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!
