Pieces

The hardest part about finding yourself again after losing yourself? Besides reopening old wounds that you sometimes didn’t even know you had? Realizing how many relationships have been damaged and how many friendships you’ve lost along the way. And being able to pin point moments where (you believe, anyway) things went wrong. And all you can think is, “Damn. That wasn’t me. But it WAS me.” Physically anyway. It was my body. My words. My actions. Or lack thereof. That was there. That said those things. That DID those things. Or didn’t do them. It wasn’t the real me, though. It was the me that had been hurt by one too many people that made me believe that I was the problem. That I needed to change.

I’ve heard the saying, “Don’t look back. You’re not going that way.” And to some extent, I agree. We can’t constantly dwell on the could’ve/should’ve/would’ves of our past because it will kill us. It will kill our joy. It will kill our spirits. BUT I’m sure were all also well versed on the phrase “those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” And let me tell you, I have no interest in repeating this.

As I look back (with the desire to learn from my mistakes) I am constantly asking myself “Where did I go wrong.” I’m always searching the corners of my brain for where I went wrong and when find somewhere I went wrong, I search for WHY I did what I did. Said what I said. Became who I was. When you spend time consciously trying to change your behavior, I’m finding that things kind of creep into your mind about WHY you’re having to change it. Your eyes become opened to things that have been buried for so long you forgot about them and when you keep an open mind, you are able to get a little bit more of an objective view about things.

And what I’m coming to find is actually not that much of a revelation at all: I was shaped and changed by things that happened to me. I know. Not really that unheard of, right? Everyone knows that we are shaped by circumstances. BUT here’s the thing that I’ve realized more than that. My reactions to those things were not what they should have been.

I’ve been hurt in various ways by different people. I’m sure we all have. Some of these things were buried. I forgot about them. I moved on. Until recently when I started digging to get to the bottom of things. Some of them, I never once forgot and probably never will. And while both types of hurt changed pieces of me, I think it’s the ones that are still fresh in my mind – ALWAYS fresh in my mind that are the real culprits. Not the people. The situations. I’m not here to try to push blame onto other people in a sorry attempt to justify everything. That is helpful to absolutely no one. I take full blame. Full responsibility. Because it was MY reactions to those circumstances that created the problem.

Allow me to explain. I’ve been hurt by various people in various ways. And while I take things pretty personally (a lot of the time) I tend to give people chance after chance after chance to prove to me that they didn’t intend to hurt me. Most of them time, they do. But the times they don’t? I basically let them continuously hurt me until there’s no way that I COULDN’T be a different person as a result of it. It would change me. It would make me believe that maybe it was me. Maybe there was something I needed to change either to:

1. Give them one.more.chance to problem me wrong and like me OR

2. To keep them from hurting me again.

I think the general tendency was to go with option 1 first – to change something about myself and if that didn’t work, I’d go with option 2.

Sometimes, option 1 DID work. So I’d end up with a mish mash of “don’t do this, don’t say that, don’t be this person around that person.” that was inevitably more difficult to keep track of the more it happened (talk about major identity crisis) and the honest to goodness plan of action by the time I got to option 2 was just to shut down altogether. Guard up. Closed off.

And while option 1 clearly has a whole host of issues, I don’t think my response to option 2 was really that out of line. But HERE’S where it all went wrong.

These mishmash of personalities and closed doors didn’t end at the people that hurt me. They should have. But they didn’t. They carried over into my friendship. My REAL friends. The ones who liked me just find that way I was. And the ones whose approval SHOULD HAVE been enough. They were find with me the way.I.was. But what I eventually gave them was a guarded, closed off person who tried so hard to be what everyone else wanted that she didn’t even know who she was anymore and had somehow developed some bitterness along the way. It’s no wonder they moved on. The person they wanted, that they grew to like, was gone.

It’s a hard realization to make. Really. To realize that you gave up something REALLY good for, what? Nothing? No-not really nothing. For something you didn’t even want and would spend years trying to get rid of later on down the road. Like the old tube TVs that sit in the basement because you can’t give them away. Not even to the garbage man. You can’t even light them on fire.

It’s a tough hole to try to dig yourself out of. Do you go running back to the people you miss, screaming “Wait! Give me another chance! Look, I’m different now!”? And hope that they give you the opportunity to prove yourself and then hope even harder that if they DO give you that opportunity that you don’t screw it up even worse than the first time? Because if you’re being honest, you’re still hurdling some things and you’ve never been known for your hurdling abilities.

OR, do you cut your losses and hope that you find new friends along the way that can fill the holes left and just vow to never let yourself dig that hole again?

It’s tough. It’s tough facing your missteps. The mistakes that you see so clearly now and know that while it was you. It wasn’t REALLY you. Somehow, some way, you have to pick up what remains and either try to piece it back together, knowing it will never be quite the same. Or, decide to discard the pieces altogether and try to create something new. Something you can only hope will be better and just pray that you can keep it from ever shattering again.

Closed Doors

This is on my mind daily. Which should be reason enough to assume that means I’m supposed to do something about it. But yet, I remain frozen. Terrified. Unnerved. Trying to figure out “why” and “where do I go from here.”

A year ago I was comfortable with where I was in life. Sure, there were a lot of things that weren’t ideal Things that I would change if I could. (Aren’t there always?) But overall? I was comfortable. When I took a step back and really analyzed where I was, how my life ended up, I discovered that it was good. That all things considered, I hadn’t done too badly for myself.

And then, things started to change. Inexplicably. Things that I loved started to get tainted. They started to leave a bitter taste on my tongue and an uneasiness in my heart. Small things at first. Things that I could (mostly) take in stride. Vent about. Then take a deep breath and move on. But the small things started to pile up and turn into big things. Until I finally found myself in my current position. Feeling that I am being ushered – no – SHOVED right out of the doorway of the house of comfort I’ve been sitting in for years.

I’ve tried to dig in my heels. To resist it. But. I just. Keep. Getting. Shoved. The harder I dig in, the harder I get shoved. I dig in. I get shoved. And then, I settle into the new, less comfortable way things are. And I think “This is okay. I can handle this. It’s not THAT uncomfortable.” as I adjust my position so the elbow in my back is just a little bit more to the right. Then, when I think I’ve figured out a way to sit so I’m comfortable (enough), another elbow pops up. And another. And another. And, seriously, how many elbows does this guy have?! And then we graduate to feet. Because everyone knows you can push harder with your legs. So I get shoved further. And further. And harder.

Maybe I’m a little slow to figure things out. Maybe I’m a little stubborn. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. But I’m beginning to think that maybe there is someone who is sick of my ignorance and stubbornness and is taking matters into His own hands.

The more I think about it, though, the more I wonder – is it really that I was content with life? Did I really think that everything was going just great? Or is it just that I was comfortable where I was because the place I ended up became like home to me? Because I had been there so long. That I knew what to expect. What was going on. Maybe it’s just that things were familiar.

I am also kind of coming to believe that maybe God doesn’t LIKE it when we’re comfortable. Maybe it provides us too much opportunity to “slack off”. It can keep us from spending time developing our relationship with Him. Because everything is “just fine” as it is. No need to change anything. It keeps us from always striving for more. Maybe He shoves us to get us exploring more. Thinking more. Learning more. To get us to realize that we are capable. Of. MORE.  

And yet, it’s still SO HARD to take that step. We all know that the whole point of faith is that you don’t know what’s coming next and you just need to trust. But, let me tell you, when you’re nearing the edge of the cliff and you’ve got an infinite number of elbows and feet pushing you closer, it’s not easy. It’s terrifying. You have no idea what’s coming. All you can see is the edge of the cliff getting closer and closer and you can’t stop it no matter how hard you try. Maybe there’s a just a nice easy trail that winds its way down the side that will make you wonder why you were so terrified of the edge in the first place. Maybe there’s a series of landings that gradually stair step their way down requiring you to make some big leaps – not necessarily an easy way down, but not the worst either. Maybe you’ll get there and there will just be a sheer drop off and with the relentless elbows and feet at your back, you will just have to trust that when you start freefalling, someone will catch you.

The reality is, that we’re going over the edge one way or another. And I’m sure that God would really just appreciate it if we would go “okay, I see where you’re pointing me” and RUN, fearlessly, toward the edge, hurling ourselves off with reckless abandon and straight into the plan He’s had for us all along. But for those of us who are a little more stubborn, He’ll still get us there. He has no problem pushing us up to the edge and then just giving us a shove off. So that when we finally see what all the shoving was about we can marvel at the way that He STILL pulls through for us. Every. Time. The way that His plans for us turn out to be bigger than we could have ever imagined from our place of comfort. Always. And the way He doesn’t let our own stubbornness and fear keep us from His plan for our lives. Ever.

Here's the thing...

Here’s the thing. About struggling with mental health. A lot of people just don’t “get” it. They’ll try. They’ll pretend that they do for your benefit. But they don’t. Not really.

And sometimes, the things that you do as a result of your mental health struggle seem unreasonable to those who don’t understand. They seem like extreme measures. And those people, whether they mean to or not, may react in ways that only add to your struggle. They may say things or do things that will make you feel like you ARE being unreasonable. Or that your “extreme measures” are a bit TOO extreme. But it’s important that you remember that they’re not. Not really.

What others frequently don’t understand is that just like with anything else, when we struggle, we learn. Mental health is no different. When we struggle, we learn and we learn quickly. We have to. Because in some cases, it is, quite literally, life or death. But those who have never struggled don’t understand that. And they probably never will. Not really.

They don’t understand that (sometimes) we can see things coming that we KNOW will send us backwards in our journey. They don’t understand that when we see those things coming, we do EVERYHING we can to avoid them. To keep them from coming. Or at least avoid having to fact them head on. Because we’ve learned. And. Honestly? Because we know that there’s a good chance that something else is coming that we DON’T see coming that will inevitably send us backwards. Others don’t understand that we’re trying to avoid what we CAN see coming in order to save our energy to fight what we DON’T see coming. Because if we don’t learn from our past and just continue to hit everything head on despite what we know to be true, we will continuously be knocked backwards. Over and over and over again. Until we’re so far back, we can’t find the way forward.

If you struggle with mental health, know this: There are no measures that are “too extreme”. None. Not really. Whatever you need to do to make forward momentum is what you need to do. Your mental health is important. REALLY important. And caring for it is necessary. REALLY necessary. Don’t let people who don’t understand try to convince you otherwise. Don’t believe them when they make you seem like you are being unreasonable.

If you don’t struggle with mental health, know this: Those measures you think might be a little “extreme”? They’re not. Not really. That person has been there. They’ve experienced hurt that you don’t understand and may never understand. They’ve experienced a hurt bad enough that they will take “extreme measures” to never go there again. They’ve learned. They’re trying to maintain forward momentum. And it’s not your place to tell them whether or not they’re doing it “right”. Not really.

We don’t expect everyone to understand. Not really. But we do expect that you acknowledge that we know what we’re doing. Why we’re doing it. We do expect you to respect us and our mental health enough to let us heal. On our terms.

Grief

               Grief is kind of an interesting thing. I’m not sure that I’ve ever experienced TRUE grief before now. And I’m honestly going back and forth between “30 is kind of old to be experiencing grief for the first time” and “I’m not very old to be experiencing grief”. Of course I know that your age has no influence on what you are “allowed” to feel, but I can only imagine that feelings like grief get worse and occur more often the older you get and as more people you know pass.

               When my grandpa died, I told my mom, “When grandma goes, you might as well dig a hole for me too.” And I meant it. I couldn’t picture myself in a world without her. I was close to her and was for pretty much my whole life. We had a special bond. Shared similar interests and I think I would have lived with her if I could have (I pretty much did during the summers). Her house was my favorite place to go, and the hardest place to leave. I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way home every time we left.

               I expected the day I found out about her passing to be the hardest day of my life. The one where I wouldn’t be able to pick myself up off the bathroom floor for at least a day. And then – who knows? But it wasn’t. Not really. The hardest day was the day that we were given the diagnosis and the timeline. When it came to my emotions, it was essentially the same as being told she had passed.

               The “upside” to knowing what’s coming – being given a timeline – is that it leaves no room for regret. You can plan for it. You can go visit. You can spent the time remaining making sure to do the things you want to do and say the things you want to say. For that, I will be forever grateful. I have no regrets.

               How things played out, though, directly affected the course of my grief. While I was (kind of) already grieving when we were given the news, I didn’t really have time to accept that grief. And to deal with it. I couldn’t let it overtake me because there was still time to be spent with her while she was living. I had to ignore my feelings and try – DESPERATELY try – to act like everything was normal and make the most of the time remaining.

               By the time the day rolled around that she had actually gone to be with Jesus, I’m not sure I even knew what it meant to grieve. In some ways I thought that I already had. Because I knew it was coming. Everything happened essentially as we were told it would and in the timeline they said it would. It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t unexpected. It happened the way it was supposed to. So I thought that I was good. I made it through the funeral without many tears shed which is abnormal for me – I’m the type of person who could go to the funeral for a complete stranger and I would bawl my eyes out the whole time.

               It wasn’t until after the funeral, on the two hour drive home that it really hit me. Just like when I was a kid, I cried the whole way home leaving grandma’s house. Because I missed her. And the feeling was only intensified by the fact that I knew for absolute certain that there was never going to be another day on this earth that I would see her fact in person or hear her voice on anything but the voicemails I have saved in my phone – that I still can’t bring myself to ACTUALLY listen to.

               Grief is and interesting thing. It somehow convinces you, for a few days, that, “You’re okay!” “Everything is fine!” “You’ve accepted what’s happened and you’re moving on!” And then completely out of the blue, it smacks you hard across the face and says, “Just kidding! You’re not okay” “Everything is NOT fine.” And “You’re NOT moving on.” And “Now we’re going to cry hysterically on the bathroom floor for the rest of the night.” And that’s what you do. Until it convinces you, again, that you’re okay for a few days while it winds up to slap you again.

               I don’t think I ever expected to still be struggling SO MUCH with this a month a half later. I’m not sure why not. If I truly believed that I would be in a hole in the ground beside her by this point. Or if I believed that if I could survive the first week after and the funeral that I would just somehow move on as if nothing had happened. But here I am. On the floor in my bedroom, trying to see what I’m typing through tear-stained eyes and trying to keep my sobs to a minimum so my roommate doesn’t hear me upstairs and come down wondering what the heck is wrong with me.

               But I guess this is what grief is. Believing you’re okay for a few days until you’re reminded that you’re not. That a part of you left with the person you love. A part of you that you won’t get back until the day you reunite in Heaven. Trying to convince yourself that you’re going to be fine, when, frankly you’re really NOT fine, until…when? A year? Two? A whole lifetime? Do you ever become truly okay again? Do you ever actually stop grieving? Does anyone even know?