Loss and Love

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” – Maya Angelou

It is with deep and mixed emotions that I write these words. I didn’t know if I ever would share, but I can’t deny that I write to process things. And I hope that any woman with this experience will find some comfort in my words – if only to know that she’s not alone in her grief.

2 weeks after finding out we were having a baby I started bleeding. I had been out running errands, came back home and saw that my cotton pants were soaked.  Naturally I was freaking out. I called The One in hysteria. While he was on his way to see me I called the local hospital (and also where I work) in hysteria. We spent the next couple of days in and out of doctor’s appointments and diagnostics. The end result was that it was too soon to tell anything and we’d have to wait and see.

The doctor did observe the interactions between The One and I. He said we were obviously very supportive of one another and to take some comfort in that because he rarely sees couples on our level. Looking back on this experience, I still take comfort in this.

I waited. I was worried, anxious, and even neurotic at times. There were more visits, more diagnostics; even more blood drawn. My HCG levels had not gone up as they should have. It was not a viable pregnancy and I had experienced an incomplete miscarriage. I had to be scheduled for a D&C and wait another week before the procedure would be done. I guess my body was trying to hold on because psychologically I wasn’t ready to let go.  

I give him as much credit as I could possibly give another human being. The One was as supportive as he knew how to be. He acknowledged that he couldn’t quite relate to how I felt. It’s true . . . one can only really relate if one has experienced it – the slight changes my body was making: the mood swings, the increased heart beat due to a vascular system working even harder to pump blood down to a growing cluster of cells, the random cravings and the tiny little things that were uncomfortable and inconvenient – yet still brought a smile to my face because I knew it was all for one tiny growing baby bean sprout. Sure, it was just a cluster of cells; but it was my tiny little cluster. Sure, it’s a common experience for women; but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The One didn’t question me when I’d sob uncontrollably before drifting off to sleep. I never had to explain myself. Part of it was hormones and part of it was grief and sadness.

I had missed a considerable amount of work. I knew that life would carry on and I would need to carry on with it. When I’d start crying I looked at the clock on more than one occasion and told myself I had 5 more minutes to be sad. Five more minutes to allow myself to cry. Five more minutes to grieve and feel sorry for myself. It took a couple of weeks and an unnecessary amount of retail therapy before I stopped needing 5 more minutes.

It’s a form of sadness that has been genuinely difficult to describe. It’s a loss of the feeling of life and a loss of the excitement over what could have been. It’s a form of sadness that is understood only by other women who have experienced the same kind of loss. It was through this experience that I felt a sense of sisterhood I had not yet found among women. In fact, I had doubted that type of bond even existed. And it was this grief that somehow served as a conduit.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow, let it be.” – The Beatles.

It was on my last memorable night of grief that I finally finished Women Who Run With the Wolves. For the public record, I’m reading the footnotes . . . and then I’ll probably start the whole thing over again from the beginning. Clarissa Pinkola Estes wrote a footnote on the 2^nd or 3^rd chapter about a figure in Mexican folklore that is known for collecting the souls of miscarried babies and planting their seeds in another womb. So the little one never really goes away, it’s just given a new home. It’s a nice thought. And maybe Baby Bean Sprout just wasn’t ready to join our world yet. I’m ready when you are, Little One.

I lit a candle for you. Until we meet again, Little One.

And it was through this experience that The One showed me just how many forms love can take. Love is when he held me because he knew why I was crying. Love is when he held me and had no idea why I was crying. Love is understanding my need for writing, biking and retail therapy. Love is accepting a cantankerous old hound because he knows how much I love that hound. Love is his amusement when I offer him a key to my bike lock instead of my car because I’m not paying attention. Love is picking me up on a rainy night because I managed to get lost on my bike. Love is finding the best possible attributes for my worst idiosyncrasies.

Love was dealing with my hormonal mood swings of tears and bouts of anger. Love was telling me I’m beautiful even though my breasts were tender and overly engorged. Love was (and is) checking me out when I’m cringing in the mirror at my stretch marks. Love is joking about how when we were young and cute and thought we’d stay that way forever.

Love is choosing to see me in the best possible light and this is a choice he makes every day. Rather than chalking my forgetfulness to an air-headed person, he tells me I’m forgetful because I’m a writer and I’m too busy remembering the very important details that most others won’t notice. And obviously there’s only so much memory one person can hold. 

"The best love is that kind that awakens the soul; that makes us reach for more, that plants the fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds. That's what I hope to give you forever."  - Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

Beauty In Imperfections

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.” – Herman Hesse

When we were so much younger.

I’ve been spending a significant amount of time with The One. There have been so many moments with him where I’d think to myself, ‘This is perfect’ that I stopped counting. Simple things like lounging on the couch with our dogs, talking about our future and hopes in life, and sometimes just curled up next to one another in silence. I couldn’t think of a thing in this world that would bring me more happiness than life as it is now.

I never thought I’d be one to believe in things like Fate or Soul Mates or even that a single person could bring so much fulfillment to the life of another. I believe it now.

I’ve been working on something for The One. As I’ve been going back on our old memories – I saw nothing but love and kindness in the photos and words we exchanged. This project has actually been a little difficult, because I frequently find myself on the verge of tears.

 I met The One when I had just moved to Portland and felt like my life was unravelling before my eyes. I moved to this city with a fiancé. We moved in with my relatives. Shortly after arriving I was diagnosed with PTSD. I had no idea what was going on, only that I was not well. My relationship began to fall apart. My fiancé couldn’t understand and my family blamed me for the relationship failing. There were so many elements to that part of my life that were very wrong. I was alone, trying to get help and needed a friend more than anything.

The One was the first person who asked me if I was okay. He was the first person to see that I was very sad underneath the facade of happiness I showed the rest of the world. I was entirely alone in what I was facing emotionally. He was the only one in my corner; he was the only one who cared about my emotional wellbeing. The One was also the first person I opened up to regarding the dynamics of my family and my relationship.

Fast forward several months later, the fiancé broke things off. He finally moved out of the home I shared with my relatives. In his wake, he left a string of lies that painted me in the worst light possible. My relationship with my family has never recovered – if there was ever a relationship to begin with.

The One was still my only friend – and bless the guy for sticking by me when I had nothing but awful relatives to deal with. He accepted me as I was – and that was a form of acceptance I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. We dated and we fell in love.

Before anything else, he showed me compassion.

We were young and had a lot to learn about life, each other, and ourselves. After about 2 years we broke up. We got back together again, and broke up. We’re back for round 3. I think we’re ready this time. At least I can say that I am this time.

The One told me that it feels different this time around; he doesn’t feel any resistance from me this time. He’s right. It’s not that I never wanted to be open with him – it’s just that I didn’t know how to love a person in that way. That was something I had to learn on my own by forcing myself to look inward and begin to deal with the past that I had shoved down as far as I could for too long. I had to face that ugliness myself. It was difficult. It was lonely. There was times I thought it wasn’t worth it – but in hindsight I know it’s made me better for it.

I learned to be vulnerable in front of another person. I learned to communicate. There was a night when I was out with The One. I was triggered by someone. I then had to lean over to The One and explain to him what was taking place, because I had no idea how it would manifest itself. As we were walking to the car, I explained the thought process that takes place in my mind: a grappling with fear, anger towards the person who caused me fear even though it was no fault of his, and a multitude of other thoughts that cause me to question my own character. Mostly, I felt fragile and broken.

There was something about the way The One touched me that night that reclaimed that cracked part of my psyche. He drifted off to sleep and I sobbed tears of gratitude knowing that my journey of fear and self-doubt is nearing an end. He holds up a mirror and encourages me to see myself as I really am – and he has a pretty high opinion of me.

Over the last year or so I think I nearly gave up on having the life I had hoped for. I didn’t think I’d have children, I didn’t think I’d have someone with whom to share life – yet now that we’re giving it another shot, I know these are things I wouldn’t want to do with anyone else.

Over the last year or so I’d not only given up, but told myself that happiness wasn’t in the cards for me because I was too broken and flawed. A good friend shared some profound words of kindness I’d like to share, “You are far from broken, you are the strongest gal I know. I look at you like the Japanese people look at a broken ceramic bowl. Rather than trying to hide the flaws in the broken ceramics, they would highlight them in gold, baring the cracks and scars and adopting them as part of the ceramic . . . To me, you are far from broken; it’s the broken part of you that I see strength. There is perfection and imperfection. And that, my friend, is why in a depressing work that was pain and hurt there was you.”

I've actually never seen one of these before I read her words . . .. It's beautiful. Thank you for that image, Friend.

I’ve always thought that scars are intriguing. I have to remind myself that my own scars are just as fascinating. And when I forget, I have friends who offer kind words and The One who tells me things like, ‘You’re not awful. You’re honest.’And it's not through his words, but his essence as a human being that makes me want to be a better person.

I feel small and meek at times. He shows me that I'm fierce and strong. 

I’m really looking forward to the New Year.

“Love takes off makes that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” – James Baldwin

Burning Bridges

“It don’t matter which way you go

When you’re callin’ the highway your home

When every old town’s just the past burning down

It don’t matter which way you go.”

Waylon Jennigs, Reno and Me

This is a story. A story of burning bridges, allowing time to pass – settling it aflame and watching it burn again.

Something happened in my life recently that caused me to look back to my more recent past. I’ve felt miserable since it happened – miserable since he tried to walk back into my life. I knew it wasn’t a good time for me to be alone, so I picked up my journal and walked to the pub near my house.

While I waited for my order, I opened my journal. I intended to get back into the habit of expressing gratitude. Instead I found myself flipping through the pages, wondering what had happened to the gal that had written those words just over two years ago. I was stressed, but I was hopeful. I was happy. I was in l in love and I expressed love to so many. I had my heart broken and saw it mended again. I don’t recognize her, the person that penned those words of love, hope and happiness, but I want to be her. She radiates a life perspective that I miss very much.

She felt connected to everything. She heard the heartbeat of the Universe. I'll find you again, Cherished Version of Myself.

I had to ask myself how I got to where I am now. I have been accused of not being entirely transparent (notably by anonymous strangers), of painting myself in the best possible light while throwing someone else under the bus. I see that as an untrue accusation. I’m about to tell the story of what is arguably my greatest shame in life.

Several years ago I met a man. He was mysterious and intriguing. He was intelligent and witty. He brought a sense of excitement to my life on many levels. We had an intense attraction to one another. It boiled down to the most savage sense of carnality; we existed in our own orbit, drawn to each other in a very visceral sense. On another level, we connected intellectually.

I’ve only called him Spaniard. That’s right, Fucking Spaniard. He had a knack for picking up the pieces in my life when I could not.

Then I learned about Her. Not just Her, but others as well. I was oblivious. I had even been in his house and didn’t think for once that there was another woman in his life. I blindly believed what he told me and easily explained away things that should have been regarded with suspicion. The words regarding his own personal life were often few, and that should have sent me packing. I know better now, but I didn’t then. He wasn’t married to Her, but I’m sure he was a key figure in Her life and I’m certain She didn’t know about me.

When I knew his secret I cut him out of my life. 

Fate must have cursed me when our paths crossed again. I found myself a willing participant in older patterns of behavior. Our connection had only intensified by the time we spent apart.

We immersed ourselves in our formed religion of acts of worship for the other.

So, there I was, carrying on with a man that I knew was spoken for. We carried on for a couple of months. I was acting against my own moral compass, causing a growing dissonance between what was at the center of my core and what I was doing. It was literally tearing me apart from the inside out. 

I turned to a poor coping mechanism I relied on after I found myself in the wake of an assault. I'm not sure if it was coping or self harm, but I tried to drink myself into oblivion once again.

The war I was waging on myself escalated. It came to a peak when I woke up one night in a detox center. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I was afraid. I was shamed. A woman next to me was coming down from her cocaine high. I don’t belong here. All I could think about was Merlin and that I needed to be home with him. He needed me to be there. An officer pulled me aside to talk to me. He told me to be comforted by the fact that I hadn’t hurt anyone and I was unlike the ‘regulars’ he saw come in and out of there. He said this was my wakeup call. I’d made a bad decision.

I had to take a time out. I had to force myself to look inward and face my actions. I was knowingly causing potential harm to a person I didn’t even know. I was the other woman. I was the one destroying someone else’s life solely for my own selfish wants and desires. Spaniard had to go.

I'm not proud of the role I played in this.

I eventually realized he was a danger to me. I don’t say a danger to everyone, because I can’t speak for them. I can speak for his personality type and mine. He has an ability to compartmentalize his life and it scares me. He had me, he had Her, he had others. These were separate lives to him. Perhaps it scares me because I’ve never met anyone with that ability. Maybe it scares me for good reason. I don’t know the answer right now.

Working as a trainer for FBI hostage negotiators, Spaniard has some very potent psychological tools. For his line of work, that’s an asset. For me, that’s toxic. I fail to compartmentalize my own life and I have no basis in tactics of manipulation or psychological warfare. My involvement with him would only lead to my own self destruction – possibly slitting my wrists and bleeding out. He told me that we were linked and would not be severed. For my own survival, he and I could not coexist.

It would only lead to destruction - and it would be mine. Possibly Hers, too.

I pray that She would never now about me. I pray She never knows about the others because I imagine that would be devastating. I don’t know if I could live with myself if She knew that I didn’t consider how my actions would affect Her because I didn’t care. I was only after what made me feel happy.

Then I sent an e-mail to Spaniard. I knew a face to face conversation with him would result in his continued presence in my life to some capacity. I typed out as compassionately as I could that he could simply not be a part of my life – and this was for my own emotional wellbeing. I tried to explain that we simply couldn’t be. His response was that until I could accept unconditional love I was to never contact him again.

Done.

Time passed. I moved to another part of the city. I never contacted him again. It had been a little over a year when he sent me an e-mail. I blocked his e-mail. A month later he sent me a text. I changed my number. Yesterday, he called me at work. At. Work. I listened in shocked silence. I asked him how he found my number. He told me he simply called and asked for me. I told him I couldn’t talk. I was working. He asked if I still had his number. I lied and said I did. He told me to use it sometime and then I hung up the phone.

This is one representation of part of the internal commotion taking place in my psyche.

I’ve thought for some time that if he wanted to find me he would. I hope my assumption is wrong. After Spaniard sent the e-mail, I thought I saw him at the pub near my house when I was out with my brother. I must have looked terrified. My brother noticed me watching the man across the room, visibly worried. I couldn’t see his face, he had his back turned to me, but he had the same physique, he wore similar clothes, his voice sounded familiar. I had to explain. I had to tell my brother about my actions of selfish stupidity. There have been no Spaniard sightings since then.

So, he found me at work. I’d never give him that number. Hell, I’d even moved on to another department since I last saw Spaniard. The bastard called me from a blocked number. I felt myself hit with a wave of emotions I’m still struggling to identify. Offhand, I’d say I feel fear, anger, and shame. The only thing I’m certain of is that he can’t be in my life. He just can’t.

I did the only thing I could think of, which was to call our safety department at work. I explained my situation. The woman who listened was understanding and empathetic. She recommended that I remove all traces of myself online, starting with LinkedIn. I invested my time in that wretched profile so potential employers would hire me. I’m not ready to give it up yet.

My employer has flagged me in our system. No one can look me up in our online database. While administration has my information, an alert pops up to not give any of my information. It’s as if I don’t exist where I work. I’ve turned his name over to our safety department. If Spaniard tries to use his ties with law enforcement he won’t get anywhere.

And that’s my story of burning bridges. That’s my story of paying for my sins on Earth. During my lowest point, when I woke up in a detox center next to people coming down off of some pretty hardcore stuff – I feel as if a part of me died that night and I’ve failed to resurrect it.

I have no secrets now. I’ll work on finding the person I lost during my lowest point in my recent adult life. Maybe I’ll dance in the ashes after I’ve watched it all burn down. 

An Empath's Perspective: TLDR

“Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in.” – Shannon L. Alder

I’ve been struggling a lot lately. My guess is a potent concoction of several factors that landed me in another deep, depressed state. My own frustration compounded what I was already feeling – I just feel like giving up sometimes. I wondered how many false hopes I’d stumble across that would make me think I had somehow found something that would take away PTSD entirely.

I have to accept that PTSD never goes away and it’s simply my lot in life to live with it. I imagine the sooner I accept that I will never truly feel whole again the better off I’ll be. I’d like to think the journey will get easier from there once I can accept that there is no cure and no amount of my failed attempts to bring closure to and make sense of my own past will make a difference, either. It’s a harsh truth, yet I think it’s an honest one.

Even though others don't like what you're saying - sometimes I have very dark thoughts. I'm not ashamed of that.

I know people hate to hear me say things along those lines because I make it seem hopeless. I don’t see it as a form of hopelessness, merely looking at the situation objectively and accepting an unpleasant truth.

My mind went to some very dark places for a while and I struggled to find motivation to do even the simplest of things. I was down for too long in my dark apartment with a nasty virus. It seems that what was trudged up during that downtime has affected me even though I struggle against it. I’m thinking the worst of it was when I called Donna, my grandmothers’ best friend and my childhood babysitter. I felt like I was on a ledge and I couldn’t think of anyone else who would understand the pain I was feeling. Donna lost the same people I lost, the only difference being she was an adult and I was a child.

These two women have a special place in my heart. My grandmother on the left and Donna on the right.

When I was a little girl, I often came home from school crying. I was teased for many things, mostly for being chubby. Donna would stroke my hair and tell me not to worry about what the other children were telling me because I was well on my way to being a Marilyn Monroe look alike. Fast forward to my adult years, I called Donna crying and asked her how she got through it. Her response was this: Sometimes I drink, sometimes I accept it, and sometimes I pray. I suppose that’s all we can do.

In the end, I guess what really matters is that I'm moving forward.

My conversation with her lifted my spirits. She told me about how my grandmother loved to dress me up when I was younger and that if she had a daughter she’d want her to be just like me. Having felt worthless and low for several weeks, her words were just what I needed to hear.

Our conversation resulted in a new project: I must find her a laptop. She was amazed that I could call her from the internet. Donna is low income and in her 60’s. Not too long ago she damaged her back so badly that she is unable to work. If I can repay her for her comfort and kindness, it’s in my new mission of laptop hunting.

Struggling as much as I have over the last several weeks made me think of the Death with Dignity Act – I think this should apply to mental illnesses as well. Before you balk at my words, Dear Reader, please hear me out. I’m not talking about a temporary bout of depression or anxiety because one has just gone through a divorce or is under a severe amount of stress. I’m talking about the chronic conditions such as schizophrenia and PTSD. I view them in the same light as I see cancer. No amount of love, medical care or money can prevent these things, particularly when it’s terminal.

I think this should extend to everyone.

I feel that there are vast mountains to be climbed for the societal acceptance of how severe these conditions are. From my conversations with others, I have found that the people who genuinely understand where I’m coming from have either experienced it themselves or have experienced mental illness with a loved one, watching helplessly as that person withered away from their own self destruction or ultimately took their own life.

When someone dies from suicide, it’s seen as weakness. Unlike death due to a physical illness, there is anger directed at the person. How could she?! I think people view these types of death far too personally. We wouldn’t be angry at someone who died of cancer, and what most fail to see is that suicide is a last resort. Suicide comes when the person just wants to escape the pain.

I have the answer: absolutely nowhere. It's a harsh truth. We just have to ride it out. That's really our only option.

Provided that a person has made an effort, if the mental illness is terminal the Death with Dignity Act should apply. Take me as an example: I’ve been in therapy for at least 5 years now. There is no cure for me.

I’m not saying I want to die, I’m only saying I should have the option – and I should have the option of a dignified death, not one that results in suicide and further compounds the stigma that’s already been attached to my life. Additionally, those who suffer from more severe forms of mental illness often turn their frustration and anger towards themselves. We have a tendency to be self-destructive and self-medicate. The self-medicating results in substance abuse and this is often so severe that it leads to death as a result from overdose or massive organ failure.

For most of the mentally ill, this is what happens in the end - or we commit suicide. 

So I wondered about the more compassionate option. Knowing the destructive nature of mental illness, why force a person to live with it and give them only suicide as a way out? Using myself as an example again, I think I should have the choice to choose death when I can’t stand the fight anymore. I’m an organ donor and those parts of me could go to someone who will live a happy life. As things stand with our current laws and statistics on mental illness, I’d be more likely to develop an addiction, die from it, and my organs wouldn’t be viable because the substance abuse would ruin them. Or, I’d commit suicide in a manner that didn’t preserve the organs and no one would benefit from my death. I just don’t see the logic in the way things are with this now. I try to see all things as objectively as possible. Perhaps I’m dead wrong on this subject, but I’m finding the more I talk about it, the more I find people who are in accordance with my own views on this matter. I think we all deserve a dignified death.

I'd wager that if we were given the choice, we'd be able to save lives with our organs by relinquishing our own life.

Maybe I’ll change my mind. Either way, I refuse to join the masses who refuse to see mental illness as a very real thing. This is something that we should talk about more, not only to understand how it impacts those who suffer from it, but also the blatantly wrong stereotypes applied to those who have a mental illness.

I’m making more effort to not only understand myself, but to protect myself as well. I’m a naturally empathetic person – and I imagine why this is the main reason I so easily connect with others. The part of being an empath that wrecks me sometimes is absorbing other people’s pain, often making it my own. Not only their pain, but their issues. I’m trying to retrain myself so that I learn to observe rather than absorb. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been sponge-like towards other’s emotional states. Seriously! There have been a few occasions, where I’ve made someone laugh because their sadness was overwhelming me.

I'm thinking this personality trait may also explain at least some of the peaks and valley in my life.

With that in mind, I nixed some people from my life. Not because they were bad people, simply because I felt they were bad for me. I can only absorb so much negativity in any given day. Because I am dealing with so many scared, anxious, and sometimes angry people in my life of work, I simply don’t have anything left over when the day is done. My goal is to have something left over, particularly for me because I’m tired of feeling so drained all of the time. When I can learn to observe instead of absorb I can work on reestablishing connections with others who consistently tap into my empathetic energy. My heart needs to be closed off for a while. I find that difficult to do because it goes against my nature.

From reflection, I’ve learned that there are personality types that are just downright dangerous to me. I’ve nixed people with these personality types, too. I’m sure they don’t intentionally mean me harm, but they can’t fight their true nature and that’s just the way of it. If I can quit blaming myself for what’s going wrong in everyone else’s life because my purpose in life isn’t to fix anyone. That’s their choice, not mine.

Truth be told, feeling any emotion to the depths that I experience them feels rather lonely. 

I just keep going in circles, don’t I? I’m thinking of a friend’s words said to me several years ago: I will pass the same face of the mountain on my way to the top. I hope I’m at least evolving and moving upward. I doubt myself sometimes. I’m also self-doubting and have no sense of direction. These are also truths. I imagine I’ve been on the most indirect path up this wretched mountain: one with no foot trails and entirely uncharted. 

Don't even ask me for directions. I will undoubtedly get you lost. That's also a harsh truth. 

Rejection

“Life is a succession of lessons, which must be lived to be understood.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’ve been crying myself to sleep for weeks now and have only just begun to question why. In fact, I was only able to admit yesterday that I’m sad. Now that I’ve been reflecting on it, it’s not surprising because I’ve invested so little in my own emotional well-being; and I’m not the only one that knows that, my closest friends recognize my tendency to always put others first. I had to ask myself a multitude of questions yesterday, each one almost always leading to another before I found the root of the issue: rejection.

One of the definitions for rejection is ‘to discard as useless or unsatisfactory’. That has always been my personal view of self when I experience rejection. Reflecting over this last year, I’ve experienced a good deal of rejection; and now it makes sense to me that I could only sum up this past year as difficult and am happy to see it go.

I have an on and off again rejective relationship with my adoptive mother – one who is constantly pushing and pulling. I’m fine with the pushing, not so much the pulling; because I know that her current state of kindness towards me is flippant and fleeting and I know it’s only a matter of time before she tries to wound me again. Also the rejection I feel over her blatant favoritism.

I felt consistently rejected during my stint with online dating and generally frustrated when I continually met awful people. Of the handful of dates that did go well (or at least I thought they did), I either never heard from them again, or there would be several more dates followed by him distancing himself from me.  The rejection hurt and the frustration of someone unwilling to tell me they’re no longer interested rather than forcing me to ask instead of wondering what went wrong made me want to hurl things at times. For the record, I never threw anything – but it probably would have been very cathartic . . . .  Perhaps I should start throwing things.

Pillows in my apartment and rocks in nature beware! Your days are numbered.

I felt rejected recently when the position I was gunning for went to the other candidate. Once again I felt useless and unsatisfactory. A person in another division suggested I apply and I put so much effort into doing my research on the higher ups in the division and mentally preparing myself for interviews. The processed involved several and I nailed every single one. What it boiled down to in the end is that the other person had more experience than me.

There is a consistent feeling of rejection when the manager plays favorites in the office. The latter form of rejection just angers me, so I’m struggling to ignore it entirely. My guess is that I’m only struggling with ignoring it because it’s consistently shoved in my face. Every. Single. Workday.

This seems oddly fitting: Turn away green fish with your different social background, ideals and outlook!

My most recent rejection hurt the most. I’m still processing the emotions, and there are many. I spent too much time with a friend and had far too many communicative interactions when he wasn’t physically with me. I began to love him and knew it just wouldn’t be. Unfortunately, there’s just no ‘off’ button for these sorts of things, at least as far as I know. I knew he was emotionally vulnerable and dealing with his own form of pain and I never took advantage of his trust or that situation. I never made a move and didn’t reveal my feelings until he badgered me into speaking the words that had been on my heart. I didn't expect him to love me back and I knew he wouldn't. Of course I was rejected and I knew I would be which is why I never wanted him to know. I felt both cornered and vulnerable during our discussion; I loathe those feelings.

Now I don’t want anything to do with him. I don’t know if that’s the hurt of rejection speaking right now or that deep down I know any connection with him will only lead to major damage to my own emotional well-being. It could even be that I don't want him to see because I may very well burst into tears the moment I see his face or that it's highly likely things will never just go back to the way they were. All I know now is that I feel hurt in a very visceral way. It’s been pulsing through my veins ever since we had that conversation. It is very unpleasant and I do not like it. Granted, I was hurting long before that, but was in major denial and this experience has amplified the painful feelings.

I kept my feelings to myself because I didn't want to lose the friendship. That now seems like a pointless endeavor.

“I know love is a fading thing just as fickle as a feather in a stream. See, honey, I saw love. You see it came to me. It put its face up to my face so I could see. Yeah then I saw love disfigure me into something I am not recognizing.” – Phosphorescent, Song for Zula

It is a rare person in this world that can get me to open up to them entirely and it is even rarer for me to genuinely love another romantically. I didn’t know what hit me when I felt it for the first time at the age of 28. Everything up until then was suddenly child’s play. Reflecting on those two encounters with a deep form of love in my life, it’s fairly obvious to me that I’m attracted to the broken. I don’t know if it starts out by my desire to help someone through a tough time in life due to my compassionate nature or if there’s something psychologically deeper than what I see on the surface of which I need to find the root cause and work through it.

My mantra for the new year: I will not love broken things. Unless it's the hound; he deserves all the love in the world.

For me, experiencing any emotion on a deep level is usually comparable to stirring a pot of stew where the ingredients surface that were previously hidden below. My past experiences come to surface and the emotions attached to those experiences come to surface as well. I feel the rejection of abandonment by a caregiver’s words and deeds, or those taken by death. I feel the emotional rejection that I experienced by many caregivers growing up. I know deep down there’s a little girl in there somewhere who wants nothing more than to be loved and accepted. For a period of time in my life I was so desperate for those things that I didn’t care what my source was – even if the person was abusive, even if I only used some form of self-medicating just so I didn’t have to feel the emptiness.

There is no quick fix. In the words of Rumi (paraphrased): Experience the pain to find the remedy

Once again I’m crossing the face of the mountain I’m climbing in my attempt to work through these issues. For the last few days, I’ve been letting myself feel, regardless of how unpleasant those feelings are. Consequently, I’m crying much more when I’m alone.  I have become so accustomed to shoving my emotions down and showing the world at least a calm face if not a smile that I just don’t know how to stop. I keep trying, yet I keep finding myself pushing those feelings as far down as I can because I don’t want anyone to know how badly they’ve wounded me, how disappointed I am, or how much I’m hurting in general.

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions. This year will be different. I’m making a few commitments to myself this time around. 2015 will begin with rejection. I am rejecting the entire year of 2014 and probably finding some ceremonious way to say goodbye to it and all of the events that took place within the course of this year. I’ll be giving myself some emotional space to allow myself to process the things that I keep shoving back in the recesses of my psyche. That will probably entail more crying and possibly hurling objects about. So be it. Here's to better days ahead.  

This will be another mantra.

The Starved Soul

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories from your life - not someone else's life - water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom. That is the work. The only work."  - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

I was quite sick last week. Looking at the silver lining, being unable to do much of anything allowed me some time for reflection. Admittedly, I don't permit myself much time for such things, if any at all. Clarissa Pinkola Estes write a good deal about the starved soul and our need to return home to the Wild, even if only briefly, to recover from the demands of our modern and disconnected lives. We've forgotten how to howl. We've forgotten to sing. We've forgotten to nourish ourselves in what connects us with the Divine to the point that we're starved so much that we can look for anything to fill the inexplicable void we're feeling. We hear the voices in the distance calling us, pleading to come back to our roots. It's far too easy to cast them away with the excuses we often make for ourselves. I will when winter is over. I will as soon as I've finished . . . . I would, but . . . 

Bring the unfinished novel to a climatic end, dance, complete the poem that was never quite good enough, laugh, sing and cry. Mostly, keep dancing. 

I am a master of excuses. Having made two moves within 6 months while simultaneously performing the juggling act of my life, getting the hound settled and grappling with Truths that I've finally acknowledged I need to accept - I've become accustomed to casting away what nourishes the essence of who I am because of everything else I've told myself should take precedent: the hound (he always comes first) and the constant barrage from others asking me why I'm still not completely unpacked, why haven't I done this or that and why has it been so long since we've seen each other? If the hound is not walked immediately he won't hold it against me for long and everything else that the world tells me I should be doing will still be there. The dishes in the sink will still be there, my un-vacuumed floor will still exist and the three small unpacked boxes remaining in my studio will still be waiting for me. Those things aren't going anywhere. I've been hearing the beating drums in the distance for a while now. I'm starting to hear the howls, beckoning me back home to rest for a while. I'll be heading to my emotional retreat shortly. 

I hear your call. I'm coming home soon.

I'm still physically recovering from an illness that lasted a little over 5 days. I'd wager it's not in my best interest to jump into dancing, running or gymnastics right away. I've decided my starting point will be the relationships I've allowed to exist in my life. I can't always spot the bad applies right away, and in spite of the red flags that are apparent to everyone else in the beginning I tend to be entirely oblivious to the early warning signs. There are several reasons for this; I've been working on them. I've heard from more than one source that I'm too trusting of a person. This is part of the Truth. The other is my tendency to want to see the good in everyone. My therapist compares me to someone drawn to a hot stove: even though I've been burned countless times, I am hoping that I'll be proved wrong and the world isn't as ugly as most of my experiences have been. On that note, I have forged meaningful friendships with amazing people with whom I may not have otherwise connected if it weren't for my trusting, open nature. I have no regrets for these and they are precious to me. However, there are some relationships from which I have decided I need to step back from or eliminate entirely. 

I need time - so much time to process what took place in a highly dysfunctional household. 

It was rare that I spoke about my relationship with my adoptive mother (I'll call her Morgan) outside of therapy. I'm sure most people thought our strained relationship was normal and that I was simply overreacting. Based on the assumptions of most, I didn't know any better because I hadn't been indoctrinated into a family unit since I was a very young girl. To those people and also to Morgan, I was the source of the problem: I was too sensitive, too angry and had too many issues that needed to be dealt with. Also, I was the only one in therapy and that makes for solid scapegoat material. Lastly, I've been prone to depression for a very long time and any feelings of sadness obviously couldn't have been correlated to how I was treated, but instead resulted from my own weakness as a sensitive human being. I'm not even sure my therapist found my stories believable - not only because Morgan's actions were outlandish and irrational, but also not the actions of a person of sound mind. 

Morgan has some very deep rooted control issues, particularly when it comes to finances. Morgan offered to help with my student loans (making sure her friends and relatives knew that her intentions were to save me from student debt) and regularly asked me about my loans. When I finally forwarded the information to her, what I received in response was one of the most condescending e-mails I've ever seen because she was astonished by the total amount (I'm far lower than the national average) and how could they be so high if I wasn't paying for rent or utilities? Sure, I didn't pay for rent or utilities, but I did my best to carry my own weight. I paid for my food, cell phone, car and care for my dogs. Additionally, because I wasn't paying rent I was the live-in house keeper. I worked hard to keep that place up to Morgan's standards and that has been more than one occasion when I had to cancel my plans because she wanted me to do extra in-depth cleaning projects. Her e-mail was offensive and troublesome to me. 

Because I couldn't make sense of Morgan's words, I chose not to respond. Morgan then began calling and texting. I still didn't respond. After only a week of silence on my end Morgan showed up at my office on a clinic day completely unannounced. My co-workers got a sense of what's been bothering me, as they interacted with her briefly and saw me go from a 0-10 within a second. I was very worked up, but it was only noticeable to the handful of people that know me fairly well. For the record, Morgan does not fall under that category. 

Morgan has never really seen me. I'm fine with that, only irritated that she pretends to know me. 

Several days later I asked Morgan not to come into my workplace unannounced. It's not professional and an invasion of my space. Naturally Morgan was defensive. She always let her subordinates visit with friends and family. What was the problem?! 

Recently I told Morgan she needn't be concerned with my student loans; I can handle it myself. Since then, she's made a point of fishing for information regarding my finances. I find it irritating and pathetic. There's not a doubt in my mind that she knows I need to distance myself from her because something is very wrong and she's known for a while - she just lacks the level of self-awareness to ever see herself as a contributing factor to the issue. I'm not saying it's entirely her fault our relationship is on thin ice. I'm searching myself as well and will deal with the Truth's as they come. I think my first mistake was moving to Portland in the first place. I was so desperate to be wanted and loved. It's not like the signs weren't there - I just chose to overlook them and I still don't know why. Morgan has wanted ultimate control of my life since the moment I began living under her roof. 

Regarding Morgan's finances, the truth is that she could have easily afforded to send me to college without me accruing any debt at all. Currently, she can afford to pay off my students loans like she promised. That's not really the issue though, is it? My issue is her attempt to manipulate and control me at every turn and her blatant use of my presence in her life to make herself seem like a compassionate, caring, and giving person. 

I'm tired of the facade and the feigned bond of a mother and daughter relationship that doesn't exist. 

No one likes being used. I've been struggling with this particularly long and drawn out chapter in my life because so much of my childhood was spent under similar circumstances: being used to make someone else look better or charitable, being used for services or money, and the caregiver (Morgan included) making a point to let me know that I wasn't wanted. It hurts. I'm working on letting it go. I'm reminding myself that I'm loved and am blessed to have wonderful and loving people in my life. They're not blood related. None of them have legally adopted me. They've chosen to be a part of my life and offer me unending support, guidance and unconditional love. This is what I'll be holding on to while I'm focusing on letting go. 

The Mantle

“You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars.” – Thomas Traherne, Centuries

To re-experience the integration of ourselves with nature, we have to take ourselves out of our four walls and set our life-story in the context of nature’s terms. This means becoming especially aware of one area of the natural world – an area that is our listening place, an area where we tune out the old broadcasts of our separateness and return to the original station of the universal belonging. In the place we enter into a new relationship with nature, conducting a dialogue of one with the other, in which both parties speak and both listen to the other.

In this communion, a further state of belonging may be experienced – initially just in brief glimpses, then sometimes for longer and longer periods. It is the condition that poet and mystic Thomas Traherne speaks of: the temporary loss of our sense of identity, a softening of the hard boundaries that separate us from the tree and the animals, from the earth and the sunset.  In this condition, we experience ourselves as no different from nature or anything within it. we come into true relationships with nature in such moments, which strip away our hubris, our control, and our feelings of separation and bring us once more under the mantle of the universe.

I hadn’t felt that sense of connection with the natural world around me for some time. There are two possible factors, both with may fully or jointly responsible. Moving back to an area in which I feel safe and also am more encouraged to be outdoors because it’s lovely and because I know no harm will come to me, I can appreciate the beauty of the universe as I once did. The other factor would be my therapist’s suggestion that I go back on my medications. There are mixed opinions about this, some of which are upsetting to me.

To sum my therapists words that she spoke to me, “Taking medication is not a sign of weakness. You have suffered enough; don’t continue to suffer if there’s no need for it. Most people with your experiences don’t function as well and most are on medications for the rest of their life.” Much in like a stigma attached to mental illness, it strikes me that a stigma also exists for pharmaceuticals as well.

I get the impress this image comes to mind for most people when I mention medication. Sure, there's a deeper rooted issue that needs to be addressed, but I still need help to get there. 

I can get the stance of most anti-pharmaceutical folks. A person has to take one form of drug for diabetes and high blood pressure and the side effects of these medications are treated with other medications. At the root of it all, the person on such medications would likely be better off by adjusting their lifestyle. That would be a much simpler fix, but we’ve become an extremely lazy nation that seeks out the quickest fix to what ails us.

Because we understand so little of the human brain, I can’t say in confidence that lifestyle changes can eradicate something like schizophrenia, depression, bi-polar disorder, or even PTSD.  Sometimes it helps, but it doesn’t take the problem away entirely. We all certainly have phases in life where we experience depression and/or anxiety due to life stressors, but these are temporary for most and permanent for some.

We know that bleak feeling when it's hard to look up - but what about those who can never shake that feeling? How is that their fault? 

By dissecting my own personal experience with depression and PTSD, I can say that I often feel isolated, even though I’m far from it. I feel like I’m staring at the world through a glass bowl. Nothing feels real or genuine. I’m haunted by feelings I don’t want to feel and memories that I’d rather be long forgotten. It’s that voice in my head that plagues me with thoughts of unworthiness and self-loathing.  I feel like I’m both a prisoner and a jailer in my own mind and there are some days I struggle to force myself out of bed to face the world. I manage. Most of us do. However, anyone who has never personally experienced something like this will never truly understand. I am not weak or less than because I need a little bit of help. We don’t look to a person with cancer and label them as weak and unwilling to try harder to overcome their illness. Why is mental health any different?

We are all mad in our own right and as I've evolved in life I've learned that all of us are broken a little - we just aren't all willing to admit it and we all aren't willing to be compassionate to those in the throes of the worst days, either. 

I’ve had some people tell me my ailments can be cured by supplements and vitamins. By all means, if you know a tried and true method to cure or alleviate the symptoms of PTSD, please send it my way. From my own research on PTSD, I know that chronic, traumatic and stressful events physically affect certain areas of the brain in measurable ways. I know of nothing to bring the traumatized areas back to their original state, but I do know of things that are useful tools such as meditating and dancing. Unfortunately, I can’t spend my entire day immersed in these activities because I have to make a living like the rest of us.

"Change your thoughts. Change your frame of mind. Push through it and get over it." That doesn't happen over night. If only it were that easy. 

I also worry about my future. I’ve wanted a family and the medications I take are known to cause birth defects. What happens when I’m ready for that phase in life, should it ever come? Granted, I know that there are many ways to have a family and I’d be more than happy to adopt a child out of the foster care system when I have the means to do so. Additionally, this probably isn’t even something that should be on my list of concerns right now.

I’ve lost interest in feeling the need to prove my case to the rest of the world that medication is a necessary part of me not just being functional, but truly living as well. I went out for hikes this weekend and spent a lot of time among friends. I haven’t done that in a while because I was too busy making excuses for why I couldn’t be there and why I couldn’t do certain things. I spent the last few days just doing. Granted, there are a few things out of my reach at the moment, but I’ll find a way to get to them as well. For now, I'm grateful to once again be standing in the presence of the mantle, the oneness with the silence, the oneness with nature and the oneness with the universe. 

Just one of the many glorious things I've been missing.