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.

Stark genug (Strong enough)

About a month ago, I came across a lovely poem in my German text book. Although there were a few words I didn't quite understand, I thought the message came through clearly. Reading it over in a class a few days later, the meaning of both the words and their meaning to me became even more clear:

Ein Schulabschluss - A high school diploma

ein paar wild Jahre - a few wild years

ein Haufen Idealismus - so much idealism...

ein Beruf - a job

eine Hochzeit - a wedding

eine Wohnung - an apartment

ein paar Jahre weiterarbeiten - a few more years of working

eine Wohnzimmergarnitur - a living room set

ein Kind - a child

eine wunderbare komfortable Einbauküche - a wonderful comfortable kitchen set

noch 'n Kind - another kid

ein Mittelklassewagen - a middle class car

ein Bausparvertrag - a middle size car

ein Farbfernseher - a color TV

noch 'n Kind - another kid

ein eigenes Haus - my own house

eine Lebenversicherung - life insurance

eine Rentenversicherung - workers insurance

eine Zusatz-Krankenversicherung - specialty medical insurance

ein Zweitwagen mit Volkaskoversicherung - a second car with car insurance

und so weiter ... - et. cetra

und so weiter ... - et. cetra

Hoffentlich bin ich stark genug - Hopefully I am strong enough

meiner Zukunft zu entgehen! - to escape my future!

There is nothing inherently negative about thing poem, written by Nina Achminow at age 16, and for some people I know it actually sounds positive. But for me, it starts out alright. Graduating high school: check. A few "wild years": mmm, check. An apartment (or two or five): check. A relationship: check. Job: we;;, maybe. But right about the time she starts talking about a living room set, all of the alarms in my mind and heart start screaming at me that this is a poisonous piece of art. 

As it goes on I feel my heart sinking lower and lower - is this really what life is about? Three kids, two cars, and 37 life insurance policies?! 

By the end the reader has most likely fallen prey to one of three responses: 

1) "Wow, that sounds comfortable and comforting."

2) "Aw, hell NO!"

3) "Wait...she doesn't sound so enthusiastic anymore..."

And then the last two lines.

For me, those were some of the most hopeful words I've read n a long time. Escape - escape this life that sounds more like prison than life? Yes please! But then I looked again, she's 16, she has no idea if she's going to "escape" this future or not. But me? I'm 24, and so far, even in the ways I've followed this life plan, it's been on my own terms. And after the "idealism" line, well, I'm afraid that's where my path parts from this plan. 

But then I think a bit more. 

The fact is, I'm only 24, I am very idealistic, and I have a lot left to do. But deep inside, a part of me wants some of this. All the insurance I could do without, but the family part. The stability and love that comes with a family of one's own, with or without the living room set, the second car, or the TV, I know myself well enough at this point to realize that some day, I will want that.

So it's not really about the strength to escape this future, but the strength to choose one's own future and the strength to know when it's time to change paths, regardless of where you are or choose to go.

All this from my German text book. 

Life as a Freshman vs. Life as a (Super) Senior

Freshman: "I am SO SORRY I was late for the FIRST day of class! Really, I couldn't find the right building..."
Senior: "Yea, I totally was late to my last first class - I couldn't find my pants."

Freshman: "I'm never going to skip class, ever!"
Senior: "Oh, I had a class today? Ooops..."

Freshman: "I wonder if I'll make any friends in my classes!"
Senior: "Oh great, all the same people I had in my classes last year! None of whom I like. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I hope I find some friends..."
Senior: "Go away, I do not want to be friends. I already know half the people on campus and can't get anywhere without ignoring people or being late."

Freshman: "The cafeteria food is really bad. I wish I could make my own food."
Senior: "I wish I still had someone to make my food for me."

Freshman: "I have so many electives! I could take one of everything! ... or maybe become an expert in my field!"
Senior: "Well let's see, I took Korean, and some more Korean. And German - no that wasn't mandatory, I just took it, for two years. And some Latin. And karate - that's good, right? It shows I am both focused and versatile, right?"

Freshman: "I have to walk quickly to all my classes and make sure not to eat the free ice cream in the caf - no freshman 15 for me!"
Senior: "Well I have to walk to school cause I'm broke, but I'll eat ice cream to make myself feel better about it."

Freshman: "Everyone is my age, and everyone is as confused as me, it's a whole new world."
Senior: "I am the only person above 20 in the room. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I'm going to graduate in four years at most - I am hard-working and organized."
Senior: "I should have graduated in four years - so I could still tell myself I was organized..."

Freshman: "Or I could take five years and take advantage of all the opportunities I'll have in college!"
Senior: "I should have graduated in four years - when I still thought college was full of opportunities."

Freshman: "WHAT?! We have a quiz tomorrow??!?!? I forgot about it! Now I only have 3 hours to study for it!"
Senior: "Oh we have a quiz in class today? Good thing I was only a few minutes late."

Freshman: "I finally met a guy! Wow, first college potential boy-friend!"
Senior: "Good grief, he's still here?! What a loser. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "Maybe some day that cute guy will notice me..."
Senior: "Oh my god, cute boy - what are you, 18? Oh, 20? Yeah - I could basically be your mom."

Freshman: "There are so many people on this campus. But somehow they are all different. Diversity is so neat!"
Senior: "Everyone looks exactly the same."

Freshman: "Oh, phew! I made an A!"
Senior: "I made another A. The only one in the class? Yea. Well. I need to graduate."

Freshman: "I should try out some different academic and extra curricular clubs."
Senior: "I should sit on my couch and NOT do anything related to college."

Freshman: "I wonder if I'll be able to maintain a 3.50 GPA."
Senior: "I wonder how badly I'd have to do this year to not have a 3.50 cumulative GPA...?"

Freshman: "Will my professors ever recognize me or will I always be one of the crowd?"
Senior: "Why do my professors always ask ME the hard questions?"

The artist

Growing up I was always "the artist."

At least, that's how my Dad liked to introduce me.

To this day I am grateful for the approval and satisfaction with which he said it. Somewhere inside of those words I found a sort of identity. Not only was a I THE artist out of his 10 children, he was proud to describe me as such!

But I wonder if he ever knew what else was going on behind those happy, but moody and petulant, eyes.

Yes, I love drawing and painting. I always have. I've also always loved photography. Singing. Cooking. And writing.

But we had no fancy cameras. Joanna was "the musician." Food was a necessity, not an outlet for creativity. And until recently, I didn't even know I had anything about which I could write. So I was the artist. I drew, I colored, I painted, and I drew some more.

Only I had a secret.

All of my life - at least as far back as I can remember - I've longed to dance. Dancing, dancers, dance music, dance shoes, dance floors - it was like a forbidden world. A world which I knew I would never enter.

Why?

Well, first of all, when you have 9 siblings, it's unrealistic both financially and practically, to expect any kind of extra-curricular activity. And second, my parents disapproved of many traditional "dance costumes" along with the physical contact involved in many kinds of dancing.

So I was the artist.

Yes, I took some art lessons at one point in my life. My teacher liked me. I liked painting. I felt it was something I could excel in, and something I enjoyed. But when I would look at other so-called artists, I'd see them pouring their souls out through their paintbrushes. As I went through high school, I attempted a few times to do the same, but as my inability to express myself became more apparent to me, my frustration grew. Unfinished drawings and half-filled canvases only exacerbated the pain I felt as the bottled up emotions refused to flow through my arms and hands, pencils, paints, and brushes.

I started writing in college. It's only taken me a few years to realize that writing is good for my soul. In writing, not only can I express my emotions, but I I can express them in such a way that others - anyone - can understand. It's comforting. At the same time, it leaves me vulnerable. It's exciting. While being so mundane - everyone writes, every day. But for me, it's a way to begin filling in those blank canvases.

But sometimes the words run out.

Sometimes I don't want to feel that vulnerability.

Sometimes I want to do something just for me.

And that's when I dance.

In a way, I've always been a dancer. Though most of my life it was a worship from afar: the most meaningful scenes in my long-time favorite movie Fiddler on the Roof include dancing (think "To Life" and "Chavala"...); the first topic I ever researched included the lives, careers, and partners of famous ballerinas, muscle structure of dancers, and different types of dancing; the first person my younger self ever disliked was the one person I knew who took dance lessons;  I don't remember a day when I didn't cut some kind of caper, whether through the dark storage area on the way to my bedroom, across the kitchen from the stove to the fridge, or my last few steps from the light switch into bed.

I am not highly trained in any kind of dancing, though I've tried and "naturally excelled" in countless.

But dancing to me is where I find my soul. Dancing is how I fill up that canvas. Dancing is my word when the words run out. Dancing is how I cry when there are no tears. Dancing is how I smile when my heart is broken. Dancing is how I laugh when no one else will. Dancing is how I express everything and nothingness all at once. Dancing is where I stop thinking and just live. Dancing is what I do for myself. And it is where I am most myself.

So yes, I am an artist. I can sing, I am good at it, and I love it. I can make wonderful-tasting and looking food, I can take breathtaking photos with a low-grade camera, I can sketch astounding portraits and fill canvases with mystical or whimsical scenes.

But when I write is when I am creating a work for the world. I write to be heard, I write to be noticed, I write to reach out and connect with others. Writing is what I do as a tribute to the lives of the countless individuals who have gone through life without a voice. Writing is what I do as a tribute to every individual who is touched by my writing.

But dancing.

Dancing is me. Dancing is what I do to express my soul.

I'm not one to harbor regrets, nor one to live in a fantasy world. But I often wonder how my life would be different if I'd been given the chance to pursue this passion. This, however, always leads to another question: Is it too late?

To delete or not to delete?

I always go back and forth between embarrassment and pride when I read back over my old blog posts. More often than not I want to delete them. I look back at my past self, writing these sometimes amusing, sometimes perplexing entries and my present self thinks in all its superiority that I've come so far. I ask myself why I should leave those old posts up for the public to see when they very often reflect very little of who I am now.

But then I have to admit to myself that who I am now is because of who I was then. My blog isn't about who I am. It's about growth, a universal struggle. I'm not writing as someone who's arrived. I'm writing as someone who's getting there. Getting where? I'm not sure, but the whole point is to chronicle the journey.

So yes, very often when I read back just a few months into the past, I find that I've changed and grown. And very often I wish I could erase that old step. Only without that past step, I'd never be where I am now. And without the memory of that step, I'd never realize just how far I've come.

So just like those old pictures on Facebook...the ones with that old boyfriend, with those 15 extra pounds, with those old clothes I used to wear (talk about embarrassing!), or with those old friends I'd forgotten about. Those pictures, these blog posts, just like my past, will stay. A record of who I've been. A reminder of where I've walked. And very often, good for a rueful smile or two. 

Pain-filled Love

Seven weeks had past since the last time she's heard his voice. Seven weeks? Or was it seven years? For in that time she had come to know herself better than ever before. What was it she missed? Was it his strong support in the face of her own faltering confidence? Or was it his gentle reprimands in the face of her unwavering, unrealistic drive for perfection? 

She remebered clearly the last time she'd seen him. He stood there under the awning watching as she darted through the rain to the small, teal car that would only begin the separation. As she turned to look back at him one last time, her heart full of sadness and her eye brimming with tears, he raised one hand in a gesture of hope and of goodbye. All the next day she waited impatiently for the call that would assure her he had arrived "safely" at his intended destination - boot camp. 

When the call finally came at 1600, Monday, April 8, he had only a small amount of news to give: "Still in Nashville waiting for the flight - I'll call later." But she'd missed the call, and several following it. Why? An ill-timed trip to the bathroom, a silenced phone in class, and an unfamiliar number - any number of reasons.

Throughout those seven weeks she trusted his love in the absence of his voice and his touch. It seemed odd to her that the girl who had scarcely two months before wept at the prospect of saying goodbye, had lived through weeks of near total separation. That letter she hoped to receive every Thursday was the small thread that kept her moving forward. 

Every night as she turned out the lights she thought of the man who was not there to hold her. Most nights she shed at least a few tears. In the mornings she woke up to an empty apartment and an empty heart. As she looked at herself in her small mirror she'd ask herself, "Who is that girl?" More importantly, "Who is that man who has so completely stolen my heart that I can't seem to live without him?" 

But that was the wrong question. 

Because she COULD live without him, and she did. Through the most bitter and searing pain she walked, limped, crawled, but always, always continued. Why? Because more important than any fear or hurt was the all-pervasive knowledge, "I love him." 

As the days turned into weeks, she wondered if she'd romanticized the whole thing. Love? What is love? This is just pain. But as the time of separation drew to a close she had come to realize that "love" consists of many things, including pain. And patience. And trust. And often, more pain. Through the desert of searing loneliness their love had taken her, and finally, as the seventh week dawned, she felt a cool breeze and looked up to see she'd nearly arrived at the other side.

Then his call came. Seven weeks and one hour since the last call. She knew it was him. All she could manage to say was, "Hi!" They talked and then paused, reveling in the fact that they were finally able to hear each other's voices. Those three words could never suffice. "I miss you" could never begin to explore the depth of emotion through which they had each traveled in the last seven weeks. Only seven weeks? In that short time they'd both come to realize more deeply than they'd ever imagined just what it means to "miss" someone, and just what it means to "love" someone. 

The day of their reunion finally arrived and the longing for his voice, his touch, nearly consumed her. He seemed so near! But the heat and loneliness of the desert through which she had just come seemed to cling to her like a shadow. She sat as if in a dream as 542 indivduals were recognized and pronounced "Sailors." Shortly after she stumbled down the stairs and blindly wandered toward the spot where she'd seen him last before he'd been swallowed by the crowd in front of her. She'd imagined this moment for so long, but now, it was as if she could scarcely feel anything. 

There he was. 

Finally, finally, she felt something! Only, as she watched him hug his parents and waited respectfully for her turn, his eyes met hers and it all came back. Every doubt, every tear, every hope, every fear, every step of that torturous journey fell crashing onto her like a wave.

But then - the moment she'd been waiting for for 55 days! He was holding her and her tired head was finally resting where it belonged. Only then did she realize that she was shaking uncontrollably. The shear magnitude of what her heart had been through seemed for a moment to overwhelm here. But then, finally! It was gone. All that pain, washed away. Those lonely hours, the heartbreaking weeks - GONE! 

His voice, his touch - him! In his arms she saw once again why she'd walked through that desert that was rapidly disolving into the past: she loved him. 

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

I've struggled with "body image issues" for a very long time. As in, over a decade. I remember the first time I thought I was fat. (I wasn't fat.) I remember comparing myself to the skinniest girls in my class and thinking I must be fat and therefore undesirable. The next few months were emotionally taxing on me due to a completely unrelated cause, but during that time I turned to food to feel better.

Throughout all of high school I went through cycles of berating and starving myself peppered with way over-eating sprees. Every night for years and years I would review what I'd eaten and done that day, pick out what I'd done wrong, (Basically, had I eaten anything?) and promise myself I would do better. EVERY NIGHT. For FIVE years.

The trend continued after high school and followed me as I wandered around the country and worked various jobs for a couple years. During that time my wight hovered between 155 and 165lbs. My self-worth centered entirely on what I'd eaten and if I thought I'd lost weight.

When I started college I became more active, walking to and between classes, and working many hours a week at a restaurant. I lost weight. But the struggle continued. I hated my body. I no longer went to bed thinking about what i'd eaten, but I woke up every morning, felt my stomach to see if it seemed smaller, and avoided mirrors at any cost.

After 10 years of this, I wrote the following except in my journal.

Why am I so unhappy and dissatisfied with my body?

I have a lot of flaws:
I have a lot more hair in some pretty undesirable places than girls should have.
My face and chin are round and undefined.
My thumbs are weird.
My chest went from a DD to a C in less than 8 months.
My stomach holds onto fat no matter what I eat and do.
My hips are very big and my thighs are enormous.
No matter how often I shave, my skin is so light that the hair is visible underneath it.
My teeth are crooked and I have an extra tooth that makes me look like a vampire.
My skin is so white that now my friends tease me that I am a ghost.
My big toe is too big and my little toe is too little.
My bottom lip is disproportionately big compared to my upper lip, and they are always dry.
My nipples are always shrunken and never look full or attractive.
I still get pimples regularly.
My hair is always tangled and never stays where I put it.
My eyes are not bright, interesting, or unique in any way.
My knees are knobby even thought my legs are so fat.

By this account, my flaws are indeed great. But far and away, the one that bothers me most is my perceived size.

I say perceived because I don't even know what I really look like. I've spent the last nine years telling myself that I am fat and if I could just lose some weight I would be happy. But now I am just disillusioned on so many levels.

I remember when my sister used to weight about 160lbs. In the months leading up to her wedding she lost 15lbs and I remember thinking how skinny she looked. I looked in the mirror at my 155lb body and told myself that if I could just be as skinny as she was, then I would be beautiful and stop thinking about my weight and appearance.

In the next few year, however, I consistently gained weight, peaking at 170lbs the summer before my freshman year in college. That first year in school I lost about 10lbs and the next summer another 15. That was what Esther weighed in all those gorgeous and skinny wedding pictures.

So if I weigh the same as she did, how am I still so fat?

How do I still look the same after losing 25lbs to a healthy 145lbs? How is it that the jeans I wore 3 years ago fall off of me, the pajamas that were tight a year ago are now baggy, and the sweatshirt I bought 2 months ago is now loose...but I'm not any smaller?

How skinny will I have to get before I finally feel skinny? Are the clothes or the mirrors lying? How can I learn to see myself the way I really am?! I just want to know what's wrong with me - is my body that hideous, or are my eyes deceiving me? How can I learn to love and accept my body with all its flaws?

I've told myself for years that this will happen when I'm skinny. But what is "skinny"? After losing 25lbs I can't see the difference. What if I lost 25 more? Maybe then I would feel small. Maybe then I would love my body and finally believe that I am attractive and worth loving. But what if 25 more lbs isn't enough? Will anything ever be enough...

It seems, however, that I am not alone in this quest for perfection. Everywhere on magazines, in adds, and on every internet page is some product that will supposedly get me my dream body. Most of them claim that they don't include "restrictive diets, boring cardio, or gym visits." But then I looked at the pictures they included. These people looked like me. One even showed "before" and "after" pictures from 185lbs to 140lbs. I told myself "That's what I weigh. Is that what I look like?"

So this is my goal - just for this coming week: stop looking in the mirror to judge my body, stop pinching my fat to see if it's shrunk, stop telling myself what I should look like. Instead, eat good healthy food on a regular basis, exercise a little every day, and every day find one thing about my body that I like.

New mind. New eyes. New attitude... = MY "DREAM BODY".

Changing ones mind and eyes and attitude after ten years of thinking a certain way is a huge and difficult task. But I wrote that eight months ago, and yesterday I wrote this...

It's really odd to wake up in the morning and not think about how I can get skinnier. It's really weird to plans meals without asking myself if they will help me lose weight. It's really strange to look in the mirror and admire my body instead of judging it. It's really odd to choose outfits based on how I feel like looking, the weather, and what I'm doing as opposed to choosing it if I think it will make me look thinner.

All those years chasing down the fantasy - how I wanted to look. do I look like that now? haha! No. Not really.

Yes, I've lost a little weight, toned up a bit, and learned to dress and take care of my body to emphasize what I view as my more attractive aspects. But when I look in the mirror I certainly do not see the perfect model I used to think I wanted to look like.

So my body changed a little, but what really changed? Something in my mind. Many things in my mind actually.

First, I realized that I will NEVER have a "perfect" body.
Second, I recognized that my view of my body is often exaggerated if not plain wrong.
Third, I set myself on the path toward a healthy body.
Finally, I understood that I could never accept anyone else's love and appreciation for my body if I didn't love and appreciate it myself.

No longer was the struggle just about me. I saw that my struggle had real and hurtful affects on those around me, those I love the most.

Now, I strive to give my body the same care and attention I give my mind (and my grades). I look at it with eyes to see the good. Those "flaws" are just the unique pieces that make up the puzzle of who I am. The weaknesses are opportunities to grow. But nothing about my body is inherently bad or ugly! Perception is everything.

So I wake up in the morning and think about how the sun is shining through the blinds and casting a nice, human shadow on the wall. I put on some clothes, look in the mirror, and notice how they compliment my extra-curvy curves. I look in the mirror and see...ME.

Is the struggle over? NO.
Do I have negative thoughts every day? Yes.
Will this last for the rest of my life? Quite possibly.
Am I still winning? MOST DEFINITELY.