Writing as Therapy

I care too much. My husband tells me that. He's not wrong. It makes me sound so altruistic and holier than though but that's honestly not how I mean it. 

Yes, I care about the lives of people I've never met and it hurts when I know people are being mistreated, especially in the country I call home. But that's not what I'm talking about. I wouldn't ever want to change that part of myself. 

For me, I have a problem where I put the health and well-being of others before my own and over the course of time, this starts to fuck me up. I feel guilty when I'm having a bad day, like my bad day is going to make someone else's day bad too. And then, if someone isn't perfectly happy with said day, I blame myself for it. 

Luckily, as I've mentioned, I have an amazing husband who tries to make sure that I do this as little as possible. And luckily, this works a lot of the time. But it doesn't work in certain instances and it doesn't work with some key people, people who don't always make it easy for me to not blame myself. 

Now, I don't want this blog to be me feeling sorry for myself. I won't lie -- the fact that some people close to me take my anxiety and depression personally does hurt a lot. It does make it difficult to not blame myself and it does make me feel like the disorders that I have are my fault. But somewhere inside of me I know I shouldn't feel that way, basically, because I have friends with these types of disorders and I try my hardest to make sure they know that none of this is their fault. And if I say it to them and really believe it, part of me knows I have to believe it for myself too. 

So, this blog is to remind myself that I need to put me first. It's to remind me that if my health is failing, whether physical or mental, I can't be as good of a wife or daughter or friend or loved one. And those things mean a lot to me. 

This blog is to remind myself that I'm not defective. It's to remind me that I don't become a bad person just because I have a bad day or need to concentrate on myself. It's to remind me that mental health isn't an imagined issue that I've just made up to put the focus on me. Cause that's something I really struggle with.

The words selfish and ungrateful swim around in my head on a daily basis. I can hear them being screamed at me as I cry, their words echoing for eternity in my heart and soul. I can feel all of the bruises that they've left inside of me over time, so much so that it feels like I'll be black and blue forever and I'll never be able to heal properly. 

This blog is to remind me that those words aren't true. This blog is to remind me that no matter how long it took me to type them or how much trouble I actually have believing them, it was still important that I say them -- that I put into print that I'm not selfish or ungrateful. 

I need to somehow realize that it's okay for me to not believe them. That even more so than that -- that it's not okay to believe them. I need to realize that it's up to me to hug myself and tell myself that everything will be okay. It's up to me to console the person inside of me. It's up to me to comfort the person that's been hurt. It's up to me to fix what's been broken. 

Not because there aren't people who want to help. But because I'm the one who truly needs to understand that I'm not all of those terrible things. I'm the one who needs to be able to look at herself in the mirror and say, "you're not selfish and ungrateful. You're not all of your worst fears." 

I'm 40 years old and I'm still working on understanding that. Some days it feels like I'll never get it through my thick skull and other days are a little easier. Some days the screaming in my head never stops and I can feel my insides bleed even though I know that's silly. Other days I feel like a warrior, trying to speak out and have courage and use my writing to try and fix what little I can. 

And on days like these -- when I feel vulnerable to the point that it seems like I'm an open nerve and have no skin to protect me from the outside world -- I try to be honest about how I'm feeling. I try to write about these problems I have, with the hope that anyone else that might have a similar problem learns that they're not alone. I know that there's still so much I'm not capable of talking about but I try to be as brave as I can be and wish with all of my heart that it helps someone feel better. And maybe if I'm lucky, one of those someones will be me.

My Truth

My anxiety has been worse lately. I'm not exactly sure why. My husband thinks it could be just a release of emotion. He says that because I've been operating in "emergency mode" for a while now that my brain was basically just shutting shit off. And now that things are returning to a bit of normalcy that my brain feels like it's safe to stop ignoring some of its strongest impulses. 

That makes sense to me. Doesn't change that things are sucking right now, though.

I've had three panic attacks in four days and my "day off" wasn't a trip to Disneyland. Some attacks I can classify as minor but the one I had on Friday was a fucking volcanic eruption of panic, anxiety, anger and depression. Every single ounce of control that I normally grab onto out of sheer fear absolutely left me. Impulses raged like I haven't felt in years and echoes in my head of conversations past worked at chipping away my self-made esteem. 

Life right now could be much harder, I one hundred percent get that. I just had a close friend lose a parent, a past work colleague is in the process of losing one as well and my very best friend in the world is also going through a lot of family health issues. There are a butt-load of things that could've gone much worse but it's possible that I'm finding out my brain can only process a certain number of calls to the paramedics within a certain period of time.

Anyway, I'm not really looking to talk too much about that. More than anything, I don't want people 1) feeling sorry for me or 2) thinking I want people to feel sorry for me. Pity isn't something I'm comfortable with. I'm not honestly sure what I am wanting to talk about right now. I know that there are words inside of me looking to get out, I know that. And I know that I'm hoping something that I put on this page is something that someone else will read and find help in, even if it's simply being able to say, "I am not alone."

I know that I developed impulses as a kid that I hid from everyone I knew that helped me cope with my pain. And I also know that when I dabbled in suicidal thoughts at that same age, I decided that I was just being a trendy adolescent and that there was nothing I really needed to worry about despite these other impulses that were very real and that I was very much acting on. 

I know that these impulses got stronger as I got older and that the first time I ever had a witness, it became an indelible and scary memory -- for both of us, I imagine. I know that I've worked very hard to not give in to these impulses but I also know that there are people incredibly close to me that I've never shared them with and that when I made the very adult decision to see a psychiatrist that I never mentioned this to her whatsoever. 

Part of me is ashamed, I know that. Part of me doesn't want to worry loved ones, that's for sure. Part of me truly thinks that my problem isn't important enough to mention to a doctor. And the rest of me can't quite make my square peg fit into the round hole that is self-harm, even though I'm guessing the pegs are squishy and foamy and can be successfully molded into many shapes. 

My husband and I screwed up after our wedding and so I haven't had health insurance these past six months but that will be changing next month. So, I'm hoping that I can start healing again once June starts. So, you know, Wednesday. 

I realize how greatly my life has been affected by this, and not just my past life but my future. These problems of mine are one of the reasons why, despite loving the shit out of all the kids close to me, I've set the idea of children to the side. I know so much of what plagues me is something other people in my family have dealt with and I just can't seem to make myself okay with tempting fate and making a child of mine feel like this. The idea that my son or daughter would cry themselves to sleep at night without knowing the reason why, devastates me. The idea that they would think they were worthless even once, let alone on a regular basis is one of those things that I can't seem to get past. 

In a lot of respects, I feel like the best way for me to be a mother is to make sure that I don't pass this on. I feel like these potential children of mine don't deserve to live a life plagued with pain and fear. 

And all of that is just based on what's going on in their own heads. Add on top of that the stigma from the world about mental illness and it just seems like the best thing I can do for my kids is to not have them. I don't wish this on anyone else, let alone the very people that I would love most in life. 

And, yes, the stigma is getting better. Much better. But it's still there. There are still memories I have of a friend telling me that I was foolish for deciding to go to a psychiatrist because he followed the Tom Cruise method of health care. At my lowest points, my brain still loops through a conversation about suicide I had once where I was told in no uncertain terms how selfish I was for even thinking about the topic and that anyone who considers this doesn't deserve the life they have. This conversation actually played very heavily in my thought process this past Friday and despite the fact that I know I shouldn't, the words still echo in my head and try to convince me that they're true. That even though I was reaching out for help, I somehow don't deserve to live. 

I don't want to be the reason that anyone is ever told these words. I don't want to have the power to prevent this pain and then not use it because of some societal rule that married people should procreate or even because of some desire I have to see if my kids would be the kindest, funniest, most creative kids in the world as I think they would probably be (just based on how awesome my husband and I are). 

I feel like the responsible thing for me (and just for me, I don't know anyone else the way I know myself) is for me to stop my cycle here. I think I would be a good mom and I think this decision sort of solidifies that. And I think that somewhere inside of me, I've always known this was how it was going to be. And that's why I've spent my entire life channeling my voice as a writer, to give anything of myself that might be worth anything to the world. 

And I know this might sound pompous, like I'm saying the world would benefit from my wisdom and compassion but in some respects, I'm just proud of myself that I can say that statement with a straight face. At my darkest moments, I taunt myself by repeating that I don't deserve to be alive but if I can say that the world is a better place with me in it then maybe irreparable damage hasn't been done. Maybe it's still possible for me to not let this disease win and to be in more control of the voice inside my head. 

My husband and I have always said that if we get any surprises, we're just going to go with it. That if fate determines things that we weren't setting out to do or be, that we'd trust in fate and embrace our new roles happily. And that's still true. Neither of us is a baby, though, so I don't really know what those chances are especially without trying but I'm still bleeding annoyingly once a month so game is still technically on. 

In conclusion, I have no idea if anything I said here means anything to anyone. I have no clue if my words or thoughts can help anyone else in a similar situation or position. But I do know that if you're reading this and anything I said sounds familiar to you, that you're not alone. I know that it might feel that way but you have a friend out there in me. I know some of what you're feeling and above all, I know the struggle you go through every goddamn day. And I know something else. I know that you deserve to be happy. I know that no matter what goes through your head that you shouldn't be punished for being in pain. And I know that you want help, even if the idea of help scares you in every fiber of your being. 

So, please keep asking for help, if you can. From friends, from family, from clergy or a hotline. Or me. Just keep asking. Because you are not your worst fears. You are not the thoughts that creep into your head at night. You are not nothing. You are amazing and special and unique. And the world deserves a chance to get to know you and maybe, just maybe, be changed for the better just by you being a part of it. 

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 

1-800-273-TALK (8255)

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

Faux Paso Doble (it's clever if you know ballroom dancing)

Hey, remember back in 2009 when a reporter from Wonderland magazine asked Megan Fox to talk about director Michael Bay and after dabbling in a few Napoleon insults, she instead compared the director to Hitler? Remember when the world collectively told her to shut the fuck up and have some goddamn decency and then she wasn't asked back to the Transformers franchise and we all began to slowly but surely not give a rat's ass about her? 

Yeah, well, apparently Dancing with the Stars' Cheryl Burke was off somewhere fucking around when all of that went down. Because some-fucking-how we've got another thoughtless, disrespectful and intolerable celebrity making the same kind of paralyzingly asinine remarks.

Sunday during an interview on the "Allegedly With Theo Von & Matthew Cole" podcast, Cheryl Burke was asked who her least favorite celebrity partner was on DWTS. Now, other more seasoned celebrities (and human beings) wouldn't have fallen for this cheap attempt at gossip journalism. Instead of answering, someone more experienced or simply smarter would've refrained and moved on to a different topic. Someone braver might've even called the interviewer out on the low-rate question that shouldn't be regarded as journalism. 

And here is when a thoughtless and ignorant decision to answer a subpar and adolescent question takes a turn into "are you fucking kidding me with this shit" territory.

Instead of deflecting, not only did Burke answer said question but she went on to say that working with Beverly Hills, 90210 star Ian Ziering made her want to slit her wrists. She said she considered jumping off a balcony to injure herself and did so with any partner she was given over the age of 65 (save for Wayne Newton).

You know, I realize that even though it's the year 2016, we've still got quite a way to go on our journey to understanding mental health. I get that there are still a lot of people who don't "believe" in psychiatry and think that issues of this nature are made up, bogus or even worse. And I realize that taking medication for these types of issues is still fairly high on the universal stigma meter. 

I am pretty sure, however, that we've most definitely reached a time when people tend not to joke about committing suicide all that often anymore. Most people, save from a certain breed of schoolyard bully, are in total agreement that making light of the topic of suicide is pretty much completely abhorrent and fucking inexcusable. 

Now, I'm not sure exactly what Cheryl Burke was doing the day that fucking memo went out. I'm assuming it was something like kicking puppies or stealing delicious candy from tiny, tiny babies. Maybe she was telling Make-A-Wish kids that once when she was their age, she swallowed a piece of gum and thought she was going to die so she knew what they were going through. All of these things seem like viable possibilities. 

Cheryl Burke has since apologized for her comments and admits that she was "out of line" in her remarks. And kudos to her for listening to her publicist when the poor fucker called her thirty seconds after the sound waves carrying her words reached a human being's ears. But I wonder if she's really thought about the greater damage that she's done. She's helping to reinforce to those people who are struggling directly with this issue the idea that no one cares about what they're going through. She's diluting the very meaning of the words themselves -- words that should strike a chord when someone hears them. And then there's the more personal level. Just based on numbers alone, there is an almost certain chance that Cheryl Burke knows someone that is or has struggled with suicide, whether she knows it or not. She's admitted to having friends and family that struggle with depression and yet she somehow thought that making light of this issue, with a goddamn microphone in her face, was a totally okay and not at all completely insensitive and disrespectful thing to do. Does she seriously think that some half-assed apology that rings with the truth of a politician's smile is going to repair the damage caused by her callous and incomprehensibly self-absorbed remarks? Does she really even care? Doubtful.  

Hopefully Cheryl Burke will somehow learn from this, although one has to wonder how prepared her brain is for the learning process. I think reading her words, straight from the horse's ass, really puts into perspective just how adolescent and fucking stereotypically "Heather" this 26 year old perpetual Mean Girl is:

"My least favorite [partner] would be Ian Ziering. The fact that his name is not EE-AN and it's EYE-AN makes me want to throw up."

"By the way, I also don't know anybody, so I would have to Google almost every single partner of mine, other than Ian Ziering because I used to watch 90210," she shared. “My mom, my crazy Asian mother, would let me watch an hour a week, and I would watch 90210, 8 p.m. on Wednesdays. I'm like, 'Why, couldn't you give me Luke Perry or Jason Priestley? Why you give me that guy?' I know he's on 90210, but give me Screech [Saved by the Bell actor Dustin Diamond]."

"I mean, I could try and hurt myself," she said. "I thought about that a couple of times. I've got a balcony and was like, 'Should I jump?'...I wouldn't die. I wouldn't die. No. I wouldn't die. I would just be like, 'Hey guys, I'm injured this season. I won't be able to come back 'til next season.'"

"Anyone over the age of 65 I wanted to jump," she added, although she was quick to note that her season five partner, 74-year-old Wayne Newton, was 'lovely'."

She's a real fucking class act, isn't she?

Now, I'm guessing she'll have more learning opportunities than normal right now. She'll probably have plenty of chances to practice not saying stupid-ass shit with the overwhelming number of pseudo-journalists that are sure to beat down her door in the next couple of weeks, hoping for a new nugget of insensitivity and brainlessness.

No matter what, though, I think Cheryl will be able to take this experience and use it to better her relationships with future dancing partners. After all, she probably sees much clearer now how easy it is to lose your footing, misstep and really stick your foot in it. 

HA! Just kidding! She hasn't learned shit. 

Personally, I think the real kicker -- what Alanis Morisette might call "ironic" -- is that if this happened in the 90s, good old Cheryl would be sitting in front of the TV, Wednesday at 8:00, to watch Steve Sanders and company doing a very special episode of 90210 to address fallout from this whole disgusting event.

Life

Life almost never goes your way. There are people that will tell you that's not true and those people are either naive, stupid or use the word "blessed" too often. Now there isn't anything wrong with people who focus on the positives in life, other than we all want to strangle them most of the time. But for those people who understand that life can be an uphill struggle from start to finish but still be totally worth it and rewarding know differently. 

I don't like to talk too personally about people other than myself on here so just for the sake of this blog, let's just say that some really shitty stuff has happened lately with my family. When something like this happens, something that is polarizing even for a short period of time and will possibly change your life going forward, what do we do to make sure that we don't lose ourselves through the course of events and fallout? How do we not get buried under all of the details and how do we learn to take care of ourselves when we're devoting most of our time and attention to other, necessary, things? 

I pretty much have no answers. Some moments, I feel like I'm lucky to have even thought of the questions. 

I've mentioned before that I struggle with anxiety and depression, so too often my instinct is to hide inside of myself whenever possible. I become a pro at handling information-based communication but breakdown almost entirely if things get too personal, losing the ability to speak frankly about my thoughts and feelings. I find that in order to properly handle all of the important things that need to get done, I have to sacrifice other areas that take too much of my energy. 

I don't know if this is the right thing to do, I just know it's what I need to do in order to get done what needs to get done. My husband says I'm handling things well. He calls me the strongest person he knows (because he's wonderful) but it definitely doesn't feel like it. I'm freaked out most of the time and am only starting to realize that every single day, I feel like a life amateur. 

There's been no stage that I've been prepared for, life-wise. I didn't know what I was doing at all when I was a kid. Being a kid is like running in brand new dress shoes, across freshly Zambonied ice on legs made of those peel-apart Twizzlers. You will literally never be stable or understand a goddamn thing that is happening to you and hopefully you'll laugh and scream and have fun through most of it.  And honestly, not too much has changed for me since. Each stage of my life has been a surprise and almost nothing like I expected. High School was both exactly like and fucking light years away from a John Hughes movie. I was a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a criminal and a princess but I'll tell you that I never once sat in detention gabbing and learning from my peers all day while we played music and danced and snuck around the school only to be indelibly bonded to them for life. That never ever happened. College, for me, was ridiculously more vast and life-changing than I ever thought it would be -- and I went in thinking it was gonna be huge. My twenties were seriously like almost the exact opposite of how I imagined them. Nothing I did felt at all sure-footed and literally no part ended up with any permanence in the long hall, save for getting my dogs and making some truly amazing friends. And my thirties, honest-to-God, ranged from "what the fuck, are you kidding me?" to "how in the fucking hell did I get here?" And that's on both the good and bad side of things. 

I'm starting to think that the moment you really grow up is when you stop trying to convince everyone that you know what you're doing. Not at work, we all have to fake it there, but in general. When we can actually say out loud that all we're doing in trying our best but are really only guessing at the right things to do -- that's when we earn the term "adult". It's not about understanding anything better or achieving some sort of experiential status. It's just about being honest with ourselves, first and foremost, and then with everyone else about the fact that -- for the most part -- we don't know fuck all about like 95% of everything. And most of that 5% that we do know are like Beatles lyrics, Friends quotes and where the best donut place is near our home.

Some days, I do wish I knew a little bit more about what I was doing. Okay, every day I wish I knew more. The lack of confidence during tough times can get scary, especially when people are counting on you. Right now, I'm finding that panic attacks are a part of my daily life but I'm also finding that I get through them every single day. I'm leaving the house knowing full well that I'll probably have to deal with one sooner rather than later and in my parked car instead of in the safety of my home, where no one can see me. But you know what? I'm still leaving the house. I'm still doing what I need to do. I'm still hanlding my shit like a semi-pro (life amateur status still intact) and I'm still muscling through and staring in the face all of the things that make me twitch. 

So, maybe my husband is right. Maybe I am stronger than I think. Maybe it's not about how scared I am or how many days in a row I have a panic attack or how there are some moments that I feel like the smallest, tiniest speck of light in the world and that everything around me is working to snuff me out. Maybe it's just that I keep going. Maybe it's just that I close my eyes and gather my strength and do what needs to be done. I have my go-to's and my rituals and my panic attack evacuation procedures and maybe it's just that I use them everyday and I don't allow myself to give up at life. Maybe it's that I've learned to accept help from people who care about me and, for me, that's almost harder to do than anything. 

So, maybe I will be okay. Maybe I'll even be good. And maybe my dreams will still come true even though it feels like there's no room for them right now. Maybe I won't give up all over again, every single day, and I'll choose the only life for myself that I've ever understood. 

Cause I may not know what I'm doing but I do know that the world needs me. I do know that no one has exactly what I have to offer. And I guess strength, a lot of the time, is just being able to say that and really mean it.