the hook
I’ve been grappling with conflicting emotions lately, many of them related to my childhood. It comes with that whole mortality thing. Last night, I had a much-needed therapy session–which I booked knowing I’d need it. I was surprised by how angry I am, but also how calm I am. I vented to my therapist. But it was controlled–so unlike the triggered me that used to go off. And that was saying a lot, considering what I’d just encountered.
Lately, I’ve wondered if I actually should continue therapy, despite how much I love my therapist and how much it’s genuinely helped me. Mostly because a) it’s pretty damn expensive, and b) a lot of it feels non-productive—me just giving updates and her asking questions about the updates. I’ve gotten more and more skilled at managing myself as I age, as I’ve gotten healthier, as I’ve done my death doula training and taken courses in psych. But last night helped me remember why I keep showing up. A lot of it is just that—investing in myself and showing up for me—even when it doesn’t feel worth it—is SO HUGE because I never used to show up for me. But it can feel like a lot of back patting because WOW—I’m doing this shit. I’m not taking the bait. I’m not burning shit to the ground or running at my first instinct of shit. I’m giving people space to be their imperfect selves. I’m giving myself breathing room. But more than anything—I’m being the person I needed for myself.
And it’s interesting what happens when you do that. You start seeing your old patterns. You start seeing how you got stuck. You see why you liked certain people. You see why you stayed. And you realize you always had the power as an adult to change it. And you can do just that: simply make another choice.
In the past six months or so, I realized something really huge for me—a big, icky, sad something that I didn’t fully comprehend until yesterday. I’ve never ever felt safe with anyone. And I’ve also never really felt loved by people. It didn’t matter that I believed they loved me. Or that they told me four hundred times a week. Or that they did shit for me. It always felt superficial and hollow and easily dismantled. I intellectually knew how they felt. But internalizing it in the ways that matter? That was never a thing I knew how to do. And I wonder how much that impacted by ability to love. I know I do love things and people. I’ve used the words. I’ve walked the talk. I’ve heavily grieved people and beings I’ve lost. So, that’s the proof I guess. But perhaps, maybe—just maybe—part of the problem has been I didn’t know how to love people because I didn’t quite know what to do with the emotion when I lived in a body and brain and heart that was in constant fear of losing all things—of being obliterated.
We were talking about this idea of safety—particularly when I shared something about a friendship I’ve struggled with—with a person I love—as much as I can love anyone. I shared that I’ve learned, recently, that there are people who I adore—who I have fun with—who I genuinely would do anything for—who I’ve known my whole adult life. But when it comes to seeking support or talking about shit like this—or being messy—I am inherently unsafe there. And for years, I mistook my love for them as them being inherently safe beings for all things. But that isn’t true. Not remotely. And my therapist said something that really hit me. How on the whole hierarchy of needs thing—you can’t love until you feel safe. You can’t absorb love. You can’t give love. It’s not within your wheelhouse or your power. And that has explained my entire existence—but most especially my romantic relationships. And why I always felt deficient. And why I always found myself with people who were incapable of it, too.
Honestly, that idea—shit—it depressed me…made me hopeless for a second. So what the fuck do people like me do? Like what do we actually do to feel safe? How do we teach ourselves shit we never got? And I guess it’s what I’ve been doing in therapy for years now. You make yourself safe. You tell the truth. You find people in the damn weeds who will sit with you. You give yourself space and time and fuckloads of patience. And you let yourself off the damn hook.
the one with the moon
I had a really disorienting dream this morning. It was my Mama and me. We were in a convertible, of some sort, and she was driving. I’m not sure what city we were in because it didn’t look like Denver, but the proliferation of homeless folks made me think it must be here. We were on this long boulevard–the kind with a divider down the middle, full of those boring flowers that seem to overflow in these kinds of places.
As we were driving, I would see a homeless person just walk up to someone and slash their throat. Or blow up something. It was so random, and no one seemed to care. No one stopped them either. It was like this was what life was supposed to be like and only I seemed to know it wasn’t. Even Mama was oblivious.
At some point, she tried to turn into a driveway that housed some kind of business I didn’t quite understand. Except there was a car there already, blocking the path. They had ordered something and were waiting. There were people running around getting whatever it was ready. And we were half-turned–our car’s butt straight across two lanes of traffic with cars coming–not slowing. Mama was cursing at the driver to move out of her way. I asked her where she thought he could go and told her to just move to the side of him–out of traffic. But she kept bullying them, and then they just disappeared. We parked, and no one really acknowledged the massive danger we had just escaped or how horribly my mother had acted.
It was apparently a Burger King. But it looked more like a car showroom, except empty–full of windows and doors that went places I couldn’t see. The workers were in these stations–but you couldn’t pull into them because tables blocked the entrances. It was all white. No color to speak of, with privacy hedges. And they sold chicken “potato” chips–which were actually just fried chicken skin–and nothing else. There was no sign or prices or anything.
She got out, for some reason, and said she had to meet some guy somewhere. She then disappeared and never came back, leaving me in this car with no keys and people asking me what I wanted–but I never wanted to come here to begin with. So, I got out of the car and walked into the place with all the doors and the windows–and despite how transparent and obvious it was–I couldn’t ever find my way or see anything, really. I kept walking, and it felt like this endless rabbit hole. A few seconds in, I started panicking–that kind of panic you have when you’re a little kid and you lose your parent for a minute at the grocery store. It went on and on and on and on and on. The panic slowed eventually, and I knew what was coming. I knew I wouldn’t see her again, and then I woke up.
I wanted to sob, but my confused brain took a minute to register where I was. The sweet orange and white fluffy face meowing at me with its head askew brought me back to this reality–the one where she’s been gone almost half my life. I still wanted to cry, but I realized it was gonna be a choice. I made the choice and tried really hard–but the tears only came when I buried my face in Monkey’s soft safety. And then it was just three tears—enough to release something. But the rest of it lingered all day.
It’s been a long time since I dreamed about my Mama. For almost a decade after, I’d wake up screaming fairly regularly. Some were so bad that my roommate had to calm me down. Often, it was just an endless search for her where I’d wake up and not know where I was or who I was. Sometimes, I’d have these strange dreams where I’d just hold her face. Other times, I’d be having dinner with her and Daddy–so ordinary–but something I never actually got to do as an adult. I’d wake up and not realize she was gone at all–so over and over–I had to relive losing her. Once, I dreamt I beat her to death. And other times, I was just running around some odd kaleidoscope of brightly colored doors that led to bathroom concerts.
The message here was clear, though–I’ll give my crazy brain that much. It was some kind of commentary on the journey we had together in this all-too-short life. But also a reminder of how the old me exonerated everything, and how this me has changed. It was a loud and clear message about safety, too. All of which has been on my mind, these days.
When you’re a child of an alcoholic, you learn to look the other way a lot. You learn to give grace and make excuses and put up with shit that isn’t right. Even though everything in you is screaming at you to say something–do something. It creates this constant feeling of fraud so that you never trust yourself or anyone else. It creates this inability to breathe or to just relax. That part of me was riled up all day today. That part of me looking for enemies–looking for reasons to hibernate and not engage. And if you look for something, you’ll always find it.
Tonight, the news came that Matthew Perry died, probably drowning in his hot tub. I wasn’t surprised. When he wrote his memoir, I remember thinking he was unwell. My spidey senses were rampant, and every time I noticed him on social media, I was left with that feeling. That feeling I have–that ability I have to sense the temperature of other humans–was something I learned from loving my father and trying to hustle for his love, too.
His last photo on Instagram was him in the hot tub with the moon above him. It felt almost by design that this happened and that was his last post. Whatever the case, it brought me a lot of comfort and some odd reassurance that he would be okay–despite all the questions we all have about the how of his death.
Perry was always someone I had a crush on. I like darkly funny guys with good hearts and lots of talent with addictive personalities. I never really understood how he didn’t think he was worthy of Jennifer Aniston because, um–HELLO? I always felt he had so much talent and all kinds of other things that were wasted–despite his huge success. He was capable of so much and just never really seemed happy. After a while, I wonder if happiness is something some of us can actually achieve. I wonder if the best we can do is find peace.
Tonight, I saw the big, bright, full moon over this adopted city of mine–and it reminded me of constancy and all the things I never had as a kid. It reminded me to breathe, relax, and to dream. But mostly to try. I hope we all find peace, somehow.
and on the second day
It’s the second day of my summer break. On Sunday, I submitted my entirely too long final project with 21 minutes to spare–an actual win for this ADHD brain. Typically, I’ve gone right up to the final minute–and usually that involved panic and disappointment. Because, even if I got straight As (which I always do), I did my best (which TBH, I did, given my brain), I wanted it to be more and knew I was capable of more. I was still left with this feeling this time around, but there was also acceptance that this is just how my brain is–and eventually, I’ll figure it out.
My topic was suicide. Namely how COVID impacted suicide rates and risk factors for healthcare workers. It started off a bit too broad–so I cut it back to only looking at America–but even that was too broad–so I cut it back to only looking at physicians. It was a difficult topic–not just because of the death aspect. Mostly because a lot of the research hasn’t happened yet. I think it’s the first time I’ve really taken on primary research myself, so it was a bit frustrating to not have all the information I wanted because it just didn’t exist. However, it kinda didn’t matter in the end. All the evidence pointed to a broken system and a culture that did not promote mental health whatsoever. Or patient health either. As a person with multiple chronic illnesses, I’ve had doozy experiences with medical folks, so it was a bit eye-opening for me. When there’s no room for humanity for the physicians themselves, how can they see people where they are? How can they have empathy? How can they take pain seriously when they diminish their own? They can’t–that’s the answer. So, it’s yet another way capitalism fails us. Which, oddly, reminded me to take better care of myself and also prompted me to take a break from school for the remainder of the summer.
The more I live, the more I want to raise a middle finger to capitalism, and I’m not sure I can re-enter the workforce upholding that whole clusterfuck. I realized this a few months ago. None of the jobs out there are jobs I want to do. The competition is so fierce right now, and I don’t have the fake pedigree that capitalism values in Silicon Valley. And I know what those jobs are like. The ones that pay what I’m worth are places I’d never want to support in a million years. The jobs that excite me pay almost nothing, by Bay Area standards, and I’m not willing to risk my life for a paycheck–so what’s left?
I’m fine for now, financially, and can keep going for a while like this. But I made a big decision and decided to pursue another Master’s degree this past March. I just wrapped up my second course. I’m studying Applied Psychology at my alma mater, and it’s pretty much bliss. It took me a long time in my life to figure out I love psychological anything, but I certainly know now. School has also taught me I love studying law and social justice. And now, I’m learning I love research. All of this has made me wonder if I should go to law school or get my PhD in Psychology instead of just being a therapist–as I’ve always planned.
I’m studying Applied Psychology and not doing the traditional straight shot to therapy school because that path is pretty rigid. If I need (or want) to work, it would be very difficult–which is why I had such a hard time pursuing it before. It’s meant for people with traditional backgrounds who knew what they wanted from high school. Not someone with a meandering path like mine. Truth be told, I also didn’t trust myself enough to fully commit to therapy school. I’ve had a few spectacular “failures” about things I was so sure about that just weren’t for me once I was in the thick of it. So, pursuing this degree is all about learning about what I actually love and doing it–instead of being married to a goal. It’s been life-giving, and it’s resulted in boatloads of growth for me that even my therapist has noted. Giving myself permission to let my passions drive my studies is just wild to me.
I don’t really know the path I’m going to take and how I’ll end up where I need to go. But I do know I love what I’m studying now. It feels good and right. And when I’m done, it opens up more doors to things that excite me. What I do in the meantime, professionally, is still up in the air. But I have time to figure it out, and I’m being patient with the Universe and myself that what needs to happen will happen. I’m still working on that patience thing, but the good part is I can have an actual summer break without any guilt or annoyance. Which is amazing because I’ve been so very tired.
la dolce vita
So, I know I grump A LOT about humanity and the world and etc. And all of that is actually valid. The world is A LOT right now, and we all have every excuse to shake our collective fists at the sky.
But–truth be told–I’m an optimist at my core–and it’s not an easy thing to be…which is why I tend to be negatively impacted by the crap of the world. My empath self can’t take all the BS. It truly damages my mental health.
During a random drive, very late at night, this past week, I was listening to new-to-me music in my car and found myself with this deep appreciation for it. I was thinking about how human beings literally went from being cave people to creating all this amazingness. Like not only did we learn how to express ourselves to create lyrics and then songs, but we figured out how to make all kinds of instruments. We used our environment and resources to make them even better. Then we created the science to understand music and then the infrastructure to make it and the business to distribute it. We created dance moves and concert halls and radio stations and internet apps. Just the shit that’s happened in my lifetime is mind-boggling. HOW DID WE DO THAT? And there’s an endless supply of music that’s brilliant. Try as I might (and boyhow am I trying), we will never ever consume all of the good music there is to consume.
Thinking about all of that made me profoundly grateful, and to be so honest, a bit weepy because it was the antidote to all the crap in the world. Creative work and artistic endeavors are so awe-inspiring and they combat all the negative shit it this world in such a deep, fascinating way that affects everyone–even if you have the worst taste in music ever.
It gives me so much hope. Why? Because during that whole crazy road to this amazingness, there had to be really painful, shitty, stressful days where people threw up their hands and wanted to give up. There had to be unethical assholes in the mix. There had to be loads of crap. And still–all of that was ultimately inconsequential. Eventually, we made it to the summit and the view is breathtaking. It doesn’t erase the journey–though some will never understand it–but knowing that means that eventually, shit works out–eventually it settles. So the ugly BS of now won’t be forever. And the impossible will eventually happen if we don’t give up. But you can’t just force it. It’s a collection of small moments and decisions and the collective all aligning in an avalanche of awesome.
So, there is no rush. No need to self-abuse. No need to hustle or contort or manipulate. In fact, that’s where creativity dies. That’s where goodness dies. The antidote to all of it is to just be yourself and live your damn life and be a potato if you need to be a damn potato. But also keep dreaming and striving too.
A couple months ago, I wrapped up a course in positive psychology that taught me two very significant things, that have stuck with me:
1) Your brain is hardwired for a happiness setpoint. Meaning–your ability to be happy isn’t just an endless supply. Your genetics and environment provide limits–boundaries–for your ability to be happy. Which is super helpful for someone like me, with cPTSD, ADHD, and anxiety. It’s disheartening, but I found an important and unexpected effect of knowing this: it let me off the hook for not always feeling like a ray of light. It’s not my fault–literally. It’s actually no one’s fault. And accepting that meant I could work with what I have and support myself better now that I know this.
2) While that’s completely true–it’s also true that you can raise your happiness setpoint through conscious, intentional ACTION. Things like performing random acts of kindness, gratitude practices, and working on mindfulness. These things make a buttload of difference, and unknowingly, I’ve done this my whole life–which is a big reason I’m so resilient. I wondered this about myself for a really long time. So, it was heartening to know that my silly optimist practices are actually powerful. And that I already know what to do. I just have to trust myself.
So, now that I know all of these things, I kinda can’t go back to the shit I used to do. I can’t work miserable jobs where I can’t even take a break to pee. I can’t hate what I do every day. I can’t work with toxic people or just suffer through–faking it till I make it. I can’t just line someone’s pockets while allowing them to shortchange me of what I’m worth. Not happening ever again.
I’ve intentionally slowed way down and been thoughtful during what started out as a “hiatus from my real life”–to what is my actual life–and a pretty damn good one, where my dreams matter and I can be exactly who I need to be.
Back in May, I decided I wanted to make the summer special and started calling it my La Dolce Vita summer. The idea is sort of borne from summer vacations. I just remember loving summer so much as a kid, and now, I realize it wasn’t summer so much as it was freedom that I loved. It’s not a summer about balance because I’m not that woman. I’m a woman of intense loves and hates. So, why not indulge the damn love? Why not get dressed up every day in my fluffiest dresses and even put some makeup on? Why not wear the expensive perfume and drink all the damn watermelon lemonade? Why not take a walk every day? Why not stay in bed an ungodly amount because I’m tired–not stalling?
I will forever suck at sleeping–that’s part of who I am as a person. But I can make those meaningful steps to support myself in being a little bit less of an exhausted person by reducing my emotional fatigue and actually letting myself be–instead of constantly fighting with myself over what I should need and want.
To that end, I’ve decided to take July & August off from school for no other reason than I want to and I need to. I’m not doing it to look for a job or take care of a sick cat or avoid burning out. There’s no crisis to attend to. I will just be a person, living without fear or shame or expectation and see how that works for me.
I will likely still work on the rest of my life because I want to. And there is definitely a justification there. But I’m not going to explain that to you or even to myself. I already know, and my choices aren’t really yours to approve. My therapist is going to be very proud.
Hope you all are doing well. Go outside. Eat a doughnut. Read a book you are actually excited to read. Change your mind. Ten times even. And cuddle animals. Life is too short to be locked in a room, scrolling on a laptop. Unless that’s your idea of bliss–and if so–bless!
pause.sigh.go.hi. 