F.E.A.R.

One of the things I love about Life Coaching is that it helps a person make an impact on their life right now. Unlike therapy or counseling, it isn’t necessary to know the whole story and all of the “why’s” in order to start taking steps forward.

I want to make it clear right now that I do NOT think life coaching should take the place of therapy/counseling. Some people may need one or the other, some people may want to have both. It is an individual’s choice to make sure their specific needs are being met. Life coaching isn’t about delving into past traumas or childhood experiences to discover why we act or feel the way we do. It is simply about coming up with a motivating plan to move forward from where you currently are.

That being said, life coaching does require a person to be vulnerable and honest. This can be really hard when talking about fears and insecurities, especially if you haven’t already been working your way through them.

My big fear is to live an unfulfilling life. A life with little emotional connection, no big-life talks, no exciting new experiences or travels to different places. A life where I am stuck in a comfortable but boring day job, feeling like I don’t make a difference in the world. A life where I don’t have a purpose. Essentially, I am just waiting to die because I’ve given up hope that life can be bright and inspiring and full.

The thing about my fear is that I have already lived it. I was trapped in a job, a relationship, a life that felt suffocating. I was filled with anxiety over the thought of never having something more meaningful to me. That is why I quit my job, ended a five-year relationship, and moved to a different state to start over. I had to leave behind the comforts of home and embrace the unknown in the hopes that things would work out for the better. And, so far they have.

I recently learned a new definition of fear in class:

F- false
E- evidence
A- appearing
R- real

How do we overcome fear?

F- face it
E- express it
A- acknowledge it
R- release it

One way of facing and expressing your fear is by turning it into a metaphor. Speaking of something metaphorically is sometimes easier than openly discussing a painful fear, and it can bring objectivity to a situation. Also, in your metaphor, you are entirely in control. You can overcome any roadblock that is set in your path.

My fear feels like a room with no doors. I’m in the room alone, and it is pretty threadbare. One entire wall is made of glass and I can see out into the world. People are constantly passing by, but they don’t pay attention to my little room. I try to get their attention but they can’t hear me. They are participating in life. They are making a difference in the world through work that they’re passionate about. They are embracing relationships and friendships fully and basking in the love they are giving and receiving. They are traveling, trying new things, finding new hobbies, new likes and dislikes, new ideas. 

My room is isolating and uninspiring, but it is safe. I can’t be hurt by others. I can’t fail or disappoint myself or others. I want to go outside, I want to live in the light, but I’m so worried I won’t be good enough, I won’t succeed, I won’t bring anything important to the world. What if I enter the light and fail? What if I am a burden to those around me? What if they were better off when I stayed in the shadows?

Still, my heart longs for adventure. I can’t stop thinking about what I might achieve. “Maybe I could succeed,” I whisper to myself, and a small crack appears in the glass.

“I have stories that others might relate to.” A snapping sound as another crack appears.

“I’ll never know unless I try.”
Crack.

My voice slightly louder, I say, “I’m a good listener. I’m thoughtful and caring. Others could benefit from having me around.”
Crack.

“Why shouldn’t I be happy? Why shouldn’t I dream big dreams?”
Crack.

“I’m holding myself back in this room. I’m playing small. I’m hiding from potential happiness and success.”
CRACK.

Taking a step back, I see the web of cracks connecting all over the glass. It seems precariously balanced, like one wrong move would send it shattering into a million pieces. 

“My voice is powerful,” I say louder.  
The glass shakes, every so slightly. 

Suddenly, I am so sure of myself. “I am powerful!” I shout. “I have the power to create any life I want!”

With this final declaration, the glass bursts into tiny, glittering pieces clattering to the ground. The dividing wall between myself and the world is gone. It is up to me what I do next. I step forward and feel the warm sunlight hit my skin. I smell the fresh, clean air. I hear laughter in the distance. My heart is so full. 

Looking over my shoulder, I see my small, dark room. Sunlight is streaming through the opening, brightening the corners. It doesn’t seem so threatening anymore. I turn back to the sun and take a step forward into the unknown. 

When I started speaking this metaphor to my classmates, I had no idea what was going to come out. I knew I felt trapped, but hadn’t realized the feelings of isolation and looking out at others. I sure as hell didn’t know my voice would be the tool I used to free myself. But with my eyes closed, deep in the visualization of my metaphor, I just knew. I knew that the power was inside of me. I just had to be brave enough to use it. 

What is your fear? What is it holding you back from? If you turned your fear into a metaphor, how would you smash it? 

Born Worthy

Last weekend, I took my first course in Life Coaching. While the creator of the course, K. C. Miller, was giving her introduction speech, I got really teary-eyed. I thought I was able to blink them back well enough, but K. C. locked eyes on me and said, “I appreciate that you are having a physiological reaction. Would you please share with us?” And then the crying hit my throat, and I knew I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to.

What got me so worked up was K. C. Miller’s philosophy that, “There are no extra people.” It’s simple and short. But the meaning is so potently beautiful, I couldn’t help but break into tears.

I am someone very familiar with feeling “extra.” I didn’t think I had a purpose or a reason to be alive; most of the time I just felt like a burden on my loved ones. I still remember the day I had an insane breakthrough with my therapist, Joy, when she told me, “You matter, Jordan.” It was the first time I had ever heard it, which maybe isn’t so unusual. It isn’t exactly the sort of thing you go around casually expressing to others. But for me, it was life-changing. Before that, I didn’t know if I mattered. In fact, I doubted that I did. In this pivotal moment, I realized that I didn’t have to earn the right to matter. I didn’t have to earn my worthiness. Every single person matters just because they exist. By extension, that meant I must have to matter too.

While in class, there was a lot of sharing (as is to be expected from a healing arts school). I listened intently to the stories of my peers. The boy with the mohawk covered in tattoos. The pretty young yogi. The blue-haired witch. The ever-giving mother. As I listened, I was brought to tears more than once. Throughout all of their trials- be it with addiction, abuse, grieving a lost loved one, low self-worth, poverty, and more- these beautiful humans still found their way to a school where they could learn to heal themselves so that they could then help to heal others. How amazing is that??

I thought, “There isn’t a person alive that you couldn’t love if you heard their story.”

Life Coaching isn’t really about giving advice or sharing stories. It’s about asking the right questions. The goal is to help your client discover their own answers through self-reflection. On the last day of class, K. C. asked us to contemplate, “What is the one most important question that we need to ask ourselves in order to heal and move forward?” Fucking intense, man.

Initially, I came up with, “Why do I think I don’t deserve to love myself?” You see, even with the important realization that I matter in this world, actually loving myself is still a work in progress. Some days it is so easy, I don’t even have to think about it. Some days it is so hard, I don’t want to think about it or I’m afraid I’ll break down.  While I meditated, though, another thought hit me. “Why do I deserve to love myself?”

Even speaking the question aloud, I felt insecure and undeserving. But I don’t believe that narrative anymore, so I am here to answer my question.

Why do I deserve to love myself?

• Because I am brave.
• Because I left home so I could spread my wings.
• Because I lost myself, completely.
• Because I tried finding myself in bottles of liquor, in strangers’ beds.
• Because I have had my heart shattered by an ex-love.
• Because I allowed myself to love again (and again and again…)
• Because I am a Scorpio.
• Because I put so much stock into astrology.
• Because I’m a good ass friend.
• Because I’ve been a bad friend at times, but my apologies are sincere.
• Because I am the absolute best gift-giver you’ll ever meet.
• Because I feel things so deeply, and it’s fucking hard.
• Because I love learning.
• Because I hate being told what to do.
• Because I believe in love and equality between genders, races, and religions.
• Because I can’t keep a hairstyle for more than six months.
• Because I’m, like, really funny sometimes.
• Because I’m an introvert to the max.
• Because I have anxiety.
• Because I’m so. goddamn. awkward. sometimes.
• Because I won’t let my depression win.
• Because I understand those who do, and I love them anyway.
• Because I have zero sense of geography, even in my own neighborhood.
• Because I’ve gotten too drunk and said too many things I can’t take back.
• Because I’ve cried myself to sleep more nights than I can count.
• Because I find answers in poetry.
• Because I find meaning staring into the ocean’s vastness.
• Because I keep trying to grow things, even though I have a brown thumb.
• Because I’m a fucking dope wife and an even better fur-mom.
• Because I know the world is mostly good.
• Because I know the world is entirely deserving of love.
• Because I am always striving, always expanding.
• Because I was born worthy. 
• Because we all were.

Fall down 6 times, stand up 7

I am currently taking a class called Building Resiliency. It’s inspirational, obviously, and throughout, I’ve also learned methods and techniques I can use to coach others on resiliency. The techniques are so applicable, I have been integrating them into my own self-care practice as well. (For instance, I have recently found great closure in a past relationship through the practice of Higher Consciousness Conversations.)

What is important to know about resiliency is that it isn’t a personality trait. It’s a skill. That means we can all develop resiliency and learn to grow through the trials life throws at us, and even come out stronger.

For me, building resiliency has really been about coming back from my depression as a stronger person. To be frank, depression knocked me on my ass and sent me tumbling hard into rock bottom. Not only did I feel completely alone, but I felt like I deserved to be alone. I felt like a burden to the people I loved. I didn’t feel worthy of joy, love, or even existing. And through this, I completely lost my sense of identity. I wasn’t an animal-loving, poetry-writing, kind-hearted person suffering the despair of depression. I was despair and depression.

Everywhere I looked, I found evidence of this fact, evidence to support how unworthy of love I was. I put on a mask everywhere I went of a happy, silly, easy-going girl, so even my “friends” and “family” (quotations because, at the time, I felt they didn’t want to be a part of my life and were unfortunately forced to because they felt sorry for me or felt too guilty to blow me off) couldn’t see how lost and full of hurt I was. I didn’t let anyone in, sure that nobody could love the real me; the me that carried a heavy heart and a tightness in my chest so stifling that sometimes I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

For me, rock bottom and the turning point were one and the same. On what was supposed to be a joyful trip to Las Vegas to celebrate friends’ birthdays, I found myself alone, drunk, and crying, wishing for my non-existence. Here, I attempted to end my own life, and was stopped at the last moment. I got to see another side of Las Vegas- an emergency room visit, followed by a stay in a mental health facility where my life was on a consistent schedule of meal times, group therapy, and two outdoor breaks a day. Not what I really had in mind when I embarked on this trip. Still, it was here that I realized, I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to stop existing. I just wanted to feel better. I didn’t know if that was possible, but I committed to at least trying.

I went back to my therapist, who I had been ignoring for the past few months. Here, I did WORK. Hard, dirty, painful, soul-searching work. I strengthened and learned new personal protective factors. Because I spent so much time in the chair, exploring my past, my emotions, my thought processes, I learned Inner Direction. I was able to consciously evaluate how I felt about something and make my decisions based on this, rather than what I felt would make me most lovable to others. I learned Perseverance. Things didn’t feel better for a long time. But I held onto a tiny glimmer of hope that one day, they would. I deepened my Spirituality starting with the belief that we matter because we exist. On days that I couldn’t convince myself that I mattered, I would come back to this belief. Everyone matters, so by default, I had to matter as well. Self-Worth came slowly, and there are still rough days when I can’t find it. But it is now something I know is there, so I trust that if I show myself some love and compassion, I can always find it again.

Another very important piece to my healing was pro-social bonding. Prior to my hospitalization, I spent as many nights as possible going out to parties or bars with a large group of people I considered my friends, but who actually didn’t even know me. After I decided to quit drinking for a while, I didn’t see many of them again. Who I did see, were the people I discovered were my real friends. The ones who called to check in on me in the hospital, and who sent me encouraging notes in the weeks that followed. The friends that I could hang out with without drinking and (though it was scary at first) be my true self around. My circle shrank significantly, but the love I felt grew immensely.

The tricky part about pro-social bonding and depression is that depression doesn’t want you to bond. It wants you to stay home alone and compare yourself to others on social media and wallow in regrets and past traumas. And it’s comfortable, and it feels safe, so sometimes we give in. Some nights, I had to force myself to go watch a movie or meet for dinner because I knew I would feel better after spending time with a good friend. My advice to others dealing with depression would be, “Say yes sometimes.” You don’t have to go to all of the events; in fact, you really probably shouldn’t. But do go, sometimes, with the people you care about and who you know care about you. Being around people who love you is miraculously helpful when you are trying to learn to love yourself.

While I am in a much healthier head-space these days, my recovery from depression is ongoing. There are great days and there are days that I feel I barely made it through. Resiliency is what keeps me going through all the days. Resiliency helped me climb from the shadowy darkness into the light. Resiliency helps me find humor and creativity around what I have experienced. And resiliency helped me find myself again, which was the greatest gift of all.

Writing a story I want to read

Yesterday was my birthday, and it’s fall, and right now life feels like it has the potential to be a brand new, sparkly chapter.

My previous chapters have been about learning and about getting by. Chapters about self-loathing and all the boys it didn’t bring back. Pages with my face pressed up against a mirror as I cry because I knew it was my prerogative to have my own back, to carry myself through. There’s a chapter when real love shows up in two forms: first, from a big-smiled, curly-haired, beautiful man; and second, from within.

Next, I want a chapter where my devotion to writing grows and, alongside it, so does my devotion to living a full life. To living as the person I want to be. A person with passion that outweighs tired.

If we’re all in charge of building our own story, I want mine to be fulfilling and inspiring and exciting. I don’t want page after page of monotony, of dissatisfaction, of means to an end. It’s so easy to get stuck in day-to-day life without realizing it. To feel content and peaceful (if not infatuated) with a routine life and so to never try for something more. And I think that’s where I’m at right now. But I want to be infatuated with every day.

To me, this feels like a more befitting time to make resolutions for the coming year. And, writing them down in a public place might make me more accountable, so here’s what I got: Spend more time outdoors and less time online. Read more poetry. Try some new things. Travel as much as possible. Write as much as possible. Get in touch with my intuition. Be present but always moving towards my dreams.

If you have stories of how you got out of a rut or how you chased down your dream and made it come through, I would love to hear them. Please, share. 🙂

Growing up and growing apart

Nothing makes me feel quite so vulnerable as talking about my past relationships. For good reason, though; although with each ending came a valuable lesson, they gutted me in the process. Sometimes, it still hurts, which I used to think meant I was hung up on an ex or I wasn’t able to “get over it.” That isn’t the case though. I read this quote by Barry H. Gillespie,

“The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.”

I try to remember that when I’m driving home late at night, tired from a long day at work, and my thoughts drift to a particularly painful memory. I try to see it as circling through my healing process. It doesn’t always feel like I’ve gained “deeper truths” in that very moment, but as the years have gone by, I do have a greater understanding- both of those relationships and of myself.

Billy and I met working at the same fast food restaurant. I was 16. He was 21. The age difference wasn’t a big deal at the time because A) he never pressured me to move quickly or have sex before I was ready and B) our mental ages matched. We were together for almost five years. That’s a lot of growing. Towards the end, I had accepted that I couldn’t delve into deep, dark, hard-to-talk-about subjects with Billy without him shutting down. I couldn’t bring up relationship issues without him going AWOL for 3 days. And eventually, I realized I didn’t want to go to him for those things that were important to me: mourning a sick family member, questioning existence and what I was put on Earth to do, even my own goals and hopes. I went to others, or, more likely, kept silent.

Enter: my quarter-life crisis. I had flown to Arizona to visit a life-long friend for a long weekend. You would think we would have missed each other, but actually Billy and I didn’t talk the whole time I was gone. I had so many new experiences. I tried new foods, tried drinking (growing up in Utah, it was not the popular pastime of choice), met new people and encountered this whole different life than the one I was used to. My last night there, I met Paul. No dramatic betrayal happened. He and I just talked, a lot (more on that later). And it made me realize that I wanted that. I needed that deep, intellectual, and vulnerable connection with somebody.

When I got home, things were really strained. Billy came over with fast-food lunch a couple of times before I went to work or school, but somehow we didn’t see a lot of each other right away. I knew I wasn’t happy, knew I wanted to end things, but that is a big fucking decision when you’ve been together that long. I took a week. I literally got a therapist, and then burst into uncontrollable sobbing at my first appointment when she asked, “What brings you here today?” I didn’t tell my mom, who I knew would be heartbroken. I did tell my best friend, who was stunned but supported me no matter what (thanks, Cherish).

I still remember it so vividly. I walked into his parents’ house and into Billy’s bedroom. I said, “Hey I need to talk.” I explained that I was sorry for being distant recently but I had had a lot of thinking to do. I wasn’t happy being in a relationship. I wasn’t ready to settle into what we had built. I needed to explore more and I wanted to do it by myself. I said sorry so many times. I cried and cried over having to hurt him. When I got home, sobbing hysterically, I told my mom what I had done and that I didn’t care if she didn’t understand it, it was what I needed for me. And she was so confused but she supported me, still. Cherish slept over and listened to me cry myself to sleep for two days. But, also, I felt so much relief. I felt newly hopeful about my future. I felt so free and so ready to go after a life that I wanted. I ate my first meal in a week.

After we each had time to heal, we stayed friends (how could we not after 5 years?), which eventually faded into friendly acquaintances.

Not long after, Cherish and I made the decision to move to Arizona. We got a little tipsy at T.G.I. Friday’s (class af) and called Matty, who we had visited less than one month prior. “We want to move in with you,” we giggled into the phone.

He said, “Alright, cool.” And then life began to come together.

Breaking down the walls

I started thinking about blogging and its many forms. WordPress, Tumblr, Instagram- the list goes on and on. If you frequent the internet, you see a lot of Millennial-shaming for their tend to “over-share” on social media. “Nobody cares what you ate for breakfast,” or “We’re all looking at the exact same sunset,” and the ever-present “TMI!” are just a couple of comments I’ve seen or heard more than once. In an insecure moment, I questioned myself and this blog; does anyone really care what I have to say?

In regards to this question, I look to some of my big female heroes. Glennon Doyle Melton. Elizabeth Gilbert. Brene Brown. These women are famous for opening up in their books and blogs about many personal topics considered taboo to talk about in our society. Divorce. Mental illness. Shame. Pain. They don’t gloss over the hard stuff; they lay it all out in the open, where anyone can see it. They’re vulnerable.

Brene Brown has written an amazing book on the subject of vulnerability, “Daring Greatly.” In the book, she states,

“We love seeing raw truth and openness in other people, but we’re afraid to let them see it in us. We’re afraid that our truth isn’t enough- that what we have to offer isn’t enough without the bells and whistles, without editing, and impressing.”

We love when others are open and honest, we crave it, because it lets us relate to them on a new, deeper level. Our hearts cry out, “Oh! I’m not alone in all this!” But vulnerability is really hard to do. I’ve been working on that with my therapist for a few years now, and it’s still hard. How can you know if someone is trustworthy with this tender piece of yourself? How can you know they’ll take care of it, that they won’t use it against you?

The fact is, nobody makes it through life unscathed. We have all been hurt by somebody we thought we could trust. Somebody who we cared about, who we once trusted to protect us. And after being marred like that, it’s difficult to expose ourselves again- to that person or others.

When I’ve been emotionally hurt, I can almost see the walls coming up around me. My body tenses. A knot forms in my stomach. It feels as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Much like a wounded animal in the wild, my first reaction is, “Protect yourself!” I want space between myself and the perpetrator. I recoil from their touch. It’s hard to speak because in my head, alarms are flashing, telling me, “THIS PERSON IS DANGEROUS! DON’T GET TOO CLOSE!”

This has happened with many previous boyfriends. With my parents. With my best friends. Even with my husband. The link between this people? We care about each other. I’m vulnerable with them.

In the darkest months of my depression, I was terrified of letting people get close to me. My heart was already aching so much, I couldn’t bear the thought of adding any more pain. During this time, my walls stayed up. Always. With everyone. I kept my very closest friends, the ones I had known for over a decade, at arms’ length away. I would still have conversations with them, sometimes even emotional conversations, but I always held back. I never let them see too much of myself. I was afraid for two reasons:

1. If I told them my deepest thoughts, feelings, fears, dreams, and secrets, they could use them against me. They would know my weak spots, know right where to strike a blow.
2. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want my loved ones to pity me, or to be a burden in their lives.

Of these fears I would like to say this: I was never a burden, nor could I ever be. I know that now, although it took years of unlearning to get to this place. The reason they’re called loved ones is because we love them. My family and my friends loved me then and love me now. And I love them. And when you’re in a loving relationship, you’re there because you want to be. You’re there because you genuinely care for somebody.

When it comes to baring myself to others, I’m getting better. It’s a work in progress, and I’m fine with that. There is a (very) small circle of people who I can now let myself be completely raw with. No walls, no distance. Does that mean they know where to attack my most fragile parts? Yeah, it does. But by keeping those parts hidden, I wasn’t allowing myself to be fully loved. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Sometimes, because that’s just how life is, we hurt each other. But I’m learning to peek over my rising walls and just be honest when that happens. Admit that I’m hurt. Then, together, we can move forward and heal.

So, yeah, maybe some people don’t care what I have to say. Maybe some people do. My goal with this blog (other than helping me keep track of my own self-care journey) is to be vulnerable and honest and raw because to be known, truly known, is a good feeling. And that is my wish to you all.

On Falling Apart

A couple of days ago, I read an essay (named so aptly, I borrowed the title for this post) about a young women who was checked into a psychiatric facility by her best friend at the age of thirty. By the end of this piece (“On Falling Apart,” by Sady for Rookie Magazine), I was in tears. Although Sady and I had different experiences with mental illness, this story hit so close to home.

Almost one year ago, I left with seven of my friends for a weekend in Las Vegas. Two of my friends were celebrating birthdays, we had tickets to EDM shows, and our days were to be spent lounging poolside with drinks in hand. On the first night of our trip (or rather, very early the next morning, sometime around 1 or 2 AM), I attempted to end my life. I was twenty-four.

A lot of things led up to this moment. I was working full time (usually 50+ hours a week) and was enrolled in 5 classes (more than full time) at my local community college. I was living with two friends, and though our apartment was, for the most part, peaceful, it was a home of three young females. Attitudes rolled through occasionally. Lately, I hadn’t felt like myself and I had been spending any time I wasn’t at work or school locked in my bedroom where I would lay in bed, alternating reading and sleeping all day long. I was too tired to go out with friends or even chat with my roommates over dinner.

I called my mom the morning we were leaving for Vegas and she asked me to please, please, be careful. Stay with my friends, don’t drink too much, take care of myself. I was excited to forget about all of my responsibilities for a couple of days and just let go. I wanted this, but for some reason, I was nervous. It wasn’t abnormal for me to experience social anxiety before group outings, so I brushed the feeling away.

We began drinking around 7 PM as we got ready for our night out. It made me feel more relaxed and I was able to laugh and enjoy time with my friends. We went to a bar in the hotel for a couple of drinks before heading to our show. One of my friends (my best friend, Matty,  actually) told me I was already too drunk and I needed to slow down. Instead of seeing this as wise advice, I felt hurt and judged. I was just trying to be like everyone else.

The rest of the night comes in flashes. I know the line to the club we had tickets for was incredibly long, so one friend and I went to gamble in the casino to kill time. I remember being sternly talked to by staff when my friend snapped at a waitress for skipping us as she took our orders. Time more than got away from me; I looked at my phone and had several missed calls from my friends who were waiting at the door to the club waiting for us to go in. We got to them and they were, reasonably, irritated. I sensed their frustration and, as I was apt to do those days, assumed that my friends hated me, they didn’t want me around, they wished I hadn’t come. So I headed to the bar and I got another drink.

I don’t remember much of the show. I danced a little bit and walked back and forth from the bar to the area my friends were at. I left repeatedly to refill my drinks. The next thing I remember is being outside of the club (which was located in a hotel lobby on the strip) talking to some staff members. I told them I wanted to leave and go back to my hotel room but when they asked where I was staying I couldn’t remember. I wanted to go back inside to find my friends and, obviously, that was not allowed. I texted and called Matty repeated, as did the men helping me, but he was in a loud, music-filled club, also intoxicated, and didn’t answer. At some point, my roommate came out and found me, and the men handed me over to her to get back to the hotel.

She was pissed. “This is my birthday, I shouldn’t have to be taking care of you!” she shouted as we ran through the lobby. “You need to grow the fuck up and get your shit together!”

She was sobbing, as was I. “I never asked you to take care of me,” I yelled back. We were outside on the strip now, bright lights flashing everywhere. Other visitors were walking past, laughing at our drunken show. I don’t remember entirely what was said, but we both ended up huffing off in separate directions.

My phone was dead and I had no idea where I even was. I didn’t remember what hotel I was staying at or even know which hotel I was currently in. I was in my party dress and my hair was sticking to my face and my makeup was smearing. I felt dirty and ashamed and ridiculous. Ridiculous, I guess, for believing that my friends cared about me or wanted me around. I was alone and achingly lonely. I was tired of being stressed and anxious and sad all of the time. I wasn’t myself anymore and I didn’t want to be anybody.

So, a few stories up in the casino, I climbed over the railing. Looking down, I could see the multiple levels of shiny games and flashy bars and people people people. All of these people that wouldn’t care if I was gone. I was ready for everything to end.

Can you imagine hating yourself this much? Feeling like the entire world would be better off if your presence could just be erased? Feeling a sadness so deep and all-consuming that the only viable escape you can think of is death?

Then, though, there were voices behind me. Several officers were surrounding me on the other side of the railing. One tried to grab me and lift me over and I screamed at him not to touch me and stretched away, holding on with one hand. They asked me why I was trying to jump and I said, I was sad. I hurt.

They worked at keeping me calm and trying to get me back over. One female officer named BJ had taken my wallet off the ground. I had lost my ID at some point during this horrendous night, but my debit card was inside, with a picture of my chihuahua, Bella, on the front.

“Is this your dog?” BJ asked me. I said, “Yeah, that’s my baby.” She said, “I bet she loves you very much.” I sobbed harder. “She does,” I replied. “What’s her name?” “Bella.” “Bella would miss you a whole lot if you were gone. What would she do without you?” she asked me. “Okay,” I sniffed. “Are you ready to come back over?” BJ asked. I cried, but through tears, “Yes.”

Two male officers lifted me over the railing and I hugged BJ and sobbed into her shoulder. They took me to their office, located in the hotel. They asked me questions and did some paperwork. I was sobbing, “I’m so sad,” over and over. I remember a young officer sitting across the office watching me. He looked so sorry. I didn’t even care that he was pitying me. I asked BJ if she had kids and she did, a teenage daughter. I told her I hoped she never felt as sad or lonely as I did.

Eventually and ambulance took me to the emergency room. I assume I was given fluids. I woke up in a shared room with a curtain around my bed. I was wearing two hospital gowns and no shoes. I only had one phone number memorized besides my mom’s, and that was my best friend, Cherish. She was still in Arizona, not interested in the party scene or drinking trips to Vegas. She didn’t answer her phone, so I left her a message. “I’m in the hospital. I don’t know what to do. I fucked up.”

She called me back and I was hysterical. I said I was so sorry for fucking up. I didn’t mean to be such a burden. Cherish cried and told me she loved me and I wasn’t a burden and she was going to take care of me. I didn’t want to tell my mom. I didn’t want my mom to be mad, or to worry. I didn’t want my other friends to know what happened. I was so full of shame and self-loathing. My depression, buried for so long, was now a wide open exhibit for everyone I knew to examine.

I was told I was being transferred to another facility and I would have to change into their hospital gowns. I took two into the bathroom and switched. When I came out, a stretcher was waiting for me. They wheeled me out into another medical transport vehicle which took me to the next building. This place was really just like a holding spot. They took my vitals, cataloged my items (dress, heels, necklace, earrings, wallet), and I basically sat in an exam room until another nurse came in and told me I was being transferred to a psychiatric facility.

In Las Vegas, they have a law that basically says they can hold you in one of these psych hospitals for at least 72 hours if they think you are a harm to yourself or others. When I arrived, I changed into yet another set of hospital gowns. Sans underwear, I had to squat and cough in front of a nurse to ensure I had no weapons hidden up any orifices. I met my doctor, a person I would speak to for around a minute and a half every day as a means of affirming my mental health, and he asked me the same questions I would soon hear daily: How are you feeling? Any voices or hallucinations? Any thoughts of extreme anger? Any thoughts of hurting yourself or others? As if this assessment was all that was needed to decipher what was wrong with me and how to fix it. They switched my medications, added a couple. (I had already been on anti-depressants for around a year).

Finally, they walked me down the hall into a room full of girls. There was a TV bolted high up on the ceiling. Markers and coloring pages were strewn about two tables. I sat down and was brought lunch on a Styrofoam tray with a rounded, plastic spork. I can almost see myself: trembling with fear, pale from a night of drinking, dark under-eye circles from lack of sleep, puffy eyes and a red, splotchy face from endless hours of crying. I had never in my life felt so absolutely frail and breakable. I was glass on the verge of being shattered. A couple of girls greeted me and I managed a “hi” in return. My voice broke. I sat, alone in a room full of people. I reached to my lunch tray and plucked a single grape off the small vine.

A kind voice said, “Grapes make everything better.” I looked up to a pretty woman, maybe in her early thirties, with long, red hair. She gave me a warm smile.

“I… um,” I quietly stammered.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand.”

Buried wounds won’t heal

It’s been a while. I’ve been sort of lost. The whole deal where I lock things inside until I can’t feel anything anymore got way out of control the last couple of weeks. My fiance, Justin, would ask me what was wrong, why was I sad, and I couldn’t give him an answer. I wasn’t sad, not exactly. I was nothing. Numb, emotionless, just going through the motions of each day. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt this way, but I think it’s much worse than the sadness.

This issue stems from my childhood, where I was too busy protecting my mom and my sister from their own demons to add my own sufferings to their plate. My step-dad was not kind, and when he drank (which was often, in my teen years), he was downright mean. I learned to fly under the radar, to not cause trouble or make a scene of things because everyone else in my home was already at constant battle. How could I burden my mama with my broken heart when her own heart was already cracked enough? I learned early to become self-sufficient, to depend on nobody to take care of me but myself.

I want to take a minute here to explain that my parents did take care of my sister and me by providing us a home, food in the house, school supplies, clothing, gas money. We didn’t go without. Which is why it took me so long to realize that they hadn’t given me all that I needed. When I first began seeing my therapist, Joy, just over two years ago, she brought up my childhood often, and I pushed her away, assuring her it wasn’t relevant to my depression and anxiety. It was in the past, it didn’t matter. But it did. It does. My mom did everything she could to be there for my sister and me, but she isn’t perfect. And she wasn’t able to give me everything I needed. When I was 10 years old, riding along in her car as she searched for houses for rent, it was me listening to her anxieties, her concerns, her sadness about her marriage and her life. She wanted out, but it would be many years before she was brave enough to make that jump, and all the while, I was by her side, her rock when nothing else felt stable.

I love my mom more than just about anything. Even now, when I feel that sad tug at my heart, all I want is to fly home and curl up in her lap and cry while she pats my hair and assures me everything will be okay. But that isn’t our relationship. That isn’t what would happen. I feel this constant need to protect her, and that includes guarding her from my own pain.

Since I couldn’t trust anybody else to take care of me (emotionally speaking), I built up walls. The people I loved most in the world got close to me, but still, they were at arms-length, never close enough to see my pain. It’s so lonely behind those walls. You feel like nobody knows who you are really, so any proclamations of love or admiration are rendered void; if they knew about the darkness constantly hovering over you, they wouldn’t love you then. So you put on a show to the world. You wear a mask, so often, that sometimes you almost lose yourself in it. You act fine so often, burying all your true feelings, that the numbness just becomes who you are. And it’s terrifying and awful and it’s like drowning or suffocating and being too afraid to scream for help.

These days, I try really really hard to feel my feelings. Ha- not really something you would expect to take effort, but God, some days it takes everything I’ve got. Going to weekly therapy helps because Joy doesn’t put up with my “I’m fine,” shit, and she somehow barrels through every wall I build. I know that a lot of people have had bad experiences with therapists, but I do encourage you to find one that you click with if you’re feeling anxious or depressed. Mine has saved me from myself on many occasions.

Joy had some family things going on and was out of town for two weeks. And, try as I might, I was too tired and too scared to feel everything, and soon I wasn’t feeling anything. I was in my old rut and I had no idea how I got there or how to begin digging my way out. When we met last week, she could instantly tell something was wrong. I was jittery, tapping my foot and fidgeting with the rings on my fingers, spinning the straw in my water cup. I told her, “I’m so anxious and I don’t feel good, and I don’t know why.” And we got out two shovels and we dug.

I’ve been really upset about my step-dad lately. I’ve never felt close with him, and always disapproved the way he treated my mom and sister, but he isn’t a huge part of my life and I generally just ignore the resentment, forcing myself to 2 or 3 breakfast dates a year when I’m in town visiting. But, now I’m getting married next spring and the thing he said to me, the thing that really digs in was, “I sure hope I get to walk you down the aisle. That’s every daddy’s dream.” Which doesn’t seem like a big deal, probably, to most people. But, to me, it was like a slap in my face. He wasn’t there for me, ever. He didn’t give me support, financially or emotionally. Now that I’m in a different state, he doesn’t even call, text, or email. Our only contact is instigated by me, out of guilt and a feeling of obligation. My fiance put it best when he said, “He shouldn’t get to pick and choose when he gets to be your dad.” And that’s it. He didn’t earn this right, he doesn’t deserve to stand beside me on this day. He has let me down, countless times, and it hurts. I never realized it until now. It hurts. Why would he want to hurt me, to lie to me, to abandon me? Why does he feel the need to judge, to criticize? He should love me no matter what, and he doesn’t. His love is conditional.

Joy helped me find this anger and she helped me release it. She pulled up a chair where my imaginary step-dad was sitting, and she gave me rubber balls to throw at him. “Yell at him,” she told me. So I did. I cried and I yelled, “You should love me no matter what,” over and over. And somehow, my stream of sentences led me to my uncle. My late uncle Mikey, who passed away two years ago after suffering several years with a disease called Progressive Supernuclear Palsy (PSP). PSP progressively deteriorates your body and brain until you can no longer function without assistance. My family watched as my vital, lively uncle slowly deteriorated, losing the ability to walk, then move his body on his own at all, requiring assistance with eating, drinking, bathing, and going to the bathroom. He kept his warm heart and his sarcastic sense of humor as long as possible, but eventually, the medication took that from us as well. He slept a lot, and when he was awake, he usually wasn’t coherent and was often confused. It is an awful way to watch somebody you love die.

Before the disease, Mikey was known as my “dunkle”- my dad-uncle. He took me to breakfast every weekend, helped pay for my first car and my college, asked about my life. He loved me so much and he was proud then, and I think he would be so proud of me now. And that is who should be walking me down the aisle on my wedding day. He was the real dad in my life, one of the few people I could always count on, and he doesn’t get to be there. He was there for every important event of my life, but he doesn’t get to be here for this and it hurts so much. I miss him so much.

Mikey died two years ago. I flew home for two days to attend his funeral. I hugged my mom and my aunt, I patted their hair as they cried. I was strong for everybody else. And I didn’t cry until I got on the plane to go home. I sat in my window seat and silently the tears finally came. I am ashamed to admit, I never fully mourned this loss. I buried it so deep inside of me, and all of a sudden, sitting in Joy’s office on her familiar squishy couch, the grief erupted from my heart. All of this hidden pain finally surfaced and I let it and I cried and it hurt then and it hurts now. But it is so much better than the numb emptiness I had grown accustomed to.

Leaving Joy’s office that day felt like such a relief. I don’t know how to explain it, but I felt like I had myself back. Like I had been missing and finally, there I was, hiding in plain sight all along. People say a lot of things about depression, but one of its ugliest qualities is the way it robs you of yourself. Because when you lose your feelings, you lose your self.

So, this is another day, and right now I’m sad because I miss somebody that I love a lot. But I’m also happy because I’m sharing a couch with my two lovely canine children, listening to their soft snores. I’m anxious-excited because school is starting soon and I’m anxious-nervous because I have an interview for a job that I don’t think I want to take. I’ll be sad and mad and happy and scared and a million other emotions every day of my life, hopefully. It’s not easy, this rollercoaster, but I’ll take it over the alternative any day.

Wishing you all an emotional day.

Following the uncharted path

I’m feeling overwhelmed. My own anxiety is at a high point. (I had to take an Ativan on my lunch break in order to make it through the rest of my work day yesterday.) Generally, heightened anxiety for me means that I’m not taking the time to process and deal with emotions and/or thoughts, so they add up until they become too much, a heavy weight on my chest.

It’s hard to spend time with myself, really look inside to what’s going on beneath the surface. I work full time, have two dogs to take care of, classes and homework for most of the year. I live with my fiance now, which means alone time is sparse. The doesn’t even account for talking to/meeting up with friends and family. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m complaining about having a full life; I am incredibly lucky and grateful for the wonderful people and animals close to me, for the fact that I have a job and a home and an opportunity for education. I just mean that I greatly value my alone time. It’s the time I use to reflect on all the millions of stimuli I have been exposed to over the past few hours/days/weeks. I need that time because, for me, being alone in the quiet of my own thoughts is the only way I actually listen and feel and process.

With a hectic schedule, I often resort to the unhealthy behavior of “turning off.” My job requires 12 hour shifts that often turn into 13-14. I deal with other people all day, everyday. Family, friends, clients, therapists, doctors, city Waste Management (who neglected to empty my trashcans… AGAIN). It’s exhausting. I feel like I barely have time to grab a frozen dinner to eat before going to sleep, waking up, and starting all over again. Dealing with emotions takes time and energy that I often don’t have. So, I turn off. I sort of block everything out, become numb, until I have the time (and mental capacity) to deal with it.

So, when I’ve been numb for too long, the anxiety starts to build. I feel a weight on my chest, making it impossible to draw in enough air no matter how deeply I breathe. Sometimes, it becomes so much that I end up spending some time on the floor (or in the bath) crying hysterically, letting everything come out at once. My therapist (aptly named Joy) uses a balloon as an example; you blow air in, little by little. If you don’t let the air out, eventually the balloon with either pop, or all the air will rush out at once, sending the balloon flying erratically through the room.

I know this post is long, and it’s gone in an entirely different direction than I originally intended. Basically, I am to the point that my balloon is very full, and I need to let some air out, like, yesterday. Here is a stream of consciousness that I scribbled down on my lunch break yesterday:

I’m sad today. I feel so alone. I miss my old apartment. I could just be in my room alone, instead of having to be alone with somebody else. I just feel like such a burden. I don’t know why J even loves me. I’m not pretty, not funny. I’m too anxious all the time and not laid back or chill. You know who is pretty? J’s friend so-and-so. She is pretty, and she’s fucking chill too. It would make sense for them to be into each other. What if they’re having a secret affair? Maybe she’s at the house now, maybe she’s met my dogs. Do his friends know? Do my friends know? Do my friends even consider me their friend anymore? I’ve been so busy, I need to make more time for them. What if they don’t love me anymore? NO. Stop. You have absolutely no reason to think this. J loves you. Your friends love you. Your anxiety is getting out of control. You need to calm down. What is really going on? What are you avoiding? It’s so hard. I’m so lost. Will this panic and sadness and insecurity ever go away? I’m going to push away everyone that loves me. Can I just be normal? I hate this. I hate being myself. I want to curl into a ball in my closet and stay there in the dark quiet, maybe then I will feel peaceful. I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this. Deep breath. Deep breath. You’re going to be okay. 

Hence, the need to pop an Ativan before heading back into work, a veterinary hospital where I take care of animals and their humans. I am getting better at being self-aware. I can recognize when my thoughts are following an unhealthy pathway, the same pathways my neurons have been trained to travel my entire life. Re-training is the hard part. Stopping the thoughts, questioning them, and redirecting them somewhere positive. I’m getting better. But, as you can see, sometimes my thoughts run much faster until they’re so far ahead of me, I have to work to catch up. Does this happen to you?

When I actually slow down and logically look at them, it’s obvious that my insecurities are just that- not factually based proofs, but fearful delusions and what-ifs? So, I’ve stopped the thoughts. I question their validity. Now, to redirect. To find the truth and follow it to a place where I can be at peace with myself.

Wish me luck.

Hi…

Hello. I’m Jordan.
I don’t exactly know how to start this.

It feels weird to just jump right into this, but I appreciate straight-forwardness in a person, so here it goes. I’m dealing with depression and anxiety, I have been for many years, and while I think I’m getting better, I still feel somewhat… lost. Some days are great and other days I don’t even know who I am. How can I learn to love myself if I don’t know who my self is?

So, I guess that is the purpose of this blog. To help me work through my illness, to discover who I am, and, hopefully, to learn to love myself.

It sounds really cliche- “learn to love myself.” Cheesy almost to the point of losing all meaningfulness. But the way I see it, this world is already big and scary enough as it is, and the one person you (I) should be able to count on to have your (my) back, is your(my)self.

In the words of author, Sarah Dessen, “There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you’ll never understand what it’s saying.”

Right now, I’m in a mostly good place. While I’m not as happy as I could be (as I hope to be, one day), I’ve definitely been in much darker places. So I’m starting this blog with a clear head and a hopeful attitude. I know there are others out there who are going through this too. And even though I know that, I also know how isolated and alone I often feel. So, maybe this will reach somebody and maybe it won’t, but if it does, I wish you all the love and happiness on Earth. Let’s conquer this.

With love,
Jordan