This week I had a lot come up for me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Some people close to me urged me to not quit on this whole writing thing of mine. So I thought I'd put it out there and see what comes back; see what the universe sends me in return. This story comes in three parts. Get ready!
Part One: Owning my Diagnoses
A decade ago, after losing both grandparents within a year, after spending 3 months studying abroad, rekindling my ever broken relationship with my mother only to find out she had completely destroyed her life (yet again) and tried to take us all down with her, and almost disintegrated an important relationship with my then-boyfriend, now-husband, I entered therapy.
While I was still in college, therapy was attainable. I entered private sessions, where I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety. I did a depression support group and entered couples therapy as well. The first thing they did was offer me medication. To me, it seemed like my family knew how to medicate just fine. I think it was one thing we truly excelled at, but, due to addictive histories I said, "No, thank you, teach me how to manage this stuff." I found therapy helpful. And I made good friends in my depression support group. It's taken me almost a decade to really own that I have these issues though.
When I came out with my diagnoses, I asked those closest to me to let me know their level of comfort in terms of staying in my life during my battle. One of my inherited issues has always been distorted expectations and I needed to know who was in, and who was out. It was one very important person that shook off these things as just "being dramatic," or just acting out because I had a "fucked up childhood." It was those reactions that made me realize these mental illnesses and instabilities were heavily stigmatized. First, I found out most everyone just pops pills instead of finding other coping methods when I found anyone with this stuff in common with me. Eventually, I just stopped telling people. I realized finding anyone who could really understand was almost impossible.
I feel like I managed myself really well with the tools I had until after Luna was born. Something about pregnancy actually evened out my hormones, and because motherhood was a challenge for me, I stepped up in ways I never thought possible. And this isn't just a postpartum depression thing, because that is very, very real. It was bigger than just that. However, over the past few years, things have been a little darker when my anxieties and depressive episodes flare.
With social media and technology, wonderful things have happened including wider outreach and normalized conversations about the very things I have felt so alone with. I have also found some other disorders I may be wrestling with. One large positive for me is that with the media mainstreaming this information, I also feel the stigma much less. We have people like Carrie Fisher and Kristen Bell talking about all their struggles just reminding us, we're not alone, we're not abnormal, and getting help is always a good thing.
Maybe it is life circumstance or maybe it is age but my coping mechanisms have changed drastically. I used to work out more, watch favorite movies, take a walk, call a friend, sneak a cigarette, paint a picture, binge clean or write, write, write. But with parenthood and marriage I rarely have time for myself. Everyone says you make time for what is important, and that how can you care for others when you don't care for yourself? But that's the thing about being an anxious depressive; you're in your head so much, carrying around all these worries and fears you are often too exhausted to muster much else. Before you know it, it's 9PM and you just curl up in front of Netflix and go to bed.
To some this may seem sad, but mostly it's a reality I live with. It's a reality I'm really done feeling badly or shamed for and it's a reality that must be accepted in order to appreciate all that is Alison. I've opened up a lot the past few months and I've found that when I share this stuff, most people are like, "Well, okay, I'm here for ya," or even better they tell admit to me they wrestle with it too!
Owning my diagnoses is uncomfortable and difficult but I'm not going back to being closeted about it because nothing good ever came from it. So now it's out in the open because the internet is forever!
Part Two: Trigger Warning
The Harvey Weinstein news after the Las Vegas shooting and just all of the general bad news in this nation and the world has weighed especially heavy on me. I am someone who is triggered by a lot and it has been an emotional rollercoaster identifying these triggers that often sneak up on me.
First, let me begin by admitting that my PTSD from the car accident is very real, very alive and can be very intense. Many of my triggers exist around that. New ones have also come up recently. As far as the Las Vegas shooting, I have some pretty strong feelings about guns and I'm an avid concertgoer so knowing that you can just show up at an event with friends and not know that you will walk back out is terrifying to me. It hurts my heart that anyone would go through that. Thinking of all of the trauma the victims and their families have experienced and will carry with them has left me feeling very upset about the mental healthcare, or lack there-of, available to us all. No matter what your experience, if you need help it should be readily available. No one has a right to judge how "big or small" anyone's experience has been. This nation needs help.
Now we move into the Weinstein allegations, and if that's not how you spell his name I really don't care. I was raised in my most formative years by my father and my uncles. I have never been afraid of men. In fact I truly have a hard time relating to women. I also have always been outgoing and flirty. I've dealt with inappropriate and suggestive rumors about me and co-workers at prior jobs and I've had men say inappropriate things to me, cat-calling and so forth but I've always felt generally safe around men, although also extremely aware of the damage they can do. Earlier this year though, I had a very unfortunate and scary experience that I have been told constitutes as sexual assault.
It's not a story I'm fully ready to share. The baggage and issues surrounding it are very profound but I will say this, when the #metoo campaign came out all over Facebook, I had this odd reaction of both relief, and complete horror. Most of the women on my news feed posted it. I felt less alone, but then mortified that we all have had this horrible experience to go through like some perverted rite of passage. And then I was triggered right back to that shameful feeling after the incident, and the shameful feeling after I had told the business owner about it, that somehow it was my fault and I had warranted the behavior.
That idea that I had brought it on myself still plagues me almost as much as the incident itself. I just remember inadvertently dumping the whole scene on a guy friend and having him look at me with worry in his eyes saying, "This is not your fault, you didn't deserve it, you don't deserve it and it's against the law." And as much as I needed that, it made me sad that this seemingly obvious rationale was coming from a man but I was still afraid to talk to anyone else, especially a woman.
So all of these emotional hurdles feel crippling to my anxious and depressed psyche. I internally tantrum that I'm due for a meltdown but just manage to keep on keeping on. Why am I writing this? Because writing is my thing. It always has been. And one day when I confront my demons about what happened to me I will help someone else feel less lonely and isolated by sharing it. And because in all of the mental mania, moments of clarity heighten my sanity, and writing this has been a comfort.
Part Three: Fleeting Faith
I can remember the exact moment my twelve-year-old self had her entire idea of faith shattered. It all surrounded my mother's addiction and treatment. This is another one of those subjects that has been burned into my mind of being stigmatized. That and "we don't talk about that," is a family motto. I only just started outing myself as an addict's daughter again recently, after a brief stint of telling everyone when I was 18 in an effort to make fun of myself so they couldn't make fun of me. This seemingly got me labeled as the, "Tragic Wild Card," in my teen years and I didn't wear that label so well.
When I was 12 and lost my faith, I was surrounded by it at Catholic school and my dad's church so I just tried to adopt every method I could. I used to pray an hour every night that my mom would come home and that I was sorry for snapping at so and so and thanking God for everyone in my life, listed by name, even the people I didn't like, and please make me a better person, blah, blah, blah. Then my mom didn't come back for a long time. And my best friend's mother died in a horrible car accident, and faith was of no comfort to her and no one but me understood that no one could really understand what she was going through. Shortly after all this I found this brilliant movie, by one of my favorite directors, called "Dogma." Oh man that movie was perfect for me in my "angsty teen" years! I remember my big take from it was, "It wasn't important what you had faith in, no one had it down perfect, but it was important you HAD FAITH."
By age 16, I had reconciled with my mother and retired from church. After a year with her and another devastation, I was physically packed up and dragged across the country to new life with Dad in Oregon. With my dad being a preacher and most people screwing me over repeatedly most of my faith just resided in my dad. Even with my worst mistakes, he helped me find a way out of it. Faith has just been a 20 year struggle for me. It comes and goes.
I didn't even go back to church until I found this amazing boot camp program that was affordable, which led to a job offer, which led to a very strong invitation to church with the boss, and then I fell right back into the routine. We took a few month hiatus when we attended "The Church of Disney," as we called it, which was Disney World on Sundays just us three, but it wasn't until after the car accident that we found a church where we actually fit in.
Eben still struggles with faith too, but my struggle is super personal and sometimes pretty impetuous. Throw in the anxiety, the depression, the state of the world, the PTSD, the sexual assault and the other facets of life and things seem pretty impossible, right? But that's when I remember why we have faith. All that bible stuff about with God all things are possible, and cast all your anxieties on him, and patience being a virtue are on the laundry list of reminders I have daily, that even when my faith feels like it's barely holding on under a fingernail, it's still there somewhere. And that gets me through the weeds more often than not. So when my faith is fleeting, I always find my way back.
To conclude what some may consider quite the diatribe I say this: to the people who encouraged me to write this out, you get major points. To the people who actually read it, you get points, air hugs and all the good vibes. This isn't something to be shocked or outraged about. This is not meant to incite a long list of commentary or condolences for shitty experiences. They are just a part of life. This is just me; pure, unadulterated, inconvenient, anxious, depressed, rattled, sarcastic, cynical, unapologetic ME.
