Thirty First One Days

Thirty one years ago I found a door.

The journey there was long and winding. Often it was backwards and unconventional, but at long last I found a solution to a deep problem that eluded all solutions. 

Growing up in Evangelicalism everything was about surrender. 

Surrender my will to God and He will solve all of my problems. 

Surrender my wicked heart and God will purify it.

If I wasn’t being freed from something it was because I wasn’t letting it go.

I would fast, pray and empty myself regularly of all sin.

I begged for forgiveness.

I obeyed all the commandments I read in scriptures to the best of my abilities. I obeyed and honored what my parents told me because it was a commandment with a promise. I applied every sermon, praise song and prophecy I heard as they wove a path to freedom.

A Highest Power with ultimate cosmic greatness who would be greater than every ailment.

Yet, I still struggled and failed.

In all of that Holy Roller noise I heard a still small voice, which led me to a door.

Through that door I found a series of steps that were simple. They felt like breathing. They felt like a gentle roadmap that I simply had to follow. This mystery seemed unattainable. Freedom couldn’t cost so little. Fighting, struggle, sacrifice and strain were the core ingredients of Surrender. It is declared as such with every war and I was fighting for the right to live. 

To be good enough.

To serve enough.

To contribute enough.

But… not to cost anyone too much.

On January 6, 1991 I chose to walk the path set before me. It was rough at first as I navigated that quiet road. Giving up my dramatic highs and self-sacrificing lows. Making friends with how I felt alongside learning how to nurture the corporeal body I lived in. 

My fleshly body was a crafted work of art, sculpted by God. It was gifted to me. I was to be a steward of in this life. It was mine to nourish, care for and listen to. I was to meet its needs. In caring for it, my body would provide a way for me to move through this life.

That lovely Still Quiet Voice began to push away the Holy Roller one. A relationship with an Unconditionally Loving Higher Power began to form within me. It nurtured my mind as I found my way through challenging situations, a few mental breakdowns and a divorce.

Today it is my Thirty-First year of nurturing my body and life. Anorexia still is a consistent companion, but because of that door and those steps I have the tools to gently live one day at a time. It never mattered if the highest high was the curtain opened on a brightly lit stage or the lowest low found me at the complete loss of everything precious to me. 

I have a way to find the next right thing.

A guidepost to understanding that I am loved unconditionally.

I have intrinsic worth.

My experience is a gift to be shared.

I am abundantly grateful for the life I am able to piece together each moment of every day.

To Fall... To Be...

The months between October and January held an organic plan for themselves.The rhythm of the holidays carried me one event at a time. I didn’t need to generate one. All I had to do was follow the prescribed social agenda. It was distracting enough to make it look like I could function.  

 In constant contact with the kids, Ase, Zany, and KJ were all sorting through the same shattered pieces as I was. The four of us held an open space as we navigated the shards gently. We relabeled some holidays and let other ones rest for a while. It was lovely to collectively agree to simply rest and heal.

As for KJ being home from college, she and I held an arrangement that we understood what was going on. Other people didn’t need to agree or know. This was her life and her decision. I respected her ability to stand up to me and tell me what she needed. I wish I had her strength at 19. To stop and figure herself out on her terms. 

My Dear Friend held space for me in the months of August to October when I was scrambling for some sanity to hold onto. They simply needed a space to heal. When they were asked for a medical plan, I was invited to be a part of their process. All they needed was a place to stay. It was incredibly healing to be a Human Being in my Dear Friend’s life instead of a Human Doing. They sorted themselves out, found the help they needed and worked through the issue. 

The holidays passed and January came. Only one personal holiday left, the four of us renamed it. The month was a quiet hurdle. January typically is a Fibro Flare month anyway. I quit talking to everyone. I simply didn’t have any words. I am grateful for the people who consistently called and showed up. Some helped to paint kitchen cabinets. Others sat and sipped tea while we built jigsaw puzzles. The regular dinner theme night kept my food on track.  Leaving the house was still overstimulating. The random text or call shed a beam of light here or there. It was enough to keep me moving forward.  

I had to let go. 

I had to stop trying.

I had to no longer Live In Spite Of…

I wasn’t strong. I was very, very weak. I needed to rest in a quiet place and heal. I needed to feel safe. I had to learn how to hear my own voice. After 51 years of taking care of everyone else, I had to discover how to take care of myself. It was time to admit that I had nothing to give anyone else. 

 I was a Human Being

I was not a Human Doing.

I didn’t know what that looked like. The only way to discover it was simply

To Be…

I Fell Down

A year ago, I had a plan. 

KJ (aka Girly) was to leave for college. I would spend the first half of the year researching tutoring companies and after school programs. I had a few options for library positions in local schools. My plan was to look into online opportunities and finish my undergrad, hopefully get my certificate as an interpreter for the deaf.  I was going to explore what my art capabilities were, develop an art history/art curriculum and find a way to market, then sell it. 

That was the plan I worked towards for two years while KJ finished high school. I built up my resume building through volunteer work in a local school classroom and theatre projects. I made appointments with the local colleges to see what was necessary to become an interpreter. It was a slow process, between Fibro flare-ups and week long Migraines. I was proud of the slow, but steady progress I was making. 

You see, every moment of my life since December 1, 1987 has been on purpose. I lived “In Spite of…” what happened in my life. I was told I was strong. I needed to get my shiznit together. Keep going. They told me I was a survivor. They said I was inspiring. I heard I was to be admired. I was challenged that I couldn’t give up. They chided me with, I shouldn’t be a martyr. 

“Don’t play the victim.”

“Don’t be codependent.”

“Don’t ask for help.”

“You’re fine.”

“Quit complaining.”

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Be brave. You’re strong!” (oh, right… I said that one).  

AND wash, rinse, repeat. 

Then Life happened.

Last year I felt, yet again, forced into another person’s narrative. 

I felt pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. 

I asked for help like I was supposed to. I stayed strong like I was supposed to. I held my shiznit together as best I could. I kept checking off each goal box at a time.

Get KJ to school

Get home.

Start over.

All the helpful advice focused on one basic sentiment: “Now you get to do what you always wanted.”

Problem was, I had what I always wanted. I now needed to invent something I never imagined for myself: Alone.

I kept up appearances adequately. Checked all the “you should” boxes. Until...

In September, KJ told me she needed to come home from college.

In late October, a dear friend of mine had a medical emergency that checked all my Senior Year death boxes.

The holidays loomed.

Everything began to crumble. 

I had no plan for when life turned to sand and disintegrated in my hands. I did have a choice. I could either drive myself insane making it stick together…

OR…

Let it run through my fingers.

It was terrifying beyond all imagination. What would everyone think of me? Who would stay by me? What would happen if I was alone in all of it? One fact I knew about myself.  No longer could I be strong. I had no shiznit to hold together anymore. I had no idea if I could survive this, actually I knew I wouldn’t. I knew that I had to let go of all those shattered pieces of myself I held together since December 1, 1987. 

It was time to let it all fall apart. 

I had no plan for the first time in my life. I understood that not everyone who was in my life at the time would be able to walk with me down the dark road before me. It was alright. It was a darkness I avoided for far too long. I could not pretend anymore.

It was time I faced it and healed correctly.

Shards of Words

Waves crashed in the background as the kids and I sat down for a scrumptious barbeque. We chatted about our Made-Up Holiday and our bonfire plan. 

All laughed in unison, “AND NO TRASH!" 

Then came the usual question, “Did you get that scar here? On this beach?” 

I smiled.

I was 20.  Freshly graduated, boxes were piled in an apartment. The new job started Monday. My first night of adult independence. My date and his friends picked me up, stopped at a store to buy libations, then off we went to the beach. They encouraged me to pick something.

“We’ll buy it. You’ll be fine! In a month you’ll be 21. It won’t matter!”

I protested, but their arguments seemed logical. I had followed the rules up to this point.

What havoc would one bottle unleash? I picked a fruity Bartles and James wine cooler. 

The Jaunty Jeep parked near the beach bonfire area. We walked until a recently abandoned one was discovered. The guys gathered trash to quickly pile it on the faintly glowing embers. The guys blew full lungs of air on the smoking pile, suddenly flames roared to life. We crackled with excitement about the summer plans and savored those flavors of adulthood.

Near the fire’s edge, an rim of red peeled a paper bag. There lay a capped beer bottle. 

I queried, “Guys, should we take that bottle out of the fire?”

Date said, “Na… it’s only coals. The fire isn’t hot enough to do anything. It’s fine.”

 His logic seemed wise. Girls don’t play with fire, I thought. Boys do. He probably knows better.

The ocean breeze grew cold. Date gave me his ski jacket and took the thin windbreaker I was wearing. Our conversation lulled like the coals. Friend Guy started to kick the capped bottle around the embers.

The glass cracked a bit and foam eased out.

Jeep Driver said, “We should move it. That doesn’t look right.”

Easy conversation continued about our futures, crazy college stories, and again our voices grew quiet.  

Embers nearly cold now, Friend Guy gingerly pulled the bottle into the center with his foot.

Then rolled it around. 

Not too much. 

Just... 

enough, 

to watch the beer foam from the cracks in the glass. They commented on how cool it was to watch the foam ease out of the fissures. The cool science of pressure relief continued. I tuned them out and listened to the waves wash the shoreline. 

POP!

I saw them jump back and brush their chests. They were all over six feet tall, so I was confused. Why didn’t I feel anything in my chest? 

Then I realized my face was their chest height.

I put my hand to my left jaw.

I didn’t feel anything.

But I felt a knot in my stomach. 

“Um…. Guys… I think I’m bleeding?”

With eyes wide, they raced over. I lifted my chin. 

Date said, “Don’t bleed on my jacket!”

"Oh! I’m sorry.”  I rushed to take it off trying not to get anything on it. “Here.”

I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. But... it was his jacket I was borrowing, it kinda made sense.

I shivered a little, “Um… what can I bleed on?” 

He handed me the windbreaker, his tone softened, “Here, you can use this.”

Jeep Driver said, “We should go.”

“I don’t have any insurance. When I moved out my Parentals told me so. If we go to a hospital, they’ll know I’ve been drinking and arrest me. I can’t afford to pay for the hospital. My job doesn’t start until Monday.” I panicked. 

Someone said, “It will be ok. You have to go to the hospital.”

We piled in.

The Jittery Jeep’s racing engine was the only sound through those dark curvy roads. Loud thoughts lectured me about the mess I was in. This was God’s judgment on me for drinking. Now the Parentals would know. What would they do? What would they say? I was terrified.

Well...maybe now he will listen to me. Maybe my opinion will mean something. This scar on my face will show him that I know what I’m talking about. Maybe it will be worth it. It could be a blessing in disguise.

At the ER and in the care of nurses and doctors, my face was draped. A gentle nurse held my hand and talked to me because I couldn’t see. A compassionate doctor numbed my jaw and gave me 10 stitches.

My retelling of the scar story was interrupted.

“Mom! How could you think like that?” We all laugh at that young, gullible, innocent girl. 

Now, I can laugh at myself about it all.

I know a Loving Higher Power would not throw a glowing hot glass shard at my face, narrowly missing my jugular vein simply to punish me for drinking a wine cooler a month before my 21^st birthday. Of course, an action like that would never be a blessing. 

 My part in this whole tragedy of errors is the bottle was an issue for me. 

I should have taken it out.

I didn’t feel safe with a full, capped, carbonated glass bottle sitting in embers. I didn’t believe in the value of my own words. I held no value in my own opinion. This scar on my face reminds me that I knew what I was talking about. I didn’t see my own worth. I’ve learned the importance of my words. If I’m going to speak, it needs to mean something to me. I practice confidence in my voice.  If I’m not being heard, I stop arguing, evaluate the topic for either a redirect or to simply drop it.

That scar on my face is a gift. It gives character to every word I’ve spoken since.

A Thriving Monologue

*Trigger Warning: sexual abuse, PTSD, flashback description*

I was cozy there, in my dark little spot of service backstage. I could still see the bright lights from the slit in the curtain. I could hear applause. I could help keep it on track, calm nerves, run for food. straighten tight’s seams and hair pieces.

But those days have passed.

It’s time to figure out how I fit in the Theater world I love so much. This weekend I stepped into those bright lights.

It was an Audition Call for the Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler. I’d heard about the play and a preconceived idea. Purity Culture and Evangelicalism didn’t talk about Vagina’s. That was Feminism. If it wasn't Feminism, then it was glorifying Victimhood.

Anyway, I knew what a Vagina was. I learned about it in elementary school. They had a special after school assembly for Mothers and Daughters in Fourth Grade. We watched a movie and they gave me a book to read.

But Summer shifted my life paradigm.

This fall, I had a monster flashback after watching Daniel Sloss’ X comedy special on HBO. I loved the it and thought I was fine...

Until the next morning.

After a night filled with terror dreams, I woke up to what was happening. I checked through my list of questions before I give into the Simmering Flashback:

I had a person close to help me.

I realized the flashback’s agenda.

AND

For the first time I could hear a resolution to the trauma.

So, I let it go.

The Daniel Sloss Special triggered small common threads from every negative experience I had over my lifetime. Tied them all together and plugged them in. As if I was standing in a media room with 20 televisions turned on and each volume was at 11.

The focus of this cacophony: My Vagina never belonged to me.

Each channel played a different owner:

The person who discovered it when I was 6.

Every person who told me belonged to God.

Whomever touched it through Junior High to College.

Authorities telling me It belonged to a marriage.

Meanwhile, I could hear this scene from the Netflix show Sex Education, in faint background muzak, “It’s my Vagina.”

Those words gently repeated over and over. As I relaxed, focused on my breath, the smell of the sheets, the birds outside, the tears running down my face. That concert of trauma began to quiet while a chorus of women’s voices grew, 

“It’s my Vagina.”

I waited until all I could hear was those gentle words. 

Anxiety released my muscles. I was held for a while. I talked about what happened. I felt so light. Each of those memories didn’t hurt anymore. My skin didn’t feel uncomfortable. For the first time I felt at ease within myself, from my head all the way to my toes.

Each day since then, the reflection in the mirror becomes kinder. I almost see what others see, I think. I can sleep, most nights, peacefully.

When I saw the Audition Call for the show. I wondered what else I could learn about myself. What it meant to just be a woman. A Human Being opposed to a Human Doing.

 I was given three parts. I sat quietly in rehearsals and just listened. Absorbed words from women I will never meet spoken by women I just met. No judgment or bias. Free from all assumption. None of those women knew my story, nor did I have to explain it.

All I had to do was be in the room.

I felt warm and nurtured, a healing balm added to what started so many months ago. My body really belongs to me. I am more than my Vagina, yet at the same time, my Vagina is what makes me a woman.

I walked away from the three shows filled with gratitude. The history, the story, the process is a continuing life work. Not only have I been a victim. I have moved through the process of Healing, to Surviving, and into Thriving.

Finding Sunshine Through Fog

The last life battle happened a few weeks ago. It really was more like a brain cramp than a real suicidal episode. I was super annoyed as I ran through my protocols for the night:

Messaged what meds I was taking to sleep, how much and where I put them.

Messaged when I woke up.

I was getting really exasperated with constantly tattling on myself.

Then I looked at the corner of my room. I realized what happened. The day before I was working through Divorce things. I felt peaceful about it all day. No issues of attachment or wishful thinking. Simply working through the business of conscious uncoupling.

In the corner was a picture. A view I once looked at with inspiration. A cat in a garden with a tree. It reminded me that if I would be okay alone. There was plenty around me to fill me with beauty, love and meaning. To chase things that did not reciprocate was an unhealthy practice. It was healthier for me to sit alone, in a peaceful garden surrounded by beautiful flowers and a tree.

But now.

I needed a new source of sunshine. I needed something to look forward to each day. I hadn’t really taken time to create what that image could be for myself yet. Being a very visual person, I realized I was ready.

Ready to take my “What do You Want To Be” idea and first apply it to me.

Aside from my reason for living, was what I could do for a living. I was exactly what I wanted to be. 

A Wife and Mom. The last kid theoretically off to college, the nest would be empty. I would be able to contribute financially to retirement and travel. Having a job is challenging with Chronic Health issues, so it was going to take some time to figure out what I could do. I never finished my Undergrad. Somehow it ended up being on the “Later” list.

Now the constant question from Well-Meaning friends was, Well NOW you get to do what you’ve always wanted! What do YOU want to do.

I had no answer for them. Many of them struggled with my reply.

My ideas at the moment are, writhing, art, teaching, tutoring, life coaching, social media, a handful of online things. Possibly finding a way to fast-track finish my degree. However, I know the most important rule about change.

That is, that it MUST begin with me.

I found my sunshine.

So, I Arted for myself.

This is now the corner I wake up to every morning.

From this fresh corner flows, a growing inventory in my Frog In Paris Etsy shop.

The ability to write my journey.

The ability to sit and art or write a little every day.

I can hear my own voice. 

I can share it without fear. 

I am able to let mistakes in what I make go and allow them to be part of the work. 

My hope is, as I heal and move forward, I can contribute to the conversation about normalizing Mental Health issues. To help build a bridge of communication between those who struggle and the people who love them.

To continue and share my Experience, Strength and Hope. I look forward to continue learning in this adventure we call life.

Help For Me In The Shadows

The lovely thing about the time we are living in now is how Mental Illness is handled. The stigma remains, but overall, the conversation is changing. Social Media is a huge part of that metamorphosis.

In my personal life, PTSD, CPTSD, Anorexia, Suicide, Depression, and Anxiety along with the physical ramifications, Chronic Fatigue, Fibromyalgia, Migraine, etc.  are part of my daily vocabulary. Similar to someone dealing with diabetes or a heart condition. I am aware daily of the ups and downs. I am conscious of the tole it takes on my inner circle. They are not my cure or the source of my self-care. I am. Those of us who manage a chronic physical or mental illness know we are A LOT to handle. We can be draining people to be around. It is a source of shame often for me and can keep me from asking for help.

However, the relationships I had cultivated over the years understood my shortcomings. The Coping Mechanisms I developed and practiced kicked in. Anne and My Old Friend could not win this time.

This is what asking for help looked like for me over the past six months:

The house was purged of the evidence from my former life with the help of an ever-cycling team of people within a week and a half. All of it was lovingly boxed up in the garage to rest. In the bare walls and stark shelves, the trauma anxiety was able to find some calm.

A friend slept with me the first night. Holding my hand and listening to me try and fall asleep between sobs. We reminisced over our 30-year friendship. Other people helped and I tried all the solutions, but after four days of PTSD night terrors and no sleep I asked for help. I gutted the bedroom, put a small mattress on the floor next to a window. Every night Jupiter and the Stars said goodnight.  A group of friends pitched in and bought me a new bed. Slowly peaceful sleep returned.

Anne made eating difficult. With help, I asked friends to help create a nutritious simple food strategy that I could follow. I asked friends to bring me meals. I asked people to watch me eat.

When I couldn’t finish, they would say in a loving parental voice, “Yes. All of it.”

I would eat it all. With all of that nourishing love, slowly I was able to plan and feed myself again. It wasn’t perfect, but I could be consistent on my own without fear.

I asked for help in staying connected to my body. CPTSD, Anxiety, Anorexia and such often come with a side of Dissociation. In the peak of my Anorexia, I didn’t feel anything from my neck down. I never felt hungry or tired or pain, really. I always felt numb. I went to a friend for yoga sessions to work through connecting my trauma brain to my physical body again. To heal and balance the Amygdala (fight or flight gland). In healing and finding balance quickly I would be able to offer my healthiest self to my kids, who were suffering too.

Within this Sacred Circle of friends, I would message them every morning and evening at first. 

Checking in so I knew they made it through the day and I reminded myself I wasn’t alone. I still check in with them regularly.

 I threw myself a Birthday Party.  I asked my treasured people to Art my New Life. I filled my empty spaces with reminders of the people near and far that I cared about and cared about me.

Slowly the Trauma Brain eased up. CPTSD night terrors eased. Flashbacks during the day ebbed away.

I’ve learned that in order to move forward in life,

 I have to stop.

I have to let my brain heal whenever a sudden major life change happens.

I have to allow my psyche find a new equilibrium and orientation.

This is what help looks like for me. If you are struggling, please ask for help. You are not alone. You are worth a vibrant, love filled life.

A Cunning Valley of Shadow

*Trigger warning: Eating Disorder, Suicide*

I heard,  Yadayadayada, find a New Future.

I heard, Good bye.

I heard the door close.

My world went dark.

The future I was promised by Them shattered. All the answers in the Bible. The Magical Marriage Vows. The Purity Redemption promises. The If I, then God will, things. Everything I worked for over 30 years walked out the door.

My core ethic. The Part They all told me I was born to play. Wife, Mother, Partner, Faithful, Woman Who Fears the Lord, Family First, Career and Ambition second.

All the Guarantees of Evangelicalism blew up in my face.

I felt the full weight of Complementarianism. I had prayed. I played by all the rules. It didn’t fix what was wrong with the humans we were.

There was no magic cure for two humans doing their best to make a something work.

I’ve heard it said This is a Cunning and Baffling Disease. However, I had never experienced it. All I knew is he was gone. I had to force my PTSD brain to accept a reality I didn’t want. So I called for help to change the way my environment looked.

I packed away the life that was to let it rest and get used to the vacant space that my life at the moment was. I had to see the space physically in order to somehow get an orientation of how to move forward. While we were packing, that Cunning and Baffling Disease came back.

Little Orphan Anne and MyOld Friend came screaming out of the dark recesses of my soul. Just as loud and strong as they were when I was 14. I was overwhelmed. Others had left to get dinner and a friend stayed behind so I wasn’t alone.

I could barely speak, “Please rub my back.”

I could feel myself loosing my body. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t break down again and loose time. I couldn’t abandon my Daughter to this.

My friend got up, hearing me say something and I repeated my question.

She gently rubbed my back.

I felt all the pieces of myself magnetically reverse and comeback together. I could feel the chair I was in. I could see the light in the room. I could feel her hand on my back. I could hear her breathing.

Then out of my mouth came the most humiliating question, “K, Why do I need to live?”

She was silent for a moment. Without a sound of scolding or shame in her voice. Not a catch of shock in her breath, she calmly and lovingly said,

“So we can have Coffee.”

A refreshing breeze of Life blew over my broken heart. 

“That’s right! You’d be very disappointed if I wasn’t there to have coffee with you. And….”

I began to list all the people who would be disappointed if I wasn’t around to complete projects, or to see me. After I rattled of my list of Other’s disappointments, K reminded me of my kids.

I laughed. “Yes, you’re right.” 

Now fully in myself, I could see light and color. I could feel the air in the room and the clothes on my skin. I could hear the ducks outside on the lake in the back yard.

I was also terrified.

After managing life with PTSD and I now understood to be CPTSD, it would be months before I was functionally alright. Annie and my Old Friend were in charge of my brain. It would be war to get my brain back  and them into perspective. 

I had to find a new reason for living.

A new source of sunshine for my soul.