Pride, Trauma, Feeling, Healing, & Vulnerability: May 2021 - December 2022

I finished my Master's back in May. 

I can't say I 'graduated' because this was May of 2021 and Covid still had everything stopped. There was no graduation. Regardless, maybe I should have been proud of myself. I wanted to be proud of myself! I could have been proud of myself. 

After all, I really had achieved so much! 

I had written a thesis that I could have (and probably still can) publish. To be honest, I wrote a thesis that could be broken down into 2 or 3 publications. 

I had actually begun publishing on other topics with my work team. 

I had led 3 semesters of online Spanish classes to huge amounts of success, praise, and commendation. 

I had a 4.0 GPA. 

I had no debt. In fact, I had gotten fellowships and worked 3 jobs; so I actually graduated with a good amount of savings. 

I had gone from a student worker to a project manager in less than 2 years at a job I loved. 

I had pivoted my research drastically in just 2 months and still wrote that giant f--ing thesis. (Turns out it is hard to do field work during a global pandemic...) 

I had studied 2 new languages, gained research skills in 3 disciplines, and had letters of recommendation from Professors in 4 different departments. 

In these two years I had also moved across the country, had oral surgery, spent ~2 months in TN with my god-daughter, traveled to Mexico to meet my future in-laws, and went from barely-moved-in-together to engaged. 

And I had done almost all of it during a global pandemic / lockdown. 

So yes, I think I could have been terribly proud of myself. But I wasn't. 

In the summer after I 'graduated', I was still working part time at my beloved student job, living the Seattle summer life, more stable in many ways than I had ever been before, recently-engaged, post-Covid (so we thought) activities in full swing. And I was more depressed than I had ever been before in nearly 2 decades of clinical depression. More anxious than I ever knew I could be. 

Most days I could barely drag myself out of bed; many days I didn't. 

Was this rock bottom? 

One day I was sitting on the couch staring at the Olympic mountain range in the distance, I had managed to get out of bed and walk into the living room - it felt like a huge achievement. I thought back to my days in Junior High and High School. I remembered all the days that my Mom could barely get out of bed - or didn't. 

Many of us grow up fearing the moment we realize that we have become our parents. For me that moment came before I even became a parent. It shook my to my core. 

I have long understood that my Mom has every right to deal with her rheumatoid arthritis in whatever way she sees fit. Her body should always be under her own autonomy - even when that meant she chose to avoid traditional approaches to healing/dealing with her disease, even when that meant she couldn't get out of bed, and even when that left young teenage me to deal with my life, my school, my siblings, my house, my pain, my fears, and my future... Alone. 

But as we all do, I had always determined to be different. 

But the mountains don't lie. As I stared at them, I realized I had spent my whole life avoiding professional help for my diseases. I was no different. 

Maybe this was rock bottom in more than one way. There was no room for pride in my accomplishments. There was no room for anything. 

It took months... but I bought insurance, made a doctor's appointment, got referred to a behavioral health specialist, and on August 30th, 2021, I started down a path from which there is no return. 

My path has included many unexpected turns. 

Shocking reveals. 

Nightmares. 

Exhaustion.

Frustration.

Endless tears. 

Unrelenting honesty.

The horror, terror, and pain of three decades. 

It included 4 very different professional health care workers - Michelle, Stephanie, Britt, and Simona (and Adriene, of course!) - each influential in their own ways. 

It included endless amounts of love, support, patience, care, compassion, advice, hugs, and understanding from my partner, my sisters, and few of my other siblings/in-laws. 

On this journey I faced my darkest fears. And found that they were not dark fears - they were black realities; repressed memories; hellish experiences. 

I found family secrets that I alone seem to know. I saw patterns of generational abuse, lies, and pain that go back as far as I can see. 

I experienced the pain of seeing the many ways in which childhood abuse, manipulation, and control had shaped seemingly every aspect of who I've become. Who am I without the trauma?

I learned to feel all of the shame, fear, grief, anger, and resilience I've always held in my body. I felt - in my body - the terror of an abused 4-year-old, the shame of a confused 8-year-old, the fear of a false-religion-hounded 12-year-old, the grief of an isolated 17-year-old, the anger of a sexually-abused 25-year-old, and the resilience of every single one of those versions of myself. 

I learned that grieving is cyclical. Acceptance is not the last stage. Acceptance is one of a seemingly endless turn-table of grief - grief for what has happened to me and all I have lost, grief for what I have unknowingly perpetuated, grief for the years I've spent healing, grief for the little girl who will never get to be innocent, grief for the teenager who will never get to speak the truth that every fiber of her being knows, grief for the adult who suffered again the terrors of childhood. 

I learned to forgive. To forgive those who have hurt me. And to begin the process of forgiving myself for the loves I have hurt and lost due to my inability to love even myself. 

I gained tools to approach my anxiety with patience and peace. And it has ceased to attack me. 

I gained tools to approach my depression with empathy and honesty. And it resolves itself quickly and quietly. 

Even my nightmares no longer center on being paralyzed, mute, and alone. It seem that even my subconscious has finally found agency and community. 

On October 24th, 2017, I wrote this blog post. It was noble. It was poetic and vulnerable - in a way. But it was false. I said that I was ready to start writing again! About me! But I was wrong. I was wrong because I could not write about myself. My understanding and knowledge of myself was so far from complete that despite my noble aspirations, I had nothing to write. I wrote that I was broken. This was true. Brokenness is a part of the human condition. And I wrote that I was ready to be vulnerable again. Which was also true. But I was not able to be publicly vulnerable. I did not know anything about myself; had nothing to say. 

Has this changed? Has my recent journey finally conditioned me for connection? For truth and trust? 

I hope so. I don't know. But one thing that I can say with 100% certainty... 

I am SO. DAMN. PROUD of myself. Regardless. 

I'm still so exhausted. I'm frustrated and I'm grieving. But I am undeniably healing and growing. And I can't wait to uncover and construct who I am beyond the trauma!

2nd Post in the Current Series: Let's Fucking Talk - Before It Gets Bad

Trigger warning: depression & suicide.

You’re having a great day.

You’ve drunk coffee, laughed, taken a shower, gotten frustrated, worked, and eaten and somewhere in there it dawns on you that you haven’t been too depressed to get out of bed in a couple months. You mentally high five yourself, put the memory of 15 years of depression on the back burner, and go back to work.

Six minutes later, however, a song comes on and you are immediately and helplessly transported to another place and time.

It’s February 2nd, you’re lying face down on your bed - a couch in the common area of a hostel - under a fan running full blast in an attempt to assuage the heat and humidity of the rainy summer season in the Brazilian Amazon. It’s been exactly two weeks and four days since you sat huddled on the shower floor wondering how you would ever think life was worth living again. You’d somehow made it through that day, but the next few days - 18 to be exact - had not been a walk in the park.

They’d been more like a walk through hell.

You had once again chosen to live, but things hadn’t gotten much brighter since then, and you really just don’t have much energy left.

The song comes on, saying the words you are barely brave enough to wish. And that tiny glimmer of hope gives you the strength to open your eyes and see the angels life has sent, bringing you smiles and strength without even knowing that you needed them.

A small step into the light.

But that was the last time you heard the song.

This time is different.

It’s May 5th, this time it’s a cold rainy afternoon while you’re in the middle of painting a night sky on the ceiling of your new hostel’s reading room. And this time it’s been several months since you laid on your bed too depressed to even open your eyes.

Encouraging? Absolutely!

Relieving? Without a doubt.

But all of a sudden those 15 years of depression you thought you’d put on the back burner begin to boil over and spill into your consciousness.

You remember the unexpected hug you just received from a friend and the late night ice cream and movie you loved so much last night, and immediately think, “What if I’d missed those? What if I’d done it…??”

You think about the discoveries you’ve made and successes you’ve had since then, and immediately wonder, “Why did I ever think it wasn’t worth it?”

Your mind wanders to the amazing people you’ve met since then, the 3-hour phone conversations, the 4am texts, and immediately ask yourself, “How did I ever get there, on the shower floor, convinced that the best option was taking my life?”

The memories come thick and fast and you nearly cry at the realization that you came so close to missing all of the love, the laughter, and the lessons of the last few months.

But then the fear breaks through like a hurricane, smashing through the flimsy walls of encouragement the last few months erected. Demolishing the false sense of relief you’d begun to indulge in…

“How long until it happens again?”

“How long??”

“HOW FUCKING LONG??!?!!”

“I had years and years and years of good times before that day. And it still happened. It’s going to happen again.”

“I know how I got there. I know the paths my mind takes to get that low, and no matter how long I walk other paths, THEY’RE STILL THERE.”

“What if I don’t make it next time?”

“What if this time I don’t get that random text message from an old friend who somehow knows something is wrong even though we haven’t talked in months?”

“What if it happens again and I don’t have enough strength, and I never get another unexpected hug?”

“I’m so happy today. I’m so so glad I’m alive! How the hell do I know I’ll make it next time, tho?”

There are no easy answers. There are no quick fixes. And yes, it is terrifying to realize that there is no way to know when it’ll happen or how I’ll respond.

But let’s keep talking.

Because there is a small chance that just opening the conversation will increase the likelihood that next time, I make the same decision as last time.

Life.

And there’s a small chance that keeping this conversation open will will increase the likelihood of someone else choosing life too.

It’s a scary, uncomfortable topic. But avoiding it has proven fatal; let’s not make that mistake again.

1st Post in the Current Series: Let's Fucking Talk

Sunday, January 15th, 11:54am

Curled up on the cement shower floor, water everywhere, tears everywhere, not sure how I got there, and not sure I wanted to get out.

The overwhelming pain pounded in my head, deafening the far-away voice of my own words to others in similar situations. The hopelessness relentlessly clouded my vision and in the absence of logic and love my tunnel vision saw two objects - two options.

The pain - the accumulated loss of 26 years - saw the glass shower door, my spring-loaded legs, and the wrists where I had so naively carved the words that I thought would keep me from ever reaching this point again.

The memories, the accumulated love of 26 years, begged my tired body to just stand up and pick up my phone. And text someone - anyone: a voice through the noise raging in my mind - a link to the world I knew I could somehow get back to, if I could just find the hope, the courage.

The clock ticked.

The water ran.

The breaths came quick and shallow, the tears strong and desperate.

The glass door glistened.

The cell phone wasn’t falling into my hands on its own.

The silence screamed.

The pain battered my broken heart and mind.

The battle raged.

The choice was made.

12:30

A friend receives the following text: “I need help.”

“Please help me.”

Three of the hardest words for me to say. Two of the most important text messages of my life. One of the most difficult decisions I have ever made.

Sunday’s battle... Won.

I am a writer. I have a passion for communication. And as difficult as this is...

Let’s talk.

Let’s talk about why most of you have no idea I have days like that. (Hours, days, weeks…)

Let’s talk about how many of you know exactly how I felt.

Let’s talk about WHY WE NEVER FUCKING TALK ABOUT THIS. (Hashtag: not even a little bit sorry for the language.)

Let’s talk about the people who helped save my life.

But let’s not talk about it yet.

Because I’m tired. Sunday’s battle was won, but the war rages on.

Before I close shop (laptop) for the day, however, I want to address a question that I’m fairly certain many of you are asking: “Why is she talking about such a personal topic in such a public forum?”

The answer is simple: this issue is as public as it is personal.

Face it.

If you are reading this, you would have been affected had I chosen a different option at 12:30 on Sunday afternoon.

Furthermore.

Whether you know who they are, you know plenty of people who have - or have had - similar choices. Some of them chose the glass. Some of them chose the cell phone.

Those are the ones you may not know about. And maybe it’s because they don’t want you to know, or maybe it’s because they don’t know how to tell you.

And finally.

What if you had received that text?

What would you have done? What would you have said?

We need to talk about this, friends.

Do I feel up to the task? No.

Am I trying anyway? Stay tuned for the rest of those topics.

The Skylight and the Resume

The door I'd just come thru closed firmly behind me. I stood expectantly but irresolutely, resume in hand, and took one last look over my shoulder... The wall was lined with doors: "sales," "food service," "study abroad," "teachers' assistant," and "college," to name a few. But after a quick glance I faced the opposite direction, clutched my precious paper personality a bit closer, a took a step toward the opposite wall. I had no doubts that with this winning list of experiences, skills, and awards, the doors on the wall would readily appear.

But they didn't.

Stunned, I gathered my pride and began tapping lightly at the wall, assuming those on the other side would hear, open their hidden doors, and and happily welcome me to the professional side. Nothing. The tapping became anxious pounding, and in humbled desperation I stooped and helplessly slid my paper credentials in the tiny cracks next to the floor, hoping against hope that someone would recognize my talents, my potential! And open a door!

Of course, the walls to my right and left were lined with doors: "Customer Service Representative" and next to it in flashing lights "SPANISH," and the other doors, "English Teacher - Relocation to China," "Restaurant Management, Bilingual," "Train Conductor," "Bilingual Teachers' Assistant." The list went on. Those doors, like the doors behind me, ranged from wide open to invitingly ajar. But I had my sights narrowly set on the wall in front of me, and even the slightest regression - or what appeared to me to be a regression - affronted me, angered me even.

After covering what felt like every inch of the wall that yielded not so much as even the smallest crack, I sat down, defeated. My resume, crumpled and stained, sat beside me- disillusioned, unused, useless.

 Gradually I began to look around again, what else could I do? And suddenly I became aware that I'd collapsed in the middle of a small patch of light.

Surprised and momentarily delighted, I looked up and it dawned on me that I was sitting directly below a skylight. A skylight! It was bright and warm and not too far above me, but I could see very little through it. A few friendly faces and hands extended, beckoning me up. I jumped up, but afraid that I wouldn't be able to reach them I instinctively shoved my resume toward them, hoping it would bridge the gap. It cast a shadow on my little patch of sunlight, and I was pleasantly relieved to see them push it out of the way, reach even further toward me and call me to stretch, jump, and climb, so they could help me out. I was surprised, uncertain, and intrigued. What was up there? I reached up, testing their strength and mine, our hands nearly touched, but I could feel the weight of my indecision, fear, and expectations holding me down. The unknown intimidated me. I'd grown comfortable inside the Room With Many Doors. My discarded resume screamed at me to reach down and save it - all that experience! All those skills! All those awards! All that time in college! For nothing?!

As I peered around cautiously, I finally took a good look at all four walls. The doors I'd come through - they got me here, my paper credentials were a mere shadow of that. The doors, unentered, around me only showed me paths I knew I didn't want to take. And the blank wall in front of me that I'd tried so hard to penetrate... I suddenly realized that there may be another way to that side of the wall - if I really wanted to get there.

I then took another look at the skylight.

The faces called to me excitedly, the view behind them slowly began to come into focus, and the "unknown", criss-crossed with the shadows of familiar faces, became a challenge, an adventure! As I reached up and our fingers touched, I felt my fear giving way to excitement, my uncertainty changing to confidence, and the artificial weight of my paper personality falling away. Exhilarated, I wondered how I'd let that wall hold me in such a devoted frenzy when the sky was open right above me.

College = Owned

Every year, each department nominates a junior or senior to apply for the TTU College of Arts and Sciences Award for Excellence in the Liberal Arts. This year I was nominated by both of the departments through which I am earning degrees - B.A. in Foreign Languages - Spanish, and B.A. in History. The application for the award consists of one or two samples of work, a one-page personal essay, and a personal letter of recommendation from a faculty member. I submitted a very long research paper I wrote last semester (something like 35 pages, with 3 pages of sources, and 6 pages of appendices...yes, there is a reason I didn't include that part of the application in this post...!), and Dr. Rita Barnes, the Director of the TTU Honors Program, one of the most influential mentors I've ever had, and a personal friend submitted what I'm sure is a glowing (and only partially-deserved) recommendation, and this post includes my personal essay. 

Writing it was a surprising challenge. 

Summing up what I see as my greatest achievements as an undergraduate in one page is what a resume is for, right? But no. My resume may or may not be outstanding (it's alright), but an essay is personal. Not WHAT I've done, bu how I see what I've done - why I did it, and how it looks from the other side. I love writing, and normally it comes naturally, but this essay took 3 tries and at least 4 times that many hours. Despite the sleep-deprivation and nervous anticipation surrounding this essay and the award, I am proud of it. I said everything I wanted to say in just one page. But more importantly, I am proud of what it says, what I've accomplished so far. College has been good.

Uncharted but Perfect - Bethany Pinzur 

     Chemistry was always my best subject and medicine always interested me. So as society and academia assured me that pursuing science and medicine would be the most effective way of achieving my ultimate goal of helping people, nursing seemed the obvious choice. After less than two semesters, however, I changed my major course of study to dual degrees in History and Spanish. No matter how much sense it made to study nursing, my passion lay in studying foreign languages and cultures, past and present. Accordingly, as a Sophomore I embarked on the challenging, but rewarding journey of designing a college experience that incorporated these passions to reach my ultimate goal.

     The most broadly foundational step of my journey was my first undergraduate research project. Bringing together my interests in history and language, with the added focus on Jewish studies, I chose the topic of Judeo-Spanish, the traditional but nearly extinct language of the Sephardic Jews. I focused on its integral influence on their self-identity and how it affected their assimilation into new lands since their collective expulsion from the Iberian Peninsula in the 1490s. Such a focused topic in which little research has been done forced me to look outside of my University to create an elite and international team of research mentors. These contacts coupled with the critical analysis and language skills I acquired through my major studies provided a broad knowledge base and essential tools that allowed me to ask astute questions and draw well-informed conclusions. These research projects laid a broad but solid foundation for the next steps toward my goal in several key areas. The questions of language and identity that my research addresses are particularly pertinent in this era of globalization as nearly a third of the languages spoken currently will likely be extinct by the year 2050. As the world changes through cultural and linguistic contact, retention of cultural identity becomes increasingly complex and difficult, while intercultural communication and understanding become increasingly integral.

     Building on my research, but expanding it to a more “real-life” situation, I took the next step by participating in several study abroad trips. Whether for a week or a semester, with a group or on my own, or in the northern, southern, eastern, or western hemisphere, these experiences contributed irreplaceably to both my academic work and my personal development. Participating in an internship entirely focused on improving the English communication skills of Korean college students, exploring historically-rich Berlin while practicing speaking German, and volunteering with Peruvian orphans as a teachers’ assistant have all contributed to my experiential knowledge of the challenges of intercultural communication as well as the importance of historical and cultural context. These experiences not only confirmed the legitimacy of my research, but inspired me to find ways in which I could use my knowledge and experience to personally impact the lives of those around me.

     To that end I sought mentoring, tutoring, teaching, and training opportunities. Sharing my knowledge of critical thinking, research, open-mindedness, and self-identity with the freshmen I have been privileged to mentor equips them to build on what has already been accomplished, and become the next generation of leaders. Helping international students increase their fluency in English and American students improve their Spanish skills often opens new doors for them to experience and understand new cultures, enabling improved intercultural communication. Additionally, as each of the students with whom I have come into contact share their experiences and perspectives with me, they provide me with infinite opportunities to learn and grow. Throughout my time in college, these service and leadership roles have given me not only exciting experiences and humbling but strengthening life lessons, they have also allowed me to reach my ultimate goal of helping others.

     As a confused freshman, I knew that changing my major would change my course completely. As a confident senior, however, I understand that although the course changed, I achieved the same goal. Could I have succeeded as a nursing student? Yes. But instead I followed my deepest passion down an uncharted path that led through strenuous historical research, the mountains of Asia and South America, and has ultimately brought me to exactly where I want to be: contributing vitally to the lives of the precious individuals around me. 

That one thing...

We always told ourselves we wouldn't regret anything.

We loved, and if we lost in the end, so be it because the important part is that we loved.

And that is what happened.

I have no regrets for loving him. The love we had was a love we fought for, a love we fed and watered and cared for, a love that had seen more than its share of obstacles. No, it wasn't what I thought it would be, but now I see so clearly that it was exactly what I wanted. I loved him more than I've ever loved anyone. No regrets.

I'm tempted to regret all the time I spent away from him.
I'm tempted to regret all the shit I put him through.
I'm tempted to regret letting him love me so much.
I'm tempted to regret the mistakes I made along the way.

But I can't.

No, love is too beautiful to tarnish with all those regrets.

Only, there's that one thing.

That one little thing I never said, the one conversation I knew at the time was important, but somehow it never happened. Maybe I was scared, maybe I thought it was too soon in the relationship, maybe I didn't think it would change anything, maybe I just didn't know myself well enough to realize that way back in August of 2013, one afternoon's worth of talk, could've changed the rest of my life...

I’ll never forget the first time he brought up his newest idea for his immediate future. It was on a beautiful stretch of I-40 heading west out of the Smokies. We’d just spent almost a week together on a road trip that showed everything that was so perfect about us. The man I’d fallen in love with over the course of the summer turned to me and asked me, “What would you think if I joined the Air Force?”

My heart, which had so recently begun cherishing the tiny hope that this might be the one I’d get to spend the rest of my life with, jumped into my throat, preventing me from answering right away. I wanted to scream out “NO!!! No…don’t leave me! Don’t leave…” But I choked it back, put on a slight smile, and responded: “Wow, well if that’s what you want then I’d support you!” He eagerly responded that yes, it was what he wanted. He’d thought about joining the military for over a decade, but this time he was serious.

I knew he was serious. I knew he would never have brought it up if he wasn’t serious. So what choice did I have? Of course I was going to support him. Six months in, I couldn’t go tearing down his dreams. I told myself everything would work out fine, that we could get through it, that my doubts were unfounded.

After that it all happened so fast.

The phone calls, the visits, the pamphlets and then it was over. His decision was made. He was so excited, and I knew he’d made the perfect move for his career, so I was excited for him.

But still, all I could feel was that voice screaming “No! Don’t leave – don’t leave me…”

The way I saw it, that voice wasn’t just mine. It was his. It was his voice taunting in the background, “But I AM leaving. This is perfect for me, and our relationship…well, sorry.” All I could see was how he had chosen a life that would inevitably tear him away from me. And I couldn’t forgive.

Time went on and we went about our lives. He was on the delayed entry program because of his specialty, I went to Korea. He started working out and eating healthy to get in shape, I did the same in a show of support and solidarity. But still the voice kept whispering, “He chose the Navy ahead of you.” And all I could tell myself was that my only choice was to have my own priority.

Of course, I already had it. Travelling. The love of my life. My dream. My passion.

The night we met I’d begun telling him about my plans and dreams for travelling the world. At the time I had no idea that I would in time learn to love him more than anything except those dreams. He was just a cute guy. But as time went on, he became my life. I dreamed of some day, in a few years after I graduated, travelling together, looking for work in a place we could both enjoy – we both had studied German after all, maybe Germany! He mentioned he’d thought about moving to Seattle, and I thought happily “Why not?? Who knows, maybe this will turn into love, and maybe it’ll turn into some sort of sweet compromise…” But then that voice that kept prompting me “He chose a path that leaves you behind…”

And somewhere along the way, I listened to that voice, and began looking for my own path.

And then I found it, when I went to Peru and fell in love with the culture. All of a sudden, there was no room for compromise, there was just the way he saw his life, and the way I saw mine. There was no more of that “maybe we can work it out” because somewhere along the way, all of the things that we’d left unsaid became so much more important than the things we did say.

It all happened so fast.

The texts, the apologies, the tears and then it was over. The decision was made.

I tell myself that I should never regret anything, but how can I look myself in the mirror knowing that I had so many chances….

What if I’d opened my mind a little earlier to the fact that loving someone with all of my heart, was just as old of a dream as travelling the world?

What if I’d told him that I wanted to build a future with him instead of insisting that my dreams and the way I saw them were the way it had to be?

What if I’d listened to that little voice and simply asked him not to leave me that sunny day in August?

What if I’d explained to him that in my mind we had the next two years to invest in our relationship before I had to choose my next step?

What if I’d had the courage to “jeopardize” our new relationship by telling him that I thought joining the military was the worst idea he’d ever shared with me?

What if I’d confessed to him about that little voice and allowed him to explain himself, forgiven him, and looked for that compromise?

What if I’d allowed myself to believe that he really did love me as much as he said, and that he really would’ve done anything for us?

What if I’d realized that he was never asking me to choose between my dreams and being with him?

What if I’d admitted to myself that the problem was mine, not his?

What if I’d held onto the compromise idea I had so long ago?

What if I could go back and explain to myself that no matter what I felt for anyone or anything else in the world, I have feelings for him that go deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced?

No regrets?

Impossible!

Just as loving him touched me in ways I am only now beginning to understand. Losing him – driving him away! Evokes an immense depth of bitterness against myself for that stupid stupid stupid moment in August when I smiled and said “Wow, well if that’s what you want then I’d support you!” instead of crying out “NO!!! No…don’t leave me! Don’t leave…” 

Numbness and self-loathing

Today, walking through the hall at work, on my way to check something insignificant, I had a very significant thought.

"At least I feel something different today than yesterday..."

And then I stopped, I almost yelled outloud and almost smiled. It hit me, "I just thought, 'I feel something!!'"

And I realized it was true.

For the first time in three weeks I feel something besides pain, sadness, and loss. It's self-loathing, but at least I feel something.

See, this numbness goes back a long way. It was my constant companion for years back when I was a teenager. Depression held onto me like a bad cough that just doesn't leave. For years I went through the motions of life, wishing I could just feel something. I tried starving myself, I tried eating myself sick, I tried all the painkiller my body could handle, I tried self-inflicted physical pain, I tried burying myself in school, I tried dedicating myself to a god I desperately attempted to believe in, I tried to be obsessed with any cute guy who looked my way. In short, I tried ever legal negative method in the book.

Why?

To feel better? No. To feel anything.

It worked, more or less. But I was always left with the throbbing emptiness of...nothing. No feelings.

And that's what depression does.

I finally learned, after years of just barely getting by, that all those methods really sucked. They actually didn't work. Slowly, so very slowly, I learned how to see the good in life, the healthy way. Did you know that sidewalks have glitter in them? I learned that looking down just wanting to feel better. It was like a revelation! Even as I stumbled numbly through life, looking at my feet, not even caring where they were taking me, I looked down and saw the sidewalk smiling at me.

And ever since he day I realized that, I've learned that they best - and for me the only - way to deal with, conquer, and really beat depression is to see those little tiny things that make me smile, and let them make me smile!

I still have bad days, but it's been a while now since depression really had a good run at me.

But in the last three weeks, I've felt something that, believe it or not, is worse than that.

Yes, because for me, depression is all just in my head. It IS in my head, it is very real, and it is formidable. Bu it is just in my head. The only thing wrong is that everything is wrong.

So recently, experiencing something worse is paralyzing. I never learned how to deal with a numbness that actually has a cause.

All I can do is sit here and hope that some day, sooner or later, I'll start feeling something again. I tell myself I am happy when I am with my family. I tell myself I am sad to leave a place I love. I tell myself I am tired of school. I tell myself I am scared of the life changes coming my way. But the fact is, I just know that I would be feeling that way if there were any feelings. They aren't really there.

Then today, out of the blue, I felt something!

Why self-loathing is the first emotion I've felt in three weeks is a different story for a different day, but in some twisted way, it's progress. And for that, I tell myself I feel thankful.