Scaredy cat

I am a scaredy cat. I may not look like it on the outside, but my mantra basically my whole life has been, “Fake it until you make it.” Through school. Through college. Through job after job. I reach higher ground and I’m still telling myself to fake it until I make it.

Except I have made it, in a lot of ways. I am it. I’m doing it, being it. And slowly as I get older I’m finally owning all the its.

I am a leader. I do have expertise. I get things done. I do hard things. And it’s been too long that I’ve been thinking I’ve been faking it to get here.

That’s what my doubt wants to tell me, that I don’t deserve to be this far or have accolades for doing hard things. Doubt wants to make me think that I’ve gotten here purely on luck, because the right door opened at the right time. That’s true, but only some of the time. In reality if you look back at the security cameras, this girl was the one actually opening the doors and not faking a damn thing.

Writer’s block is a bully.

Maybe if I write about writer’s block, it’ll go away. You know, just like those bullies that called me “four eyes” and “nerd” and “goody two shoes” at school.

In a way, writer’s block bullies me too. There are many times throughout the day whether I’m in the car, in the shower, on a run, teaching a lesson, that I have this idea that is just bursting forth like a storm on a warm summer day.

And then by the time I have the time and space to write about it, it’s retreated. And it’s hella frustrating. And probably the #1 reason I haven’t been writing here regularly, as regularly as I’d like.

However, those moments of existential clarity as frustrating as they are serve a purpose. They remind me that I’m a whole person. A human being with a soul experiencing life and emotions to the fullest. Someone who is more than aware of her own struggles and attempts to overcome them.

Tangent: do we really overcome our struggles? Climb them like a hill and forget them when we get to the bottom? Because of my experience this week with a resurgence of depression, I don’t think we fully overcome them. I think they become a part of us, perhaps to the extent to which they’re a thorn in our side. Or they serve to make us stronger.

I’ve been living with dysthymic disorder since I was probably 13. Before that, I remember feeling an awareness of emotions. I don’t particularly remember if I was a “high-strung” child, but I know I screamed for basically the first six months of my life. I think they call those kids “high needs” now.

I don’t know when or how it kicked in, but I don’t remember a time without it.

Sarah Wilson

For twenty years, I’ve been trying to tamp it down, hide it, and bury it six feet under. I’ve been in therapy, taken medicine, prayed for healing, and created endorphins by running to overcome it. Recently I read this book called First, We Make the Beast Beautiful by Sarah Wilson, and it’s all about depression’s cousin Anxiety. And for the first time in my life, I came away with an understanding and hope that anxiety can actually be a good thing, and it doesn’t have to rule over me, and I can use it in a positive way.

And all the while you’re being told there’s something wrong with you that has to be fixed. All the while you’re dependent on others’ ideas about what’s wrong with you.

Sarah Wilson

I had a moment this weekend when I realized depression could be used in the same way, or at least the type of depression that afflicts me. (I still struggle with how to word this… I hate saying ‘I have depression’, like it’s a pet.) Depression has spurred me into so many things that are actually good for me… cue the list:

  • regular exercise for those sweet sweet endorphins
  • staying involved in a church for the positive environment
  • prayer
  • writing… this one is probably the most significant
  • openness and vulnerability about my struggle, which can contribute to a larger sense of community for myself and others
  • eating/drinking well – I had a philosophy professor that said if we all just eat lettuce we won’t be depressed. He was kind of right, kind of wrong, but I see his point.
  • Self-examination
  • Yoga/meditation (totally prefer the former and avoid the latter….)
  • Getting regular sleep

I believe with all my heart that just understanding the metapurpose of the anxious struggle helps to make it beautiful.

Sarah Wilson

And as it turns out, all the things listed above help with anxiety too. The truth is, these mental health issues are part of who I am. But they’re not the whole picture. I am lucky (blessed? happy?) that the type of depression and anxiety I have are not debilitating. I am very thankful. And as sad as it is to me that I won’t be having any of my own biological children, I am glad that I won’t be passing on whatever genetic makeup has been responsible for depression/anxiety in my family for generations.

What I’m understanding from this early-morning writing session (fueled by coffee, lolz) is that we need to talk about this more. We need to talk about how it is to live with these ailments and how to be a fully engaged human on earth. We need to talk about how they affect our lives but also make us who we are. It emboldens me to see the stigma and conversations surrounding depression/anxiety changing in my lifetime. People seem to be more open about it than ever, and I think that is the true balm… connection and community.

Not this time

The “Write” button at the top right freaks me out every time. I don’t know how it’s different than picking up a pen and writing on paper. But let’s be honest: that freaks me out too.

For years and years before the advent of blogging (people know that this word originally came from web + log, right?) I used a pen, any color, though it drove me crazy to not have the same color, and a notebook to write my thoughts before bed. I had the same routine. I spent a lot of time writing. Now, since typing on a laptop is so much faster, I have eschewed analog writing.

I think for years I’ve actually been fighting the urge to write every night, or most nights. Things were simpler and less complicated when it was just me, Elizabeth, in my room with my music and my lamp and my stuffed animals. I didn’t answer to anyone (in those moments anyway). I wrote whatever I felt like writing, and often with damn good vocabulary.

Now as a thirty-something contributor to society I tamp down the urge to pour out my thoughts and feelings for eight hours a day. Then, when I come home from this thing that takes up eight hours of my day, I still have other adult-ish things to do and I further tamp down my thoughts. Then I spend time on this stupid thing called the Internet and I can just feel my subconscious screaming to be let up from the silence.

So then, my friends, after working out and making dinner and cleaning up and walking the dog my mind finally takes a huge breath and starts talking.

And here I am, on my bed (husband is downstairs, “Just 10 more minutes on ______”), window open, fan on, warm nonalcoholic drink on my bedside bookshelf, typing away while my brain works out the kinks not just from today but my whole damn life it seems.

A couple weeks ago I found my journal from literally 20 years ago. Ok, found isn’t true. That’s a lie. I knew where it was. I keep all my journals close. So I knew where it was, and I finally thought I’d had enough therapy to delve into my old journals to see what 13-year-old Elizabeth was up to.

Holy mother of everything, my friends, huge newsflash here: Elizabeth is still Elizabeth, and she always has been Elizabeth. She still is a hopeless romantic disguising herself as an apathetic wannabe emo. She still uses words like superfluous and reiterate in normal conversations. She still judges people for not using fancy words like the above in normal conversations. She still loves God and wants the approval of her friends and her mother. Elizabeth is still Elizabeth. Elizabeth is still me.

Upon encountering this 20-year-old discovery, I felt… comfort. I felt like myself. I felt like all the shit I’ve been through in the past few years might have done me in in some ways, but I’m still me. The skeleton and muscles are still intact. I am still myself after all these years.

I think we’re all under the illusion of two things: either that we can’t change at all, or that we could never go back to being the person we once were. I think both are true all the time.

As I embark on the next 20 years, I hearken back to these words, from myself, nearly 20 years ago:

Sunday, December 12, 1999

Dear Journal-

Okay. Brand-new journal. Crisp, fresh, “acid-free” paper. Bold black pen. This is how it starts. Excitement and anticipation build. Then long forgotten periods of neglect. But not this time…

Passion + espresso

I am terrified I won’t feel passion for any life decision again. I spent 28 years of my life preparing to house and birth a child. I chose my college major and my profession around my desire to be a mother. When dating I looked for someone who would not only be a great life partner, but also a good person to raise little people with. When I lost weight initially it was to be healthy for carrying of said child.

How could all of that come from no passion?

Now I’m left with the, needless to say, solid and good consequences from those life decisions. How could it still be empty and (sometimes feel) meaningless?

When I’d be frustrated at work or fed up with someone outside of my home, it was easy for me to escape that situation mentally. In the same vein, when things were good at work and I was really enjoying whatever task was at hand, I had these little jolts of adrenaline (or some other hormone, so sue me I’m not a doctor) that made my heart skip a beat and make me feel infinite happiness and contentment, even just for a moment.

At that time I knew that whatever situation I was experiencing would not compare to what it’d be like to be at home with my nuclear family, my 2.5 kids exactly all 2 years apart, wiping their hands and mouths at lunchtime while the spring breeze blew through the window. I knew at that moment that I’d look at my babies and think back to when I worked and how I couldn’t wait for this moment right here, and how I was finally here and how all existentially amazing that was and pity my former nonparent self. (Disclaimer: I’m kind of a bitch to myself.)

Now, when I have any situation at work, with a friend, or wherever, that is my moment. That is what is, that’s the present. There’s no future moment that’ll come Back-to-the-Future me, no Delorian that will transport me to mornings of dirty high chair trays and fresh laundry coming out of the dryer. There’s just this moment.

The kicker is that I want that breeze-blowing, laundry-scented moment anyway. All the time. Because someone somewhere told me if I just pray enough or am good enough or worthy enough, God will give me the desires of my heart.

The children of that well-meaning but mistaken person should be given a kitten and a few shots of espresso and let loose in the china shop.

Just don’t take my espresso and give it to that child. I’ll be sipping it at the kitchen table, windows open, letting the breeze cool it before it touches my lips.

Sitting in silence

I always wondered why when I went to my grandparents’ or great-grandparents’ houses, it was quiet. It was quiet except for the hourly tone of the clock. It was quiet except for the shuffle of a newspaper or drip-drip-drip of the coffee pot. It was unnerving, really, and kind of annoying.

Now, knowing that I will never sit in their company like that, at their houses, in silence except for our conversation, again, I grieve the silence.

I find that now I do it myself. I get caught up in some mundane task at home like cutting vegetables or writing on this blog (less mundane than cutting vegetables) or folding laundry, and before I know it, it’s been hours since music or TV has permeated the air with sound waves.

It’s funny how all of a sudden you can look around and realize that you’re an adult. Maybe that’s why the silence of my forefathers’ (and mothers’) houses bothered me… because they were at a point in their lives I could not imagine. It felt so far away.

Now after years of input – welcome and not – it’s nice to just sit in silence. It helps me process life and all that comes with it. To think of new ideas. To recall memories. To grieve. I wonder what they thought about in their silence.

The Mean Girl in the Mirror

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re too tall. You’d better feign an interest in sports so people think you’re living up to your height.

You’re too skinny and too tall.

Your handwriting sucks. Erase and write your name again. And again.

Be careful about showing too much of the silhouette of your body. Men will make noises at you when you walk down the street. You’d better wear baggy clothes.

Glasses make people look smart, but they make you look too smart.

You messed up again when practicing that song on the piano. Better start over.

No one wants a smarty pants for a friend.

No one wants a smarty pants for a girlfriend.

You suck at playing piano. You didn’t practice enough and that’s why you messed up. You deserved it.

You don’t know how to do your makeup. You should learn because you can’t look as pretty as the girls who do.

Stop being so emotional. People don’t care if you feel sad about that. You’re too sensitive.

You don’t have a mental health problem. What could you ever be depressed about?

You need to get all A’s otherwise your parents won’t love you as much.

You need to pick a career that’s good for a family otherwise a man won’t want to marry you.

Stop caring so much. It’s exhausting. In the end it doesn’t matter anyway.

You’re dirty and slutty for thinking about sex.

Don’t wear that; it might tempt your boyfriend to have sex with you.

Why did you have sex again? I told you that if you did, you are weak and can’t control yourself.

I can’t believe you think you’re old enough to get married. Are you sure he even loves you?

Now you’re fat. See what happens when you don’t exercise and eat right? You have no control.

Stop eating that! Run more. It’s good if you let yourself be a little hungry. You’ll look better.

From the side you still look chubby. Suck it in.

Your thighs are too big. Why do they still touch? Haven’t you been working out?

Look at how ugly your veins are, I can see them under your skin.

Check over that email again and fix it. No one’s going to take you seriously if you write like an idiot.

Your body sucks. You can’t even grow another human. What’s wrong with you?

He’s going to leave you if you can’t get pregnant. Stop disappointing him. And stop crying about it.

Another glass of wine? I told you a long time ago you don’t have any self control. I told you so.

You need to make sure you look good. What if he dies and you need to find a new husband? No man is going to want a woman who looks like that.

He says he loves you but maybe being together now is just easier than not.

Why did you say that? Just stop talking. You’re so annoying.

Did you see the way she looked at you? No wonder you don’t have any friends. No one wants to be your friend.

You’re well into your thirties now. Why haven’t you figured this out yet? 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A lighted match

Anytime I think I don’t need to go so frequently to the therapist, I’m proven wrong. Every. Single. Time.

Sometimes I internally measure my need for therapy by how long it takes me to start crying in a session. I get a cup of tea from the Keurig that’s provided in the practice I go to, get settled on the couch (yes just like the movies except I’m drinking tea so ya gurl is sitting, not laying down) and let out a big breath.

My therapist sometimes has knitting in her lap when I come in, or meditation beads, or just a pen and her leather bound journal. This time she had beads, and I envied the fact that she had, for all intents and purposes, a fidget. I want one.

Anyway, something had been bubbling up for a few days before that because when she asked me, “How are you? What’s been going on?” I felt a huge release. And that’s because she actually means, “How are you? How is your life? What do you want to explore today?”

And I broke down in tears, not quite to the ugly cry stage, but it was a cry from my soul that I didn’t realize was there until it happened. But I was glad she had the good Kleenex.

“I want my life to have meaning,” I said through tears and exaggerated gestures.

And that’s what we explored… for an hour.

She told me that when people have experienced mortality in some way — through suicide or loss of a family member, or through a different kind of loss like infertility — they begin to think about these things. And I’m two for two on that list.

What I pictured in that moment was that I had been in a dark room, completely dark, so that I couldn’t see even my hand in front of me. I wasn’t even fumbling around; I was just standing in the dark room.

Then, someone lit a match. It doesn’t matter who. But the weak glow from a singular match started to illuminate the dark room, and now I could see things.

And those things I can’t un-see. 

Even if I stand in the same room, pitch black where I can’t see anything in front of me, not even my hand, I will know what’s there.

And that for me is like seeing mortality.

Now that I’ve seen it, I can never go back to not knowing.

I can’t go back to living a life that’s not headed somewhere important. I may not know where that is, but what I’m learning is that the journey is the important part.

We’re all going to arrive at the end of earthly life. The destination is not a mystery. But what we’ll be wondering about is the journey that started with a single match.