the difference a month makes
I’ve been trying to write a couple of posts for like three days now, and I haven’t been able to. Which is odd for someone like me–someone who writes to figure out how she feels. The problem is that my feelings seem to be behind a glass wall that I’ve erected–and they’ve been there for a while now. The last time I felt like this–the last time I legit couldn’t seem to write–was when I lived with my ex, after leaving TFA. Well, I should qualify this–I CAN write. It just doesn’t come out right–so I give up and decide to come back to it later–usually starting all over again.
I’m starting all over again here now. And I really don’t know what I’m gonna say–so I’m just going to start talking and see what comes out.
- 2020 has been full of trauma for me. It started with Fogg’s being sick and then her surgery and a few more bumps with her since then. I realized yesterday that the first two years I lived here were not me being a hermit and hating on SJ for no apparent reason (which is what I told myself). I realized that–holy fuck–I was finally feeling all the shit that happened the year Fogg got sick. Sometimes, I forget that I moved that same year. That I orchestrated a cross-country move–my first ever–leaving the only home I’d ever known–within months of my cat almost dying 5-6 times in a few months. No wonder I spent 2 years locked in my apartment–no wonder I was depressed and sad. I had been in numb shock, caring for this precious love–doing everything possible to save her. And when it was done–no wonder I just wanted to sleep.
- Beyond that, things ended with the SOOMA. My last post about that situation wasn’t the end of that story. The end of the story was an amazing night that made me think maybe we’d find some way to make it work–even as the end of that night made me doubt it–and made the next few days predictable and easier to swallow.
- I think I started disassociating back in November–at least somewhat–but I think it really came to a head when the SOOMA came back–though I allowed myself to connect with him and to love him again. That last night with him, the walls were coming down a bit, and maybe that’s why he did what he did–because he felt that and knew there would be no turning back after that. It’s hard to feel that–even from a place of disassociation–and as I’m writing this–tears are finally welling up. Because I loved him. I love him. And it doesn’t matter.
- A month ago, I was with him–tangled up in him–so alive and in it. And that was my biggest problem.
- Even as this is happening, I can feel myself holding on to it–breathing deep to prevent it from coming–I’m okay–I’m okay–I’m okay. Except I’m not. I don’t want to be. Okay isn’t an appropriate response to what this is. But I’m afraid if I begin, I won’t ever stop.
- A lot of life has changed for me–and a lot hasn’t. I still spend most days in my bedroom. My roommate is home all the time now, and we’ve somehow managed to become some kind of weird family.
- The career I knew is on hiatus–as my entire industry is basically in disarray. But that’s not why I’m on hiatus–and I can’t talk about it–except to say–I’m relieved it’s over. I’m angry, maybe, but I’m okay.
- I’ve been surprised by a lot of things, lately. The biggest one has been me and how I’ve responded to what normally would have been my worst nightmare. It’s particularly interesting because it’s not the first time I’ve been surprised about this shit. I have always been particularly afraid of not having a safety net. In November, I had to come up with $15K in basically a week. I don’t know how the fuck I did it, but I did it. And because I did it, Fogg didn’t die. And it wasn’t even that difficult. Money has always been a source of extreme stress for me, so it felt like a small miracle–but because of that–it meant some BIG sacrifices for this year. It meant I needed to be stable for a while, and it also meant I probably couldn’t go back to school anytime soon. When all of this shit went down, I was pretty terrified–especially because I knew finding work in what I do during this nightmare we’re all enduring would be close to impossible. Somehow, though, I was able to figure it out–without selling my soul and donating eggs. I literally found stability within the course of two days. And now, I have some freedom and breathing room for about a year.
- Despite the fact that I have to tighten my belt, I’ve continued as normal. I’m investing in me. I’m making sure I have what I need. I’m not holding on to every penny I get. I trust that what I need will show up–that I can create whatever I need. This is incredibly different from how I’ve ever dealt with adversity in the past. I’m trusting myself and the Universe–and I’m investing more resources into self-trust.
- I had a really dark week or so where I felt pretty sad and down and frustrated, but I quickly just sort of surrendered. For whatever reason, I just sort of accepted that there was a high likelihood that I’d get this disease and that–being high risk–I’d be hit hard. But instead of being terrified, I sort of saw it as–what can I do to make the best of it? I sort of just surrendered–and doing that allowed me to trust my ability to heal–and my ability to find what I need and survive.
- I’ve worked hard on controlling the variables I CAN control. When things didn’t go as planned, I adapted and got creative. When obstacles came up, I gave myself grace and held space for what I knew I needed–even if I couldn’t do it in the moment.
- I didn’t let other people shame me for doing whatever the Hell I needed to do to take care of myself. I just modified my actions to be more mindful of the realities we’re in, but always put myself and my duty to my own health first.
- Tonight–now–has been the first time I’ve cried in a really long time. For a while, this was a relief. My magic superpower. The one I earned. Shitty childhoods have some redeeming traits, after all. But then, there comes this point where you know the pain is there–you can feel some of the sadness–but you know you’re not feeling everything. I shared on Instagram the other day that I felt guilty for doing so well when so many others aren’t. That I’m sometimes boggled by my own resilience, and I often wonder why I’m able to cope with things fairly easily and so many others can’t.
- Sometimes, I forget that I’m in an active trauma right now–that we all are–and that THIS is how my brain responds to trauma. This is what kept me alive and sane and whole as a child. This is what saved me. And it’s saving me again–except maybe I want to feel it now. But maybe I don’t–maybe I don’t know what that really means. And maybe it’s wise to trust the wisdom of the brain that kept me alive and to be patient.
- I was talking to my friend, who also has cPTSD, and she was saying she was really proud of both of us for the awareness. Because it’s easy to forget there were times when there wasn’t awareness that things existed inside.
- In a lot of ways, this entire thing has been a huge blessing. It has given me a clean slate–which has allowed me to open new doors–and has given me the kick in the ass I needed to finally stop living in paralysis and do the things I know I need to do. That means school is happening in three weeks. It means a whole new career is coming–and I’m not letting my fear or self-doubt talk me out of it. It’s time.
- The things that weren’t serving me–even the things that I cherished and wanted–exited as quickly as corona said hi. As someone who doesn’t give up easily and who is incredibly loyal, this entire time in my life has been about letting go of the things that maim me–even when doing so feels like giving up parts of myself.
- In this time of incredible everything, I have found absolute joy in ordinary moments. Usually moments where I surrender to myself. And that is what this entire year was supposed to be about.
- The thing about all of this, too, is that it’s given me a lot of context for the trauma I’ve lived through. A true reality check on my progress. It’s made me realize who I am, in a lot of ways–who was born the day my Mama got sick–15 years ago. In therapy, this part of me that I refer to as the Shaman keeps showing up–and as it turns out–that’s the path I’m on. Maybe this life is about healing myself and others. Maybe that’s what every single thing I’ve ever done has been about. And it’s time to stop fucking around and show up to that existence.
I love you. Be well. ❤