No, for real. WTF is wrong with me?!?

In my season of trying to feel better, I've uncovered some things about myself that most people probably wouldn't admit out loud.  But this is me we're talking about and I'm an open book, so of course I'm going to share.  I'm sure for many of you that have known me for more than 10 minutes, none of this will come as a surprise.  For the most part, it's not really a surprise to me, either, I'm just now realizing the depth.  From a psychological standpoint, I can even analyze the behavior and the root of the issue. But I've been sitting with these revelations about myself and pondering what comes next. Do I work on some of it first before diving into the next cesspool of personality traits that need tending? Or do I uncover it all like some dark trove hidden at the bottom of the ocean, and face it all at once?    

I don't have the answers, but I can share with you a couple of the things I've discovered in my quest to be less dark & twisty.

One of my biggest realizations is that I don't like feelings.  I have A LOT of them, but I don't like the way they, well, feel.  Like running a microfiber cloth on really dry hands, it's uncomfortable deep in my bones.  Seriously, physically painful sometimes.  Even the good feelings are that way, because I don't trust them.  They don't last. They're not sustainable or even very realistic.  Mostly, they're smoke and mirrors.  They're me convincing myself that something is one way when it's very clearly another.  In the instances when something feels legitimately good, it's here and gone so quickly, it seems like a rip-off. Not worth the tons and tons of other feelings for a few seconds of good.  I'd rather be numb.

A great example of this is in my interpersonal relationships. Particularly with people of the opposite sex.  I will slap on those rose-colored glasses and justify a whole hell of a lot of stuff that the smart, strong, and independent feminist in me knows isn't right.  This goes all the way back to my very first experiences with boys and honestly, continues to this day, albeit to a lesser degree.  I push envelopes I ought not be pushing because I'm addicted to the way it feels to be wanted by a man.  No matter how mediocre he may be, if he gives me the slightest indication that he wants me, I'm all in for as long as I can stand the pain.  It feels good and hurts beyond belief.  I've been fortunate enough to have married an exceedingly understanding man who accepts the weird, oftentimes distant, sometimes smothering, sometimes purely sexual way that I love.  He doesn't bat an eye that I'm a ruthless flirt, either.  So, I guess I'm doing something right if he feels secure enough in the way I love him that he knows I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that.  Still, I'm seriously boy crazy and can barely contain myself when in the throes of the tease.

Aside from my Toxic Slut Syndrome, I'm also seeing the depth of my body dysmorphia. Or my alleged body dysmorphia, because I don't think I'm seeing anything different than what is there, but I'm told constantly by people who love me that I'm not truly seeing myself.  I'm told I'm cute or pretty or sexy or "not fat" when the mirror shows me the exact opposite.  I look at my face and I don't see anything resembling "cute" or attractive in any sense of the word.  And to say I'm not fat is just an insult b/c that implies that I'm saying fat as a negative.  I don't. I say it as a statement.  My body is fat.  I don't think that would automatically qualify me as unattractive b/c I don't find fat bodies unattractive.  They are what they are.  But come on, people, I'm fucking fat. Whatever.  I think my personality and my aforementioned TSS is the only thing that has kept me from dying a virgin.  I'm certainly not winning any hearts with this mug. But my rizz is pretty strong.

I say all of this to say that sometimes when we start to get introspective, we find things about ourselves that we're not especially fond of.  I feel like mine have been more glaringly obvious than normal, and I'm trying to sit with it and decide how to change what I can, and how to accept what just is. Could it be a matter of training my mind to look at something differently?  A shift in perspective?  Or do I need to roll up my sleeves and start some hardcore demo work on the tendencies that are truly toxic?  Who decides which ones need which approach?  And how much of this is just a matter of my aversion to feelings and the physical reaction they elicit?  The downward spiral is endless, let's be honest.  There isn't a step-by-step guide to fixing crazy, or to even understanding the difference between crazy and the human condition.  It's a very blurred line.

Doctor's Orders

 True to my wishy-washy character, I made a grand proclamation to write more and then haven't written a single post since.  And yet here I am, doing it again.

This time, I'm doing it by order of my doctor, who told me that I needed to make time, even if in small increments, to do things that bring me joy.  He reminded me that before I was a mom, wife, and employee, I was me.  He also said that the only way I was not going to get lost in all the things I have to be outside of myself, is to remind myself what it was that brought me joy in the past.  He tasked me with writing a list and it was as follows:

1) Writing

2) Reading

3) Cross stitching

4) Taking walks

5) Time w/ friends

I started by writing in a journal, but I found my hands get tired quickly when I'm writing now. (God, that sounds elderly!) Then I got completely sucked into a series of semi-smutty books by Sarah J Maas and thus entered the cult of ACOTAR.  Once I finished the series, I had a hard time getting into another book right away, and my progress on the list sort of stalled.

I could have picked up a stitching project, but I haven't found a pattern that makes me excited.  I've done some small treks around the neighborhood with my crazy pup, Trapper, and I've spent some quality time with friends lately, too.  That brought me back to writing, which brought me back to this blog.

It seems that the thing that hangs me up the most in posting here is the sense that I have nothing of any consequence or relevance to say.  Sure, I can go on a million tangents about whatever random thing is occupying my medulla oblongota at the time, but who will read that?  And then the dusty old light bulb lit up over my head and I realized that I'm not writing for anyone else. I'm writing for me. Not because anything I have to say is important to the world at large, but because it makes me feel good. I like the sound of the keys clacking on the keyboard in a frenzied pace. I like the way I don't really have to think because it's as if my brain and fingers are working together and the rest of me is left out of the fray.  It is not, nor has it ever been for anyone else's benefit but my own.

Do I love when people tell me they read my blog and enjoyed it?  Abso-fucking-lutely.  When anyone tells me I have a knack for writing, I take it as one of the highest compliments ever.  It's a compliment I won't shy away from or get awkward about, because I believe it.  I love words. I love speaking them, writing them, reading them, learning them. Fashioning them into a run-on sentence that makes me lose my breath when I read it aloud.

I may be in the midst of the most unbelievably confusing time of my entire life. I may be wrestling (and mostly losing) with depression and anxiety and increasingly frequent manic episodes that push me dangerously close to engaging in activities a woman of my age ought not participate.  However, I have to believe that I'm worth the time and effort it takes to feel better. I have to believe it's not selfish to take care of myself for a change.  Even if it goes against my very nature, I have to understand that my people pleasing has never served me well.  In fact, it only served to align me with takers and soul suckers.  It made me a doormat for narcissists.  Prioritizing myself, thinking about myself, doesn't automatically make me a selfish piece of shit.  It fills my cup enough to allow me to not want to throw myself into oncoming traffic.

And so, here I am, once again, stating that I am going to make it a point to post in this blog at least once a month.  Not because I expect anyone to read it, but because it soothes something messy within me.  If I say something that resonates with someone else, that's icing on the cake.  But that's not going to be my driving force, or the thing that discourages me from posting any longer.  

That being said, if you're reading this, I hope it was entertaining enough to bring you back or influence you to read back through the many cringy posts I've shared over the years.  I have no shame. This is me, wide open and vulnerable.  I don't know how else to be, and you can like it or lump it.  It's not going to change anything.

The horror persists, as do I

New Year's Eve, a day of reflection and resolutions. Looking back, it's been almost 2 years since I last posted here.  Writing has always been my therapy. I can write out my thoughts far better than I've ever been able to verbalize them, and when I read them back, they become clear. The issues become smaller and the solution seems simpler.  The negative thoughts swirling in my head spill onto the page with every key stroke.  The clouds lift and my heart feels lighter.  So it's no wonder the last two years have been such a struggle.  I didn't take the time to do what makes me feel better; I just trudged forward in the quicksand. Each step getting harder and heavier. 

I've seen so many versions of myself since my last post, that it would be too hard to give a full update.  Maybe I'll hit on some of the biggies and let the rest fall by the wayside.  Speaking from the here and now, I think it can be summed up pretty simply: life is kicking me in the dick.

Here's the funny thing: I've checked all my major boxes for the things I dreamed of as a child. I have the marriage, the kids, the home.  I even have a job that I enjoy, and although it's not the fantastic writing career I wanted, I genuinely like what I do for work. But I'm a frequent rider on the struggle bus, medicated for survival, and still lacking a sense of joy and fulfillment.  Something is missing, either within myself or in the world around me. 

I can't attribute it to the heavy losses from the last couple years because it started well before that, although those certainly didn't make things any easier.  The biggest loss being the sudden passing of my babiest brother, Billy.  It was a typical Sunday morning when I saw my dad's number pop up on my phone, and I just knew it wasn't going to be good news.  I didn't realize just how true that was until he told me that Billy was gone.  My breath caught in my throat and there was no stopping the tears. I paced the floor of my living room and laundry room, asking the same things over and over, feeling lost and wanting nothing more than to be with my Dad in that instant.  The days that followed were a blur, as I made the 3 hour drive to and from my Dad's house multiple times, helped him with whatever I could, sat in a funeral home completely raw and wishing to crawl out of my own skin.  A full house celebration of life and long overdue family tattoos later, Billy's memory lingers.  The happy thoughts of the little guy, way too smart for his age, that I now see all over again through his daughter.  The smile that curls the edges of my lips upward when I recall the sarcastic roasting we used to give each other all the time. It's bittersweet knowing we should have had more time, yet I'm grateful for the time we did have, and for the time I've been given with my niece in his absence. Sometimes I'll look over at the wooden urn sitting on my mantle, and taunt him with a joke, as if he can hear and respond.  Other times I'll catch a glimpse of his rugby photo on my wall and feel a deep and resounding regret that I only saw him play once.  But when I hear his daughter talk, I see her daddy's mannerisms and know that he's never fully gone. He poured every bit of himself into that little girl.  She was his magnum opus.

In the midst of all of this, what I thought was a new beginning with my other brother turned upside down and showed me that blood relation doesn't automatically bring with it loyalty, trust, or respect.  After he had a major stroke, we reconnected, but his life was falling apart in other ways and it culminated with a 6 week stay at our house followed by just his son living with us for the next 8 months.  As we sunk deeper and deeper into debt, worrying how we were going to provide for our own children and trying to raise his child with absolutely no help from my brother or my nephew's mom, I finally asked them first to let me claim him on my income taxes (they said no), and then asked them to sign over temporary guardianship, which started a huge fight. Suddenly I went from being their beloved sister and savior, best aunt in the world, to some child-stealing monster. Knowing that they'd come into some money and would have a place to live again, I told them to either let me have guardianship or take their son back. They chose the latter.  And I haven't been allowed to see or speak to my nephew since.  The truth is, I don't miss my brother at all.  Losing contact with my nephew has been the worst part.  I hope that he'll be old enough to reach out on his own soon enough.  That's the only ray of hope in the dramatic mess of that whole situation.

If you know me, or have read my previous posts, it's obvious that I'm a basket case.  I've had a lifelong struggle with depression and anxiety (long before it was the trendy thing to admit), and after having my 3rd child, those mental health issues only worsened.  In early 2022, I finally put on my big girl panties and established care with a doctor, had blood work done to check my hormones (not surprisingly they were out of whack) and eventually admitted that I needed pharmaceutical assistance with the mental stuff.  With my hormones in balance and duoluxetine on deck, I thought I'd have a better grasp on life.  I don't daydream of unaliving myself anymore, which was the most urgent reason for my seeking medical help.  However, my typical optimism and positive outlook even in the thick of some serious struggles, is just gone.  Each day is a chore. Experiences that should be joyful are meh.  Sure, they're cool, but the bursting heart glee that I used to feel for every little thing has been replaced with a numbness.  I recognize that this isn't who I am, or who I've ever been, and yet I don't know how to change it.  In moments that should either be full of happiness or sorrow, I'm riding in the middle, mostly apathetic while still being aware that I should be feeling SOME emotion.  I can cry, I can laugh and smile, but I used to do all of those things with my whole being, inside and out.  Now, it's like muscle memory.  Milestones and precious moments with my children are muffled by this veil that seems to shroud everything from reaching my soul.  I exist around it instead of throughout it. I tolerate living the way a person tolerates the common cold. It's inconvenient but you keep trudging on.

You might not understand why I'm sharing this, and that's okay. If you've read this far, I'm impressed.  Even I get tired of thinking this way and talking about this. My hope in putting this out into the great white void that is the internet is that it will bring back some of the therapeutic properties that writing used to provide.  That it will create even the smallest spark that might ignite something greater. A passion that's been lacking for so long now that I've forgotten how it felt or why I felt it.  I've never been one to need life to be all rainbows. I am okay with adversity. I'm strong and determined.  I'm a survivor. I know this about myself, always have.  I just need to know that I won't always be like this. That I can find that drive and tenacity that I once had. That I can find joy in the littlest things like a pretty sunrise or the reflection of the sky in a raindrop.  I want to be delighted by trivial moments again.  And in lieu of actual therapy, I'm feverishly typing these embarrassing thoughts on the interwebs as a means to try to reignite something...anything.

Please...just a spark. 

A Neurodivergent Sunrise

Every day has it's sweet spot.  A fleeting instant that catches your eye and your breath at the same time.  An ordinary moment that feels like a miracle.  The problem is that most of us are too busy or absorbed in the difficulties of every day life, that we miss them.  But this morning, I caught it, and I'd like to share.

Before I continue, I'm compelled to say that I often wonder how many people have similar moments, and don't share them?  Maybe out of fear of judgement or shame for finding something so ordinary breathtaking?  That's why I keep most of these to myself.  In my head, I hear the voice of a well-meaning relative saying "she has too much time on her hands".  It was in response to a little family update letter I had sent with a Christmas card 19 years ago. As a new mom, I felt like I finally had something important enough to talk about, and wasted no time in doing so.  But that statement eliminated the joy of my intentions, and repeats in my head whenever I want to write about things like this.

Now back to the point.

This morning, I caught the day's sweet spot.  It was uncharacteristically quiet in the house.  The animals, kids, and hubby were all sound asleep.  I stood at the kitchen window, waiting for my cup of coffee to finish brewing, and that's when I saw it.  The orangey-yellow sunrise shedding light on the glittery frost that covered every single surface of the backyard.  I didn't see the grass in need of mowing, or the trellis that fell over in a windstorm that needs to be fixed.  I saw sweetness and simplicity and calm and home.  My home.  Imperfect, disordered, and slightly damaged, yet beautiful.

I snapped a picture, and wondered quietly if it would actually capture the scene as my mind did.  (Spoiler alert: of course it didn't.)  My breath caught, unable to pass the lump in my throat. My eyes welled slightly with tears.  It was the peace in those few minutes that hit me square in the jaw.  

As with all things, time marched on and I was pulled back to reality.  I poured creamer in my coffee, and took another peak out the window to try to recapture the magic.  It was gone, and so I went about the rest of my morning.  Business as usual.

I'm posting this not to sound like some philosophical 21st century Thoreau-type suburbanite on a journey of enlightenment.  If you know me in real life, you know that's hardly my vibe.  (Bitch, I'm just trying to get through each day!)  I'm writing this because surely I'm not the only person who is blown away by mundane things?!?  I can't be. So I guess you could say this is my attempt at normalizing our shared weirdness by exposing mine.

Hi, my name is Trish, and sometimes the sunrise and a messy backyard heals my soul a little.

Cracked and Glued

Random things trigger memories and sometimes the best way to make it make sense is to write it out.  That happened today and now I have a story to tell, but I need to preface this with a very important point: I do not share these stories for sympathy or attention.  My past is a part of what makes me who I am; the good, bad, and ugly.  I feel like I understand people better when I hear their stories, and that's what I hope for when I tell mine.  So please keep that in mind if you choose to read further.

When I was moving my Mom into residential care, she had a storage unit full of stuff, and she gave me the task of clearing it out.  I brought it all to my house and had her go through it to decide what to keep and what to sell or donate.  Of the sell/donate items, I was given her blessing to keep what I wanted, so I did.  What little I chose to keep immediately got tucked away in my bedroom closet, or stored in the catch-all spot in our media room, and forgotten.  The latter happens to be the place where my son found the item that triggered this post.

I recall this cloche vividly, though I was never particularly fond of it as a child.  It sat near the TV in every house we lived in since the mid-to-late 80s.  I'm not entirely sure why I kept it at the time, but I can guess it had something to do with it being a tangible piece of my childhood, which is a pretty rare thing.  Most material possessions or keepsakes have long since been lost or tossed.  

My son carried it to me today, asking why it's empty and if we can put food in it.  I tried to explain that's not what it is used for, that it's just for decoration, and then took it out of his hands to put it away.  As my palm landed on one of the cracks in the lid, my mind raced backward to a time when it wasn't cracked.  I thought back to when it was in pristine condition, and was one of my Mom's most prized pieces of decor.  No matter how many places we moved into, it always sat proudly on a shelf on the entertainment center with a doily underneath.  I assume it was a gift from my Grandma Wilson because one of her poems is written inside.  And I can assume it was a wedding or anniversary gift, based on the content of the poem.

If I think back to when it was whole, I'm also immediately reminded of it being thrown in the midst of one of my Mom and her husband's explosive fights, and the crashing sound it made when it hit the ground.  That single memory conjures up countless others. I remember how they'd fight and how I'd silently gauge their tones in anticipation for how it would escalate.  I got very good at predicting when the yelling was about to turn into smashing up the house, and when that would turn into physical violence.  I'm reminded of how myself, and sometimes my brother, would cautiously and quietly help pick up whatever got broken, trying so hard not to be seen as we erased all evidence of what just happened. I remember being extremely aware of my face, knowing that any sideways glances or furrowed brows could cause either of them to feel guilt and would reignite the fire, but direct it right at me.  It felt like walking a tightrope.  

After the lid of the cloche was glued back together, my Mom adjusted how she displayed it so that the cracks were off to the side, making them less obvious.  She didn't want anyone to see the brokenness of the decor, or of our family.  After a certain amount of time, she couldn't hide either, but she always tried.  To this day, she won't admit to anything unless it's to paint herself as the valiant protector of her children against a tyrannical husband.  The truth is, she didn't do anything to protect us. She taught us to hide the cracks, and pretend as if everything wasn't being precariously held together by super glue. 

In spite of the bad memories, I guess I kept this piece of decor because it is a stark reminder of what I grew up in vs where I am now.  When I look at the haphazard way it was put back together, I marvel at how something that was once in pieces on the floor of a trailer has managed to remain intact for decades.  I can profoundly relate to that. We've both been broken, and could have easily stayed that way; exposing our sharp edges and cutting anyone who dared to touch us.  The fact that my kids won't ever witness a tempestuous fight, or be left to pick up shattered pieces of household decor, is a testament to my own healing.  I've got a long way to go, even at 40, but I'm holding it together.  Me and my cloche.

Catch and Release

Motherhood is such a strange and torturous thing.  You literally grow a human being inside your own body, experience the worst pain to bring them into the world, pour every ounce of energy into raising them, only to have them eventually start a completely independent existence.  If you're lucky, that existence will be adjacent to your own, with varying degrees of attachment, but still very much separate.

Like all parents, we know the day will come when our child will be a legal adult, and will no longer depend on us in the way they had up to that point. It's this invisible, intangible finish line that they will reach sometime after they turn 18.  All the years leading up to that moment are a roller coaster in the best and worst ways.  So much information, so many skills, so much love needs to be instilled in this being, and even if you had infinite time, it wouldn't be quite enough to give you total peace.  But time marches on and you hope you provided all of the care they will need to be happy and healthy and successful at meeting the challenges they're about to face.  No matter how many times you thought "damn, why can't they grow up and move out already?!", the game changes completely when they finally do.

Yesterday was the big day for my very first baby.  While I have been relatively prepared for it to come, there was an internal list I had been keeping of all the things that needed to happen first.  However, my list really is just mine, and my very first baby decided she was ready now.  My list sits unchecked and I'm grieving that, as I also feel what I imagine is the typical sadness and nostalgia that comes with an emptying nest.  The sadness, the anger, the disappointment, the regret...it has all mixed together into this heavy sludge that feels like it's pouring into my lungs and stealing all the air.  Maybe that's just the tears, which were plentiful and painful last night, anticipating that moment when she'd get in her car and pull out of our driveway.  

There is so much I wanted to say and do, but I just lay in my bed, paralyzed by all the emotions.  The deep sobs wracked my body and I swear I cried an ocean.  I heard her singing to herself as she was packing, and the realization that this would no longer be a daily occurrence hit me like a speeding freight train. And I sobbed harder.  My unchecked internal list screamed inside my brain.  She hasn't graduated. She doesn't have a real place to live. She'll be so far away. We don't get to have a proper send-off.  I cannot emphasize enough the grief of losing all of these opportunities and being powerless to change it.

After a broken night's sleep, I woke up with red, puffy eyes and a gaping wound on my heart.  I went through the motions of getting ready for work.  I cried in the car on the way to the office, and then put every bit of myself into focusing on the tasks in front of me.  After several hours alternating between ignoring the pain and marinating in it, I knew I needed to write. It's the only way I can drain the sludge and start to breathe again.

I know that this is something most parents experience and that time will make it easier. I know that the end of one era is just the beginning of a new one. Logic reminds me that each phase of life comes with growing pains, and this is certainly no exception.  The relationship my daughter and I have is not ending; it's under construction.  We're creating room for what is to come.  But I also just need time to sit in these feelings for a minute, to mourn my child's childhood, before I can be completely happy for her adulthood. She isn't mine to keep.  The memories of late night feedings, field trip chaperoning, bedtime snuggles are what I can hold tight.  All the rest has to be released.

The Weight of Failure

I made a goal, I reached it, and I was still unhappy.  I still felt uncomfortable in my skin and tangled in thoughts of hatred and self-loathing. That was pre-covid.

The beginning of last spring, when we were first given the stay-at-home orders, was pretty great. The pressure to go and do and be all the things was lifted from my shoulders.  Justin and I watched a lot of shows and ate a lot of take-out because we were staying home, staying safe, and helping small business, of course.  It wasn't until right before summer that the joy of staying home began to change. My mental health, which is a powder-keg on a good day, teetered into a downward spiral the likes of which I've never experienced.  And that is saying a lot because shit was intense in my late teens/early twenties.  

As my mind started declining, my body mass began increasing.  At first, I brushed it off because we were in "the apocalypse" and who has time to care about health when the world is on fire?! I don't even know when I hit the point where I couldn't hide it anymore, but I can tell you that when the realization hit me, in my already precarious state of mind, I gave up. I gave up caring and started getting self-destructive.  Binge eating, not getting outside to walk, drinking every day, and not reaching out to anyone.  

Here is the absolute truth: I look at myself  and I feel like an utter failure. My outward appearance is a physical manifestation of what is happening inside. I really fooled myself into believing I had healed my relationship with who I am as a person and with food.  But the reality is that I hadn't. I had just learned to fake it enough to lose some weight, wear a smile and some better clothes, and pretend I was well.  I didn't fix the root of the issue so of course it resurfaced with barely any resistance. Healing is a journey, not a destination.  There is no magical finish line where everything is effortlessly perfect.  Healing is a verb.  I thought if I did X, Y, and Z, and hit that ever-elusive "perfect" number on the scale, that would be it. All the past trauma, all the self-esteem issues, all the internal self-abuse would evaporate into the ether.  

Spoiler alert: it didn't.

I still don't care about myself and therefore don't take care of myself.  Not on the inside or the outside. I just slide down my slippery slope, feeling powerless and numb. Meanwhile, my inner voice is relentless.  RELENTLESS.  I ping-pong back and forth between "fuck it, who cares" and "you're a weak piece of shit and know you should be doing better".  Every meal is a battle.  Every. Single. One.  When I was "doing good" aka going through the motions, I ignored the fact that what needed my attention wasn't my waistline.  It's easy to change your outward appearance compared to what it takes to change your mindset.  I'm good at hating myself.  It's easy. It's familiar. It's hard to unlearn that.  Even though it hurts, it's a hurt that I'm used to feeling.  

These things on their own are difficult enough to navigate that I'm not even going to attempt to articulate the added pressure of trying to be well enough to not pass this nonsense on to my children.  Motherhood brings with it a responsibility to do better and be better.  Not perfect, but better.  Better than my own childhood, better than my mental struggles, better than my insecurities and biases.  My poor, poor kids.  If they had any clue how sorry I am that I'm not the Mom they deserve....

All of that to say this: I suck. I'm lost and struggling. I don't know what "getting better" looks like. I've given up for the moment. Not to the point of hurting myself, but to the point of feeling like I'm just biding my time until the end.