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being real

It’s time

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This has been a long time coming. It started with a whisper in the back of my brain and I wrote Musings. Then it grew to a hunger in my soul and I wrote Telling Stories. And now I just know: it’s time. It’s time to press publish and say:

I am a survivor.

Of sexual abuse. Of sexual assault.

And right now, statistically, 1 in 4 girls, and 1 in 5 women who reading this are going to say, whether in a whisper to themselves, or as a shout out loud: me too.

I walk by survivors every day. I talk to survivors every day. I just don’t know that I’m talking to them, and they don’t know that they’re talking to one too, because nobody is talking about it. Because of fear. Of shame.

Fear and shame that stopped me from speaking about it for years.

But I’m working through it. With some time, some healing, long conversations, a lot of love and compassion, and the guidance of some incredible women, my mindset is shifting. The deep dark secrets I’ve kept don’t have to be deep and dark. And they’re not secrets, they’re stories. Secrecy implies there’s a reason to keep quiet. And with this – there isn’t. And while nothing positive comes out of silence, a lot of positive comes from speaking.

I’m reframing.

Because:

Do people who have been hit by a car feel fear in sharing their story because they think they’ll be blamed? Do most victims of a crime sit and stew over telling friends about the crime that WAS COMMITTED AGAINST THEM because they think people will shame them and point a finger?

When someone is killed, it doesn’t matter if we say killed or murdered. Dead is dead. We don’t only consider it a crime if it was a gun and not a knife. It doesn’t matter if we call it robbery or burglary. We don’t tell someone who had their wallet stolen, “Well, you DID have it in your pocket where it was easy to grab. So you kind of asked for the thief to take it.” We don’t ask victims to defend their experience. Because it was a crime. A crime was committed against them.

This is no different.

People get bogged down in semantics. Was it rape? Sexual assault? Sexual abuse? Molestation? Do the words REALLY matter? Do the details REALLY matter? Does it REALLY matter to know who put what where, and when, and what was I wearing and was I drinking and how old was I and how old were they and were they male or female and how many times did it happen and what’s my favorite color and what color eyes do I have? Does it in any way change the fact that it was a crime, and it happened?

The details matter to me, because they’re my story. My memories. The words of the chapters of my life. But they don’t matter in that they don’t change the underlying truth.

And it’s not “personal”. Because what happened actually had nothing to do with me. It wasn’t my event or my choice, so there’s no reason I should have to hold it as my secret. No reason I should have to carry shame about it.

The point? The point of speaking is to stand in my truth. The point of speaking is to stop keeping a secret that never should’ve been a secret. The point is to release that which I no longer need to hold within. The point is that silence will do nothing for me or anyone else but speaking will. The point is for any of you who read this, sigh, and say, me too. The point is any little bit of courage that this gives another survivor.

And now – I am rooting down. Standing tall. Holding tight. And owning my story.

I’ll meet you there

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People like reading advice. They like hearing about how someone got through a tough time, and similarly, about how they might get themselves through.

Absolutely.

But over the course of writing posts, and reading blogs, and tuning into myself, and thinking about the texts and emails and messages I’ve gotten following different things I’ve written, I’ve come to realize that there’s something people like to read even more than advice:

They like to read about a person experiencing it. Being in it.

Which isn’t to say that we like to know someone is struggling. But there’s something so powerful about hearing about someone who is in it – someone who is living it, someone who Gets It.

It’s why people like Jenny Lawson and Glennon Doyle Melton have such a following. Because they don’t just write about recovery or having overcome x, y, z. They also write candidly in the middle of hard times, real times. And that’s usually the piece we are drawn to – we love the inspiration of victory, and the hope that it could be ours. But the part of the book, or speech, or post, where they write honestly about what the Hard Times were like – that’s the part we most connect to. Ah. Yes. Someone understands.

I strive for that on this blog, and I’d like to keep moving towards it even more.

Because sometimes, in the hardest moments, it’s not helpful to hear “this will pass” and “you will feel better” and “here’s what you can do to help yourself”. Because sometimes in the moment, you just can’t believe that you’ll ever feel better. That you’ll ever stop hating your body, that you ever won’t feel traumatized or triggered, that you ever won’t feel a pull toward alcohol, that you ever won’t go back to a bad relationship, that you ever won’t feel hopeless.

Whatever it is for you.

In those moments, when someone cheerleads, (well-meaning, of course. This is not at all about malicious intent) sometimes you want to retort back, “Prove it! You can’t, can you? You can’t prove to me that I’ll feel better, that it’ll get better, that the outcome will be the one I desire. You can’t promise me it. So stop. Just stop. Because I can’t trust it.”

So I thought about what helps me in those moments, because I sure have them, I think we all do, when I don’t want a cheerleader. What helps me, what people have done for me and said to me, and what I will say to you, whoever you are, now, is:

I know. I know it hurts and I know you’re afraid and I know it feels like it won’t ever go away. I’m not here to tell you it will. But I’m here to hold you – literally or figuratively. I’m here so that you can tell me everything, all that you feel and fear and think. And I’m not here to tell you it’ll go away but I’m here to embrace it because this is where you are right now and I love you and I will love you through this. Tell me, say what you need to say, and I will hold your gaze and I will hug you and I will be right here. I know this feeling. I know this place you are living in. And maybe that will bring you comfort that I get it. But this, right now, is about you. I will understand even if I don’t understand. I am right here, meeting you on this path that you’re on, and I will walk it with you.

That’s all any of us need.

Telling stories

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I turned 28 last week.

I meant to write a blog post on that day. Something heartfelt or meaningful or even something simple but still something.

But between packing, cleaning, moving, unpacking, and attempting to get back into some semblance of normal amidst the chaos in our new house, I haven’t had a single second to sit down, let alone blog.

(I miss writing.)

In thinking back to the past year of my life, one theme weaved throughout: telling stories.

My 27th year was spent telling my stories. I told stories in therapy. I told stories to my husband. I told stories to my family. I told stories to my friends. Some stories were about my grandpa, and about my grief. Some stories were from years ago. But all were ones I hadn’t expected to need to tell.

Over and over again, this year, I spoke the chapters of my life until I could breathe again.

I first reached out. To those ones. I made coffee dates and dinner dates. I shamelessly invited myself over. I texted. I embraced being real.

And then over the next few weeks: I sat in a friend’s living room with her and her toddler. I sat in the passenger’s seat of a friend’s car. I sat across from a friend in a coffee shop. I FaceTimed friends. I talked on the phone. I snuggled under blankets with a friend in her living room and she looked into my eyes and it filled me with love and compassion, and said, “I am just hear to listen to whatever you want to say. And it is so safe, that you can even look me right in the eye as you say it.”

One evening with a friend, we ate and laughed and talked work and life. And then as the hours passed, darkness fell, everything quieted down, and I began to speak. “The thing is,” I said. “The more I keep something quiet, the more I don’t talk about it, the more the days and months and years pass without me speaking of it, the bigger it gets inside of me. Until it becomes this huge big awful  secret, but really, it isn’t. And I need it to not be that anymore.”

“Just say it,” she told me. “You’ll feel so much better once you do.”

And so I did.

A text she sent me the next day contained these words: “I refrained, as you should, from calling it a secret. It’s not and when you call it that you give it far more power than it deserves. It’s your story and for good or bad it’s part of what makes you you. It doesn’t define you as you are in control of that.”

Yes. So much yes to that. I have held onto those words.

My secrets are out, and they are no longer secrets. They are just pages in chapters of the book of my life. We all have stories, and there is no reason – none – to keep them hidden as secrets.

27 was the end of secrecy. I want to spend 28 continuing to tell stories. To more friends, to more people, to the blogosphere. I am learning so damn much from talking.

Like:

It’s freeing. It’s shame-dissolving.

The details matter, but they also don’t.

Talking doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing.

It brings you closer to the ones you speak it to.

People understand, even if they don’t understand.

May we all continue to tell our stories and be freed in doing so. May we allow our friends to hold us – figuratively and literally. May we allow ourselves to heal. May we release everything into the wind. May we continue to speak until we can breathe. May we all make that shift from secrets to stories.

Being met with empathy

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Briefly at one point I touched on how I find the difference between being met with sympathy and empathy so fascinating.

And I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately – the difference between how I feel after talking with certain people, the questions I have about why, the people I gravitate towards in the middle of different situations.

What I find extra interesting is that there isn’t necessarily a rhyme or reason to who these people are. We might have best friends who sympathetically hear your story but they’re not the ones you will turn to in times of crisis. Because they’re the ones who sit in front of you, and nod as you’re talking, and say “I’m always here for you!” and it’s very sweet but in your gut you know it’s more of a script they’re following and less of a from-my-soul-I-mean-this. They’re the ones who you leave often feeling just as anxious, unresolved, and maybe fearful about how you were perceived.

What we really need in our lives are these friends, the ones who meet us with empathy. Compassion. Love. Who don’t just hear us but listen. Who sit with you and nod along with you. These are the ones who look deep into your eyes and say, “Call me. Anytime. I am here.” And your core just knows – yes. They mean this. I could, and I might, take them up on this. And you feel loved, and heard, and wrapped in a blanket of compassion. And your fears about judgment and blame and disgust and shame go out the window because in those moments, in those conversations, there was no space for them to exist.

And different people serve different purposes in our lives and I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with that. But I encourage you – find one or two people, who in your gut, you just know – they will hear me. They will listen. They will love me through it. They will say they’ll be there and they will show up and they will mean it.

These are the people who will make you lighter. Stronger. Who will hold things for you when you can’t carry them. Who want to hold those things for you. Who will love you through it – any of it.

These are the people.

Who lift us up, propel us forward, carry our stuff.

These are the people we need.

Saying what you need to say

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The other day, I got a message from a friend who sent me something she wrote. It was akin to a journal entry, and with it, she had simply said something along the lines of, “Had a rough day and wrote about it if you want to read.”

Of course I want to read, I thought. I read through it, and immediately messaged her back, letting her know how glad I was that she shared, how much compassion I felt for her experience, how I could relate and understood, and that I would be happy to hear more, read more, or talk at any point.

What she did – reaching out, without qualifying it, without apologizing, without drowning herself in shame, is still hard for me. Not always, but often. Especially when what I want to reach out and talk about feels big.

And I get stuck in spinny loops of thinking, but the problem with spinning thoughts is that when you’re having them, they seem incredibly logical.

Maybe I should call her and ask if we can chat. Wait. She’s been so busy at work, and I remember her talking about how tired she is. So really, if I asked for an hour of her time, it would be adding to her stress, therefore burdening her, therefore I am a burden. Good thing I thought this through, not a good plan to reach out.

Yes, of course, looking at that now it’s clear how illogical it is. But when you’re in it, you don’t see it.

Which is why I have conversations like this with my therapist:

Me: So this week I’ve been really feeling like I need to reach out and connect and talk about those things on my mind but I just haven’t.

Her: Oh? Why?

Me: Because those things are big and heavy and I don’t want to be a burden and dump on someone.

Her: Nothing you’ve ever told me indicates that you unfairly dump on people.

Me: But people are busy and have their own stressors and I don’t want to add to that.

Her: Hmmmm. [eyebrows raise]

Me: I know, I KNOW. I already heard your voice in my head yesterday about it, telling me, What would you do if the tables were turned? Would you view a friend needing to check in with you, because she was having a hard time, as burdensome and ‘too much’, even if it was a big or heavy topic? And no, the answer is no.

Her: [laughs, because in therapy, I’m hilarious]

Me: But it’s different. I mean, I know it’s not actually different. But it is. I just worry and feel afraid.

That’s the part where she encourages me, dispels all my arguments, and then (nicely) tells me that enough is enough. That if I need connection, if I need a conversation, I need to ask for it. I need to not sit back and hope that someone turns into a mind-reader and figures out that there’s something I want to talk about. I need to think of those people who have always responded to me with empathy, and not just sympathy, those people who have unconditionally said, I’m here, say whatever it is you need to say, no matter how big or intense. I need to go up to those people and, just as my friend did by sending me her message, say to them, Okay. I need to say it.

Because:

Quote by Maya Angelou

Right?

I also saw this article yesterday, which seemed to tie in nicely as well, and also help me sort through the thought processes that I default to. Lots of thoughts on that.

I am so interested in this topic, in trying to figure it all out. Does anyone else do this, where there are times that you hold yourself to a higher (or lower) standard than you would others? Where you can so clearly act in one way, but are afraid of doing it when the tables are turned? I am equally fascinated by the difference in how I feel when I am met with empathy vs. sympathy. More to write on that some day.

Anyway, I’m working on it. Working on reaching out, making the moves, despite the fear, despite the anticipatory worry. Whatever it’s about, however big or small it seems. It’s a good exercise, really, to ask for what we need. And something I suspect that many of us don’t do enough.

Gaining weight: the taboo topic

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I would like to discuss a subject that, in this culture, is rarely, if at all discussed: gaining weight.

I’m serious.

People write about losing weight all the time. They post before and after pictures, they post their meal plans, they vent about their struggles to limit themselves, to count calories, to be constantly conscious of what they’re eating.

And the support they receive is overwhelming.

The comments always have the same themes:

“Story of my life. I’ve got to get back on a diet.”

“Wow, I’m so inspired.”

“Think about how great you’ll feel! It’s worth it!”

Losing weight is talked about all the time. People mention it constantly, or at least subtly refer to it. And it immediately becomes a source of commiseration, an unhealthy way to bond.

But gaining weight isn’t talked about. And I haven’t talked about it, because I could anticipate the reactions:

“Lucky you, I wish that was my problem!”

“It must be so nice to get to eat whatever you want!”

“If only I weighed as much as you, I would be happy!”

And I knew that even if people didn’t write or say those comments, they’d think them. Because we live in a distorted culture where people believe those things and thrive off of the negative thought patterns. And so I have kept silent.

Except then it hit me: By keeping silent, I am perpetuating skinny-shaming. I am perpetuating shame. That goes against everything I believe in.

So I’m talking. In the spirit of being real.

I am at a point where I need to gain weight. It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter the cause. Ask me if you’d like, because I’ll sure talk about it, but speculating and harping on the cause just supports that yes, we live in a distorted culture. Because, do people harp and speculate on why someone needs to lose weight? Right. The point is, just as someone may need to lose weight to be healthy, I need to gain it.

It’s not fun. It’s not pleasant. I too have to count calories. I too have to think about and plan all of my meals. Just as it may be frustrating to stop eating when you want to continue, it’s equally frustrating to force yourself to keep eating when your body is screaming at you to stop. I too can’t wait until it’s finished and I’m where I want to be and need to be. It’s not pleasant to ignore hunger signals. It’s disappointing to step on the scale only to be disappointed. It’s not pleasant to know your body is not as healthy as it was. It’s frustrating to want to work out or go to a hot yoga class and know you shouldn’t. It’s no different than trying to lose weight. The end goal is the same, the struggle is the same: get to a healthy place, for your body.

So please – I beg of you. Help me stop this double standard where it’s okay to move down, but not up. Where it’s congratulated for even talking about losing weight, but criticized for talking about gaining. Where people feel that they can’t commiserate about the struggle, because the struggle might be happening in a different directions.

And hopefully we’ll get to a point, maybe in this lifetime, where weight doesn’t even need to be talked about.

Help make that happen.

It’s Hard to be Human

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After my last post, urging you to write, hoping you would, an old and dear friend sent me a message, essentially saying, “I’ve never put myself out there, but after your last post, I was inspired to write.” And so she did. I don’t think there’s a single person out there who will have trouble relating to what she wrote. Her writing is proof that we don’t have to consider ourselves “writers” to be a writer. The way in which she conveys her experiences is so uniquely beautiful.

And so, I give you her heartfelt words.

It’s Hard to be Human (posted anonymously)

I was a psychology major in college. I read the textbooks. I listened to the lectures. I know that humans are incredibly complex and that our cognitions often can’t be explained. We’re controlled by an electrical grid of neural connections that fire this way and that, sending us into overdrive. The same systems that allow us to run, laugh, love, causes us to freeze, cry, hate. I know to avoid catastrophizing and all or nothing thinking, and to calm my anxiety by trying to release the things I can’t change and focus on what I can. I have a loving family who talks openly about our genetic history of anxiety and depression and shares tactics for coping. I have a therapist who listens. So I must be doing well…right? Not quite. Having all the tools doesn’t mean I successfully use them. Having all the tools doesn’t equal relief. Having all the tools doesn’t stop the day to day moments of intense panic, sadness, or inadequacy. The hardest part is that I do consider myself a smart, successful person who is so blessed. Sometimes I remind myself that I am doing my best. I am human. But sometimes I decide that I’m therefore not allowed to be depressed, or feel helpless, or struggle, and that’s not fair. Ups and downs, highs and lows. Frustration turns to anger because any glimpse of a silver lining can become dark in an instant. Happiness can become loneliness. Pride can become self-consciousness. Innocent thoughts can become obsessive thinking. I’m trapped, trying to make sense of it, but the harder I try the more out of control I feel. It’s hard to be human.

How can one person experience different extremes so close together? I don’t understand it, I don’t like it and I resist it. It’s an out of body experience, as if I’m watching helplessly from the sidelines. I’m standing on the set watching a scene. I am the actress and she is me, but I can only watch, not do or say. But I feel her emotions. All of them. The director sets the scene and yells, “action!” and I watch her recite her lines. One with ease, then one with anguish. A back and forth between the positive and the negative, the confidence and the uncertainty. Both equally as strong and equally as real. And I can’t look away. It’s hard to be human.

[Scene] Morning mirror
First: “I love my eyes, I love my hair, I look happy. I look healthy.”
Then: “I hate my body. I am fat. I feel sluggish. I’m not good enough. And I never will be.”

[Scene] Breakfast
First: “I’m so lucky to be able to afford food. This tastes good. Nourishing my body is important.”
Then: “I have to be more restrictive. Less carbs. More nutrients. I’ve been eating too much. I’m going to start binging again. I won’t be able to stop. I have no self control.”

[Scene] Office
First: “That event was amazing because of me. I’m good at my job. I’m reliable. I’m valued. I learned something new today. My company is better because I’m a part of it.”
Then: “I messed up. I failed. I should be doing more. I should be making more money. I’m wasting my time and theirs. I’ll never find my passion.”

[Scene] Gym
First: “I’m so strong. I’m impressed with what my body can do. I feel empowered. I can do anything I set my mind too.”
Then: “I can’t do this. I’m too weak. Everyone else can go farther. I’ll never get my body to where I want it to be.”

[Scene] Cuddling with him
First: “This makes the hard times worth it. I love him. I’m safe in his arms.”
Then: “This only feels good because it’s rare. It won’t last. A fight is coming. I’m unsure. Why can’t this be simple? Maybe it’s my fault.”

[Scene] Phone
First: “I’m glad my best friend is happy. She’s finally found someone who treats her right. Maybe I deserve that too.”
Then: “She has it so much better than me. Why can’t he be that way with me? It’s not fair. She judges me because I’m not as happy. Will I ever have what she has?”

[Scene] Bedtime
First: “I had a good day. My family and friends are happy and healthy. I am grateful.”
Then: “I am not okay. This is too hard. Why am I the one struggling? When will it get better?”

Getting this out may do nothing. Admitting how trapped I feel might not make a difference. But all those psychology textbooks say acknowledgement is a necessary step. So maybe, just maybe, sharing these scenes will allow me to eventually accept the actress as she is, even if I can’t intervene yet. Sometimes she is troubled and sometimes she is content. Sometimes she is soaring and sometimes she is sinking. But she is human, and it’s hard to be human.