when it comes to this subject. Of course I know this is absurd. Pretty much no one has perfect mastery over their feelings, and I wouldn't expect that of anyone else. It just is what it is, and for some reason I believe that makes me hard to love.

I'm sure I'm wrong. I'm currently trying to compile a list of reasons I'm easy to love but I can feel my brain resisting this thought exercise. I'll keep trying, though.

Learned Helplessness

So, I think I figured out what triggered my most recent depressive episode. Now, I have severe clinical depression but I kind of mark that as separate but kind of part of the condition I suffer from. On the one hand, it's a discreet situation and on the other it's a bit of breakthrough symptoms that are otherwise well-controlled by my medication, therapy, and natural supports. I hope that makes sense.

Anyway, lack of adequate sleep contributed to this for sure, so did lack of exercise. However, this merely set the stage for the real trigger to swoop in and cause a lot of damage. I can't/don't want to get too much into it but basically I was threatened with bodily harm. Those of you who know me know about my history of child abuse and how this continues to affect me to this day despite the fact that I've resolved much of the core conflicts that it created for me. But yeah. Someone very clearly communicated that they wished to do bodily harm to me.

Now, I'm not that helpless little girl any more so instead of fear I felt rage - raw and unfiltered. I wanted to be violent. I wanted to show this person exactly who they were messing with, because I am powerful and full-grown and you can't just push me around now. However, I could not do a damn thing without risking my job and my reputation. I vented as much as I could. I even hit some nerds in consensual battle sport. It wasn't enough.

Why, you may ask? Well, there's this psychological concept called learned helplessness which this Wikipedia article sums up nicely:

"Learned helplessness is... where an animal endures repeatedly painful or otherwise aversive stimuli which it is unable to escape or avoid. After such experience, the organism often fails to learn or accept "escape" or "avoidance" ... In other words, the organism learned that it is helpless in situations where there is a presence of aversive stimuli and has accepted that it has lost control, and thus gives up trying... Learned helplessness theory is the view that clinical depression and related mental illnesses may result from such real or perceived absence of control over the outcome of a situation."

Imagine being a fraction of the size of your abuser. Imagine being dependent on your abuser. Imagine being threatened with death or even worse abuse any time you speak up, even to beg for mercy or cry. Imagine even when they promise it'll never happen again, it does, but you have no choice but to believe that maybe this time it's different. That's what I come from. That's my experience. That's my learned helplessness.

So, I was angry at this person, but I couldn't be angry at this person without consequences or aversive stimuli. I began to feel helpless, and like everything I did was pointless, and that I was worthless. I drew into myself and I shut down - an old defense mechanism that protected me from my very strong feelings as a child, but also laid the groundwork for my depression. It took time and care to get me through this, and I feel better now, so now I can understand what happened.

It's frustrating, knowing all of this and not really being able to stop it from happening all of the time. It's frustrating, not being able to gain this kind of awareness while it's happening because my brain has shut off the ability to do so out of habit, believing it's essential to my survival that I not think too hard about it. It's frustrating, knowing that one day this reaction could kill me - could lead to me killing me just to make it all stop.

I'll keep fighting and learning and growing, but this is what I have to claw my way back from. This is what pulls me under again and makes it look like I haven't made any progress at all. This is my learned helplessness.

One Year Later and Challenging Automatic Negative Thoughts

It's been over a year since my suicidal thoughts came barreling back into my head after over a decade of relief from them. How am I doing now? Well, that's probably pretty obvious. I'm doing really well compared to where I was a year ago. Leaving my job at the time was the best thing I could have done, even though to this day I pine for my old agency. I really loved it there, but I needed to scale back and I needed time to heal. Nowadays I'm going harder than ever and rockin' the hell out of it.

That's not to say I don't have my bad days, obviously, but being suicidal - at least, the way I've been suicidal - isn't necessarily a constant thing. It just pops up, mostly in response to a stressor. I think it's been a month or two since the last time I can remember having a clear thought about it, but it's never been quite as strong as it was a year ago when the sudden, strong impulse overcame me as I was sitting in traffic and vividly imagining how I'd use my car to do it. It would have been so easy. Just one small gesture, and it could be over. I'm so glad I had the wherewithal to stop myself and get help.

Part of what drives suicidal thoughts are the automatic negative thoughts - I sometimes call them tapes - that play in the mind over and over again, on loop, all day, every day, sometimes at a low volume, sometimes on full blast. This is part of why I constantly stream entertainment - to drown out those thoughts. This is a sample of some of those thoughts:

"You're an evil person and you deserve to die."

"People hate you and just don't have the courage to say it."

"Everyone will leave you and that's what you deserve."

"Nothing you do is ever good enough."

"Your loved ones are annoyed by you and wish you'd change."

"No one would miss you if you were gone."

They've been basically the same since I was a teenager. Now, along comes this new trend, the Sarahah app. I saw some of my younger friends doing this and thought, "Oh, hell no. I don't need it anonymously confirmed that all of my worst thoughts about myself are exactly what people have thought about me and have been too afraid to say to my face." But then I started seeing the most lovely messages people were leaving for my friends and I thought... maybe it was worth a shot.

Well, I've been floored. I can't believe it. There hasn't been a single even remotely negative message - some weird and random ones, but none negative. Here's what I got so far (excluding randoms, all spelling and grammatical errors included):

"I think u r very gr8 and am sometimes intimidated by how awesome u r but u r a very good fren"

"You're an amazing and wonderful person, and I don't know what I would do with my life if you weren't apart of it"

"The first impression I thought you were mean (I'm sorry) but after that, I've found you to be a very nice and hardworking lady.  I admire your strength and endurance in all those really hard hitting LARPs. I don't know how you keep fighting through injuries but it's inspiring."

"You're gorgeous and brave and I admire you so much. You work so hard and a lot of people notice."

"The amount of love I have for you is dangerous."

"I looked up to you before I really knew you, and after becoming real friends I just look up to you even more. You're tackling your mental health issues and kicking ass at work, and I love it."

"I like how fiercely you stick up for those you love"

"You're the one person in my life that has given me the strength to talk openly about my anxiety."

"I wish I knew how to gain your favor. You are such a rare beauty."

"AND THERE WERE NO SURVIVORS. <3 br="">

"You helped during a very dark time and have made me confident enough to not put up with the ex (abuser) crap anymore. I'm still gaining my footing, but you seriously are a godsend in human form. Thank you for being amazing"

"You are unpredictable. It's super entertaining. Keep doing you!"

"Your a beautiful person, both inside and out"

"Keep being a badass"

"You are one of the strongest and most beautiful people I know. I'm so glad to count you as a friend."

"You're pretty rad, and I am happy that you are in the legion."

"You are easily one of the most beautiful people in my life"

"I definitely enjoy that the first thing you do when you see me I'd give me a hug."

"I think you are lovely. Your transparency about your struggles has helped me be more honest about my own, both with myself and others. Thank you."

"You are beautiful and fierce. I've never been prouder of a near stranger than watching you endure your trials. Your open struggle with mental "illness" is uplifting and inspiring."

This wouldn't be the first time people have been sincere in telling me how they feel about me, but it can be hard to internalize, and that part of my brain that plays those automatic negative thoughts comes in with, "Yeah, well, anybody who would have anything negative to say about you wouldn't be your Facebook friend in the first place, sooo..." But whatever. I choose to believe. For today.

Am I Smarter Than You?: Reflections on My Privilege/Elitism

You know, it occurs to me that some people who read my inner thoughts such as I present them in blogs must have some opinions about me. Hm. Oh, well. I guess that's one way to weed out those in my social circle who aren't well-equipped to be in my life. It's not like I'm lacking there.

Anyway, this is a rough subject. I've been a bit amused that both the highly educated professionals I consult (my therapist and my husband's therapist) and some in my friend circle have put forth this idea about my interpersonal issues with my co-workers: "Well, are you smarter than they are?" When my husband's therapist asked this question this morning my reaction was, "I don't know. I really don't even think about that." But, I guess, is this not part of the problem? Is this not part of my privilege that blinds me at times?

There are other ways I have privilege, of course. I have a paler complexion - far from the threshold of melanin that seems to draw so much ire in this country. If anything, some people gather that I have Asian heritage, also known as the "model minority." If you don't know what that is, this explains it much better than I could in my little blog here. But in general, I could also pass as a nice, white lady. My husband has informed me that we are considered an upper middle class household for the Syracuse metropolitan area (which blows my mind). We have dual incomes, and then some. We can comfortably pay our bills, afford leisure activities and hobbies with the little bit extra we have kicking around, and when emergencies come up we're not in impossible financial situations. 

Most of all, for me, I am highly educated. I graduated fourth in my class in high school, and with some sort of high honors for both my bachelor's and master's degrees. I used to struggle with this idea that I was "smart." I remember once that I told a friend that I wasn't smart, I just figured out what teachers wanted from me and gave them exactly that to which my friend responded, "Yeah, that makes you smart."

I really think this comes from an incident that has resonated with me since the second grade. I pretty much always had good grades, but in the second grade my teacher saw fit to write on my report card, "Amanda is a bright girl, but sometimes she has a hard time understanding why people don't understand what she does." Now, that was true. I used to have a really hard time explaining how my thinking worked to get the right answers to my fellow students who struggled to follow. Now I think to some degree that problem has continued, but the frustration I feel at the lack of understanding seems systemic.

How can you be so glib about mental health? Don't you know the chemistry and biology behind these very real conditions? (Of course not, Amanda. You're a psychology geek. You care about this stuff. They don't. You might as well be asking the laymen how they don't have strong opinions about Professor McGonagall.)

How can you so willfully erase and degrade persons who occupy another end of the gender, sex, or sexuality spectrum than you? Don't you understand the history behind the way these things have shown up since damn near the beginning of recorded history, or how your precious religious text that condemns these things was constructed? (Of course not, Amanda. Not everyone grew up a Christian geek who sought education beyond the text of the Bible. Not everyone has the exposure to academia about human sexuality, history, or feminism.)

How can you not care about people who need help? (People are just trying to survive, Amanda. Advertising/media/propaganda shapes much of what people "know" about any given subject without access to the level of education you've been able to obtain. Some people are more preoccupied with, you know, putting food on the table or knowing where they'll be living in the near future. Not everyone has the luxury of critically thinking like you do.)

Well, am I smarter than you? I honestly don't think about that, and as much as that might be my privilege blinding me, I'm still not convinced it's something I need to be focused on. Instead, I think the more important question is why do I think the way that I do while they think the way they do? I think that still addresses the privilege issue. At the same time, I don't think it totally gives anyone a free pass to remain willfully ignorant.

So, I guess that's where I am.

What Saved My Life

I certainly don't speak for all people with mental illness, depression, or suicidal thoughts. I can only share what I've been through. Suicide has been coming up as a topic of discussion ever since Chester Bennington's highly publicized suicide, and while this makes me very sad I am also struck by how lucky I am.

It was just over a year ago I came the closest I'd ever been to taking my own life, but I was fortunate enough to have some protections in place at the time. First of all, I'd been going to a therapist for years and they were easily accessible. Second of all, I knew where the resources were to get me emergency help - and I look like a nice, white, middle-to-upper-class lady next to a husband in a business suit. You bet I got what I needed. I had insurance. These are some obvious things my privilege had afforded me. This was one layer of protection.

My natural supports were and still are phenomenal. Dozens of people came out of the woodwork - some I know very well and some I'm not so familiar with - to express their support, or how they were inspired by my openness in the process. People would check in, or literally sit with me while I watched mindless television or surfed the web, not saying anything. I think this was important because I had professionals to talk to and often the things the layman will say to try to help only exacerbates the problem. What you say is, "Well, have you tried this?" but what I hear is, "You're such a waste of space. You're not even trying. You should feel guilty for putting them through this." It's not logical, but suicidal thoughts are not a logical head space.

Actually, the mindless television helps too. To some degree all mental health problems are a thought processing problem. The brain is always thinking, and not all of it is relevant or helpful, but for people with depression we might struggle specifically with suicidal thoughts - not just content with letting them pass by, we invite them in for tea and cookies and entertain them for a while. My husband has been concerned about my constant need to be streaming entertainment throughout my day, but it's one of the best ways I've found to keep my brain from entertaining the wrong kind of thoughts for very long.

Writing about my experience helped, even making videos about it when I couldn't write (most of which I didn't share). Getting some sun helped. I remember going on a particularly long walk with the pups last year when I took the long weekend from work. The problem is that that takes a lot of energy and I was useless for the rest of the day. I had used up all of my energy capital.

Staying well hydrated, eating comfort foods (I'm talking literally white rice with water - what my mom gave me when I was sick as a child), even bathing were all things that helped.

Cuddling the pets helped.

Don't get me wrong, I've heard nothing but great things about the suicide prevention hotline and I used it once when I was younger (like, 15?) but someone posting up the number did not help. Maybe it helps someone, but it didn't help me.

I'm glad people are willing to start the conversation about suicide at this time, but we need to finish this conversation. We can't just tuck it away after the feelings have faded until the next time someone isn't as lucky as I was. That's all I have to say for now.

Self-Care is the First to Go

I know what I'm doing.

This morning I slept in instead of doing my workout. I'm averaging about one day off per week, which isn't bad. Most workout plans have at least one rest day, just not this plan I'm doing. Anyway, I knew I was going to wake up with little time to get ready. I was late going out the door with my hair barely in a ponytail, my face unwashed (but I brushed my teeth and flossed!), my sandals unzipped, forgetting one important thing and needing to double back, and no breakfast or caffeine except a Red Bull I drank on the way to work (I since scrounged up a banana and an ice cream bar).

I know. I'm not taking care of myself. It's classic me. I have a bit of a commute, so I had time to think about this.

A dear friend of mine is really struggling right now. Despite feeling as though I have run low on give-a-fucks this week, there are some things and some people for whom I will always have an unlimited supply (my husband being one of them, by the way). I jumped right into action, doing what I could to help. It's what I do. I think that some of this has to do with the way I grew up. I know what it's like to go without, to be alone, and to watch my mom suffer in silence to provide for me and my brother.

Side rant, it's not like our own fucking government actually gives a fuck about its citizens. I'm not some magical "good person" or "great friend" as some of my friends might claim, sweet as that is. I'm a human being who believes in helping other human beings because I FUCKING NEED HELP TOO and when the tables turn (god forbid it, of course) I hope - no, I believe - people will step up to help me out too. So if not me, then who?

Anyway, I was thinking about how much this is going to bite me in the ass when I become a mother. I see it all the time - it is nearly impossible for parents to prioritize their own health or happiness above their children's' needs. It's almost hard-wired. Even with the logical understanding that not taking care of themselves could eventually lead to not being able to take care of the people they love, they can't bring themselves to take care of themselves. That could so easily be me. I'm bad at self-care now, and I'm pretty sure I'll be worse at it as a mother.

Then again, maybe I don't need to be better at it. I have the most amazing support system a girl could ask for. My friends all but drag my ass to get help when I can't see that I need it, or I stubbornly put it off. Then there's my husband. That man takes care of me. Sometimes I feel embarrassed by what I perceive as a deficit in reciprocity on my end, but I believe he doesn't see it that way. Alex will always take care of me and our future children because that's the kind of man he is and the kind of marriage we have, but maybe it's not good to rely on that or on my friends. (Also, I don't mean to humblebrag about my relationship - if it comes off that way.)

I don't know. Just thinking. Mental health day in T-minus 7 days!

Compassion Fatigue or Righteous Anger?

Most of you know I'm a therapist. Some of you know it's been recently brought to my attention that my co-workers are not my biggest fans. This has probably affected my mood and patience more than I'd like to admit. This is what I'm going through this week.

I'm kicking ass and taking names, of course. Sometimes stuff like this really motivates me to perform better than ever, but I find myself losing patience with some of my clients but especially some people in my personal life and my attitude boils down to this: "Get your fucking shit together! You're a goddamn adult! I know it's fucking hard! You think it's not hard for me too? I do battle with my own motherfucking brain every second of every motherfucking day and I am getting shit done and I am getting my shit together and I'm not perfect but at least I'm fucking trying. You have a problem? Fucking do something about it! FUCK!"

Now, I realize that's not very compassionate or loving or holding and I really don't care right now. I'm a damn good therapist and a great friend. I am supportive and patient and holding, but right now I'm just tapped. Plenty of friends in the field have warned me about compassion fatigue.

Maybe it's because I put myself in a position to try to help some of my friends and I've watched multiple friends more or less spit in my face and turn their nose up at my help - all behind my back. They say they'll do the thing to my face, and then come up with a million excuses or ignore me or pretend we never had a discussion about what they were going to do to get the help they need.

I guess it's the behind my back thing that really irks me. I understand not wanting to do the thing. I really do. But like, have some fucking courage. Say it to my fucking face, "Hey Amanda, I hear you but I don't want to", "Hey Amanda, I don't like the way you say things and think you're better than me", "Hey Amanda, fuck you." Whatever. Whatever it is just say it to my motherfucking face. FUCK!

I talked to my mom about this last night and her answer was more or less, "No one confronts anyone. That's just the way it is." Alright. Fine. Whatever. I guess. I just expect better from people. I want to see people do better. I certainly want my co-workers to be fucking professional about their conduct with me when they should know better than to go behind my back and cry foul instead of maybe checking in with me about whether I meant to come off the way I did. Cowards.

Sorry. I know this isn't nice. I know I'm probably wrong. This just needed to leave my body. I'm glad my friends convinced me to take a day off for my mental health. I need it. I'm just... tapped. Seeing my therapist next Wednesday. Maybe he'll have some helpful insight.

Fighting with my Husband

I've explained this to people before, but I thought it would be important to share more widely. I don't expect everyone to understand, and I am not making a judgement about the confrontation styles of other couples. This is just the way we do it, and it works for us.

Saturday night I was frustrated. Alex was having a hard time figuring out if he should take the financial plunge of replacing his computer, which is very much long in the tooth. While I love my husband wanting things (sometimes he has a hard time identifying his needs), I was concerned financially. The thing is, he takes care of the lion's share of our finances because it gives me serious anxiety. All I do is pay the bills he tells me to every two weeks when we get paid. I asked him to consider out current financial plan, which if we pursue aggressively has us paying off our credit card debt (which was monstrous, by the way) April of 2018. The reason we have this plan is because that is the goal that marks the beginning of us trying to have kids (well, after/during a trip to Disney World in the fall). He was having a really hard time making a decision, and, like I said, I was frustrated.

There were other factors at play here, of course, not the least of which was an ongoing pattern over 7 years together where Alex would financially commit to something in some way or another and then abandon it. In the meantime, excited he had made a decision, I would enthusiastically encourage this new thing in his life, only to be left feeling like the fool once it had been abandoned. I felt at a loss for how to help him or support him when he was so unsure about everything. He has his reasons, of course - childhood and all that. That's his story to tell, not mine.

Anyway, we had communicated mainly through online chat at the beginning of this fight because I had gone up to bed to lie down, but he came up and then we had the rest of the discussion face-to-face. I knew we were fighting, but to the outsider looking in, it might not look that way. We never raise our voices. We never demean each other in any way. We have a civil discussion and communicate our feelings and the reasons behind it. That's the way we've always done it. That's not to say we always communicate everything we should, or that we don't sometimes go to less-than-productive places with our discussion ("then why should we even stay together/maybe we need a break/why do you even love me?"). Alex is really good at soothing those fears. Apparently, the only thing he's really sure about is that he wants to stay with me.

I have commitment issues. I have my reasons, of course - childhood and all that. When there is conflict in relationships my brain automatically goes into panic mode. "RED ALERT! RED ALERT! ABORT! ABORT! ABANDON SHIP BEFORE THEY GET A CHANCE TO LEAVE YOU! THEY ALWAYS LEAVE BECAUSE YOU'RE AWFUL AND UGLY AND EVIL AND NO ONE LOVES YOU!" Yeah, it's bullshit, but it's a learned response. Maybe I can unlearn it some day.

So we talked it out, and came to a conclusion, and stayed together. In two and a half months we'll have officially been together for 7 years, married for two. This works for us. Maybe it doesn't work for everyone, but for two traumatized kids who grew into caring adults, it works.

This is what I mean if I ever say, "We had a fight." It's all really less dramatic than you might think. Anyway, just thought that was worth sharing.

Day 1 of 21

So, it's been about four months since I started working crazy hours, causing me to abandon my 15k training. I hadn't really replaced it with any other kind of workout. I simply didn't feel like I had the time. Well, now that my husband has started to approach the 100 lbs. lost mark post-bariatric surgery, it's time for me to buckle down and get serious.

I'm doing 21 Day Fix which is one of those Beach Body programs and day 1 kicked my ass. I am, without a doubt, out of shape. How I managed to endure four hours of one-on-one fighting is a mystery to me. Anyway, I did the workout and I ate sensibly today.

For breakfast I had an egg fried in butter topped with cheddar cheese on a whole wheat bagel thin and coffee with creamer. Breakfast tends to be my big meal, calorie-wise. For lunch I had a chicken-and-chickpea burrito I had made - same for dinner. For snacks I had a banana before lunch and then a few slices of aged swiss at night, bringing my total calorie count for the day to a round 1500 according to MyFitnessPal. Of course, I had cravings. Didn't help that there were chocolate chip baked goods in the kitchenette at work, but I didn't find it terribly hard to turn them down as I stayed busy during the day. I even took a walk around the block during lunch (it's a fairly large block). Nice neighborhood, pretty houses. Steps came out to about 5,300 for the day according to FitBit.

Not bad for day 1. I took pictures to see how my progress goes over time. Check in later.

110 Fights or How I Learned to Let Go and Embrace My Wight Privilege

Depiction of a wight by Will O'Brien

I've been encouraged by my therapist to try to make this as close to stream-of-consciousness writing as possible. Sorry if it's a bit jumbled. Here we go:

I knew what I was doing. I had been told by several people that I should go for my wight trial, that I was ready. I started telling people I was going to do it, and then I told more people so that it would be less and less likely that I could just silently back out. I smiled and marched into camps the first weekend of Ragnarok and cheerfully asked people to "FITE ME please?" On Monday people kept trying to pump me up - both unit mates and friends from other units. They said that I was ready and a good fighter and of course I'd pass. I'd tear up every time because of the anxiety that bubbled in my chest. I didn't want to fail. I was so afraid of failing. People kept trying to give me advice and encouragement but it wasn't helping. A few people got the hint - they said they were specifically not going to say anything, or they gave me pointers about things to look for.

I got dressed and geared up and sat down, alternating between staring blankly at nothing and putting on a brave face when people would try to talk to me. Finally, I had had enough. With an hour to go, I went to my tent and tried to meditate. I just couldn't. The anxious thoughts came stabbing through repeatedly and clearly so after five minutes, I gave up. I went back to sitting in my camp with my back turned to the gate so I wouldn't see the people arriving. I thought about everything that could go wrong. I could choke. I could shame my unit and my gender by failing. I could get injured and endure the embarrassment of not being able to finish the trial. Maybe not enough people would show. I had only gone to a handful of camps.

My friend gave me an orange. He's really into martial arts and swears by having citrus 15 minutes before sparring for energy. I was just glad to have something to focus on. I rolled the orange on the table between my hands and checked the time, waiting for 7:45 PM when I could have my orange. I ate my orange and tried to focus on breathing. Finally, it was time. I got my gear and... my sword was missing. I have three of them, but the medium-length, stabby-tip I'd been practicing with leading up to the trial was just gone. My friends and I tore apart the camp looking for it as I choked down the panic that this would be the deciding factor in whether I failed or passed. Luckily, my primarch had the exact same weapon and I was able to borrow his.

I didn't notice how many people were there until I had the sword in my hand and the drums started. There were so many people. I learned later that any of my unit mates who wanted to partake in my trial were removed to fit more fighters, and still more had to be turned away. I had been worried not enough people would show up. That seemed ludicrous at that point.

This is where everything gets fuzzy. I don't remember a lot about the actual fighting and I'm not sure why - head injury, adrenaline, sheer exhaustion? Anyway, there were some highlights I can recall. I won my first bout with a long-time fighter that other wights had not been able to touch. I got clocked in the jaw by a shield-breaking weapon. I got hit in the ear to the point that I lost stereo for a bit. I screamed and charged and ran people into the dirt. I only grappled once, and I lost that bout. Between every couple of fights I sat and hydrated, had water poured on my head and back, and ate orange slices. I don't really remember anything people told me during the process. Every time I went back into the ring my corner people cried, "DEATHWISH!" and the drumming started up again.

I was halfway through the first round of fights when I started wondering if I could endure until the very last fights. I didn't know how I could muster up that kind of energy, especially given my lack of exercise and abandonment of my 15k training this year due to scheduling issues. I just kept going, a couple of fights at a time. When I felt wobbly, or gave illegal head shots, or my corner people told me to, I took a break. The whole process took 4 hours.

People who were watching said that I started out well in the first round, faded in the second, and came back hard in the third after getting clocked in the jaw. My primarch made it a point to tell me, "You're doing well" or "You're doing really good" any time he was near me as he kept track of the circle of fighters. "You only got two, tree more... rounds," said my other primarch, who was mostly drumming the whole time.

Finally, I somehow got to the final few fights. There were literally "two, tree more", and that's when my unit mates got a stab at me. Coxxyx, Boggs, my knight Ten Feets, and my primarch Hivemind all piled in toward the end. My most memorable kill was Hivemind. He probably hasn't taken the field with sword and board for years at this game. When he sauntered up I was exhausted, but I went for a quick stab to the chest and it was over before it could even start.

I hugged and thanked as many people as I could. I felt like crying at points, especially when people gave me encouragement, but I held back. It wasn't the time to lose it - not until I was done.

It felt like the decision came immediately after I was done. Primarch Dust-and-Bones called me into the circle and presented me as "Wight Deathwish" and I lost it. I cried and closed my eyes, like I couldn't keep them open any more. I felt people rushing in to crowd me, jumping and chanting. I think they must have kept me up because I felt like I was made completely of noodles at that point.

I somehow made it to a chair, and my unit mates stripped me of all of my gear and as much of my clothing as they could while still keeping me decent for public. I was escorted to my tent and then given space. I sat down on my bed and cried, hard. I couldn't believe I had passed. I didn't know how. I wasn't keeping track, or knowing what people were looking for, or really remembering a majority of the fights, but I did it.

It's been over a week and I've been thinking a lot about how this trial mirrors a lot of things about my fight with depression. I truly believe that it is my support and community that has gotten me through both fights. I've wanted to quit in both instances. I've been afraid of what people would think of me if I lost in both cases. I am victorious in both. Still, the wight test is a one-time thing and this fight with depression is likely a life-long battle but I've survived everything life has thrown at me up to this point, so that's a pretty good track record. I still have no idea how powerful I can be and what power I can tap into when the chips are down, but now I know that I will always fight until the very last - more fights than anyone before me has had to endure.

I did it.

I passed.

I have wight people problems.

Those Thoughts

I've been holding back a little, and I have my reasons: some to protect me, some to protect others, but I feel like I need to write about it at some point.

The first time I can remember thinking about wanting to kill myself or die was probably when I was around 13-15 years old. I spent a lot of time alone in my room in those days - countless hours awake in bed staring at the ceiling or wall and wishing it would all just cave in on me and put me out of my misery. At 15 years old, I sneaked out of my room as quietly as I could in our tiny apartment and went to the kitchen. I got a knife out of a drawer that squeaked so incredibly loudly. I sat down on the kitchen floor and looked at the knife and looked at my arms and cried, trying to work up the courage to do it - then my mom came out of her room to go to the bathroom. I was spooked, so I put the knife back quickly and just sat there in the kitchen floor, listening. I listened to her go back to her room and shut the door, then I got up and went back to my room. (Side note: I wonder if my mom had any idea. Probably not. She probably thought I was sneaking food in the middle of the night.)

That was the last time I can remember really wanting to kill myself until last year. Last year, my suicidal thoughts came on like a freight train. It had been so long, over a decade, since I had those thoughts. I thought they were gone forever, and then my boss told me that I didn't get a promotion because she felt my mental health was going to interfere with my ability to perform better than my co-worker. I wasn't so much upset at not getting the promotion than at the shattering of this delusion that my mental health was under control - that my mental health had stood in the way of anything I wanted. The devastation was slow-building, but when it reached a crescendo I was waiting at a stop sign and I thought, "I could drive off of the bridge. Wait, no. There are structural barriers in place. I can't do that. Maybe I could just accelerate right into oncoming traffic, right now. It'd be so easy." I drove straight to my husband's workplace, met him halfway across the lobby, and collapsed against his chest, crying and telling him exactly what I was thinking about. We got me help that day. I almost went inpatient. I wasn't safe. I had to give up my car keys for a couple of days because of those thoughts. My boss made me take a four-day weekend after I told her what was going on. Later, I thought about using pills and I hopped up and handed my husband every pill I could think of that I could potentially harm myself with. I had him hide them for me. It was not a good week or so.

Since then, the suicidal thoughts have been semi-regular... maybe every couple of weeks or months. I don't know. I'm not really keeping track. I know they came when I had that paperwork freak out at my new job. I know they came last week when I was so emotionally overwhelmed by that whole mess that I wrote about before. It's not frequent, but it's there and it's dangerous, so I tell people. I tell people every single time, mostly my husband since he's in the best position to do something about it immediately.

I just needed to say that. I needed to be real about it, for me as well as for others.

Because I'm Bad

I love intelligent, insightful clients. They typically have many years of experience in therapy and while most clients teach me something these clients teach me more. One of my very insightful clients talked about being raised by their parent who they believe had Narcissistic Personality Disorder. How they dealt with the abuse they identified coming from their parent was that as a child they eventually came to the conclusion, "I deserve it" and that brought them some measure of peace. This was the same thinking that led them into abusive relationships as an adult. I thought that was insightful and I told them so but it didn't resonate with me on a personal level until this morning.

I was feeling moody and had time to myself to just be by myself and for some reason I remembered a bad dream from maybe about 2 years ago. In this dream, Alex had found out I lied to him. He was leaving me. I cried and begged and pleaded with him to forgive me and stay with me, but his mind was made up. In the dream, I eventually accepted this and was ready to move on, and that's when I woke up, laying in bed beside him. I cried and moved closer to him and touched him just to reassure myself that he was real and he was still with me. I do this sometimes. I've done this all my life, back when I used to share a bed with my little brother. I'd put a hand on his back or chest to make sure he was still breathing, because just staring and watching for signs of breathing was never satisfactory enough. I wonder if my husband knows I do this. I wonder if I'll do this with our future children.

Anyway, on to my personal insight. I never questioned that I was guilty in my dream. I mean, it's normal to go along with whatever nonsense your subconscious comes up with in your dreams, but more than that, I'm a recovering compulsive liar. It's a common trait in alcoholic and abusive families. I'd lie about big things that mattered, like that one time a tutor thought the story I was telling my classmates about being beat up by random people in the community to explain away my bruises was suspect, or when my elementary school staff pulled me and my mom into a meeting to discuss things they had heard me say about being terrified of my mom because I got bad grades. I barely made it out of those situations without rousing further suspicion. I lied so well, and only learned to lie better, but soon it became about trivial stuff, things that didn't matter. Over time these lies would cost me friendships and make me incredibly lonely and confused. Lying like that, and the fallout this created, reinforced my own conclusion that I came to when I was beaten as a child, "This is because you're bad." What a relief. Now it all makes sense. I lied, so I'm bad. I stole, so I'm bad. I hit my brother, so I'm bad. I got bad grades, so I'm bad. I deserve to hurt, because I'm bad.

I don't know when I stopped lying. Probably some time around college, which makes sense. I was finally out of the house and away from my mother. I could finally heal and feel safe. Although she stopped beating me when I was about 13 years old, I flinched every time she raised her voice and moved towards me in anger and I didn't even bring up my hands to defend myself or back away. Why? Because I deserved it. Because I was bad. Bad people don't deserve to feel safe. Maybe that's part of why I get angry at abusers and want to hurt then, because of this toxic internal belief that bad people don't deserve to feel safe. I don't know.

I've had years of therapy since then. I've found love in the safety of a patient and kind man. I've created a perfectly safe home. I almost never lie, which sometimes causes problems for me, but when I do lie it's because I don't feel safe - and, perhaps, because I still believe I'm bad and bad people lie. I think this old belief is going away over time, but I wonder if it'll ever be fully gone. Last night, in the midst of a party at my house playing games with my friends I thought, "He's going to leave me. He's going to get fed up and hate me and leave me" and perhaps that's fed in part by this old belief that I am bad and deserve to have bad things happen to me.

Anyway, needed to get these thoughts out and process them. I'm listening, Dr. Mooney.

Pain, Anger, and Helplessness

I'm going to try my best here. Hope you can follow along. If you can't, I totally get it.

Anyway, my therapist tells me I should journal more when I have days like I had yesterday. I'm good at nurturing myself and doing my self-care, but not actually processing what's being brought up for me. Long story short, an abusive partner to one of my clients completely violated the therapeutic safety of my office through sneaky, borderline illegal means. I felt angry, powerless, and disappointed in myself for letting it happen (I know that's not true as I am not responsible for their actions, it's just where my feelings were).

I could barely contain my reactivity while my client was in session with me. I felt like I was going to explode afterwards as I wandered the hallways looking for a supervisor to resolve the professional end of the problem. After I did that, I vented and ugly cried with my very good friend and bridesmaid Lauren. Then I set up some home self-care with my husband, ate something, drank something, and did a "loving kindness" meditation (which gave me a lot of mixed feelings because it made me picture someone I dislike and direct loving kindness towards them.... grrrrr). I did the self-care thing as well as I possibly could.

What I didn't do, which my therapist pointed out to me, was process what the situation was bringing up for me - my painful childhood. I hate acknowledging it. I hate that it means anything about me. I hate this thing that's a part of me that I didn't do to myself. I like to ignore it, and my therapist says I actually do really good things while ignoring it, it's just that the central problem never gets resolved and so it makes it more likely that it'll get triggered again at a later date in a similar way.

Professionally, I know he's right. Emotionally, I don't want to go there. I'm a therapist and I see my clients do this all the time. In my last entry I talked about my reluctance to engage in further work if any more relational trauma should happen to me. Maybe that wasn't the most therapeutic way of thinking, but it was honest. Still, I think I want to do the work now. Let me begin:

Some of you know, but for those who don't I am a survivor of child abuse. It didn't happen every day, and it wasn't life-threatening, but it was insidious and there were times I truly thought my abuser was going to kill me. I had to lie about why I was sad. I had to lie about bruises and welts and scabs. As the title of this entry suggests I felt pain, anger, and helplessness because of what happened to me. As a child, I was unable to conceive of the fact that what was happening to me had nothing to do with me. I received the message that I'm bad, that I shouldn't do this, and I shouldn't do that, and it was important for me to know these things because it seemed like it was a matter of my survival.

I don't know if I'm doing this right. I think I'm not going to the feeling place enough. Anyway...

It wasn't until about 7 years ago I started to realize that the trauma I experienced actually made me forget about things that happened when I was a child. These memories have come back over the years and... it's not been pretty. I feel pain. I feel anger. I feel helpless. I feel frustrated because I feel these things. "You shouldn't feel that way," I've told myself. "You should be better after over 7 years of therapy. You should be better because you're a therapist and your clients deserve better. You shouldn't be so reactive."

Yeah, I'm pretty harsh on myself so it helps to turn it around and imagine I'm saying this to a 3-year-old. That's probably when the abuse started. Of course, that's absurd. I would never say those things to a 3-year-old, but that's the age I was when this started and it didn't end until I was around 13. I wouldn't expect any of my clients to get over a decade of abuse in less time than the abuse occurred - or ever. You don't really get over this stuff, really. You just build greater understanding and learn better self-care.

Where else does my mind go? "You're not good enough. You're certainly not good enough for men, so keep irrationally wanting their approval." I was surprised at my insight with my therapist here: my father was gone by the time I was three years old. Growing up with the abuse I did it I coped in part by projecting my desires for a safe, loving, approving parent who didn't exist. Had my father stayed he wouldn't have been that man for me. Even knowing this, I get angry and embarrassed. What is wrong with me? I shouldn't feel this way!

It's all the same. I'm tired. I feel like I've done enough for the day.

Oh, but in closing, that's why I had such a bad reaction to an abuser violating my therapeutic space I tried to provide for my client. I work hard to understand abusers and I know they can change (mine did) but when I'm triggered I just want abusers to stop breathing my air.

Yeah, that's it for now. Time for bed.

Strength, Consent, and Growth

I'm feeling really healthy these days, and so I tend to think a lot about where I've come from and where I could go next. My Wellbutrin is working really well for now, and my talk therapy is helpful. I'm having really productive conversations with the people I care about and I'm being transparent and unashamed in my journey.

Several people have approached me in various ways over the last year or so to let me know that my transparency in my mental health journey has inspired them in one way or another. There are many people hiding in plain sight who struggle with their mental health every day of their lives, and this is part of why I'm so open about my own journey. I'm not ashamed, and I seek to end the stigma around mental health issues.

Still, I get tripped up when people say they see me as this strong person who's overcome so much. I am strong, and I have overcome a lot, but I don't think people understand how close I am to losing it all pretty much at all times. My brain could self-destruct at any time and make a mess of my life that I might not be able to recovery from, or might not want to recover from.

For those of you who don't know, I'm a survivor of child abuse and the Adult Child of an Alcoholic (ACoA). This is part of why I have severe clinical depression. I've learned to have compassion for my depression. I understand that part of why it developed was to save me from the intense emotions I felt as a helpless child. The problem was, the abuse stopped. My mother stopped drinking. She changed. My brain didn't. It might never change. It stuck around, waiting for the sky to fall again.

Some of these friends who have approached me are survivors of relationship abuse of some kind. I'm pretty convinced I couldn't survive that. I've spent 7 years in therapy clawing my way back from my own experience of abuse. I guess I could do it again but... I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to. Like, no. I'm done. I can't handle one more person who was supposed to love me and protect me betraying me like that again. I won't, and you can't make me. I only have enough motivation for my current fight. I can't be made to do this all over again. Please understand that.

Don't get me wrong, my husband is my husband because he's the safest person I know and that's so important for someone like me. Still, I've worked with abusive relationships in a professional capacity and a majority of those couples say they thought the same way in the beginning and then one day they just changed. It's like the person they loved went away and they started waiting for them to come back, struggling to realize they never would. If I were to be betrayed that way, I'd give up. I'd stop fighting. And you can't make me continue to fight.

When I work with my clients, I always circle back to, "Is there anything you want to do about this? Because the answer can be 'no.'" I'm getting their consent to take them into battle and fight the fight they need to, because it's a painful battle (trust me, I know) and I can't just drag them through it kicking and screaming. That could kill them. Still, as a soldier in this battle I wait with my hand extended saying, "Take my hand and fight with me, damn it! We need you!" but I don't judge if they're not ready or too scared to do it. It hurts. It's natural to run from it. You're allowed to make that choice, but that way holds no growth for you. If you turn around and come this way, you'll gain so much - but you'll also gain pain in the process. Volunteering for pain just to heal is hard. I've done it once. I won't do it again. You can't make me.

Hopefully it will never come to that, and knowing myself as well as I do at this point I can see how circumstances could change and I could decide it's worth fighting again (if I have kids to take care of, for example), but sometimes it's just not fair to ask people to fight a battle they didn't start. I did not abuse myself. I did not injure my brain. Still, I fight. In whatever you guys perceive to be my strength there lies a great vulnerability and danger, but I volunteered for this fight and I'm going to keep going. If I ever lose the battle, please know that I tried my best. It's a damn hard fight, doing war against your own brain chemistry, but god is it worth it.